It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

After that recognition, through the warmth of a fragile skull, he visited the baby several times a week. From the nurses he received more than one tender glance; but there could never be anyone to take the place of Barley. He wondered if he could ask the Pole-Cripps’ to have him, as a sort of paying guest; and thought to ask them later. But somehow he could not bring himself to ask Boo.

  *

  His cousin Arthur wrote to say that he had joined the Artists’ Rifles and was very keen on physical fitness, and much looking forward to long walks during his holiday the following week.

  So began what Phillip later on called the otter’s odyssey. They started at the source of the River Exe, Arthur wearing the pack, Rusty sitting astride the tank. Their intention was to follow it down to the sea. Leaving the bike under a beechen hedge behind a gate at evening, they prepared to spend the first night on the moor. There was plenty of shreddings from a recent cutting of beech hedge; they built a fire to grill sausages on forks made of twigs, and boiled stream-water for tea. Then to sleep under the stars. They awoke at dawn, a little chilled, and bathed in a pool, running afterwards to get warm.

  That day they tramped for miles over heather, whortleberry, ling, and cotton-grass upon the high slopes of the moor. In the heat of the sun they threw off their clothes and lay in clear water. To avoid both going back on their tracks Phillip sent Arthur to fetch the motor-bicycle, after planning the rendezvous by a bridge marked on the map.

  Thus the days. Their feet were never dry except at night by the fire. They walked across shallows to examine scours, or tongues of sand, looking for the paw-prints of otters.

  “There’s one-in-a-million chance of finding a seal of three toes instead of five, but you never know your luck. Otters wander a great distance, and there’s a sporting chance of finding Lutra. Are you game to go on?”

  “Rather! I love this kind of life!”

  At Exford they saw otterhounds, and followed them as they went fast down the river. The otter took to land and ran across a meadow. Phillip kept just behind the huntsman, in two minds whether or not to tell him about Lutra. In any case it was too late. After the worry the front paws were cut off and the huntsman showed five toes to each paw.

  By the end of eleven days they had walked about two hundred miles, yet had covered only a small portion of the combined length of those streams which drained Exmoor from both sides of the watershed. The walk had been planned to end at Lynmouth, with tea in Aunt Dora’s cottage. While they sat down, the faces of two old women, both diminutive, peered round the door of the sitting-room.

  “You remember my ‘Babies’, Phillip? They are still a little shy, but will come to recognise you soon.”

  When the two men had said goodbye to Aunt Dora, Arthur asked who they were.

  “She promised a relation of theirs to look after them for a week-end five years ago.”

  “You mean the relation didn’t come back, but left them on your aunt’s hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t she turn them over to the Infirmary or something? One blind and the other obviously dotty! Who pays for their keep?”

  “She does.”

  “I think she should do something about it, Phillip.”

  “She is doing something about it.”

  From the high ground of Exmoor the distant tors of Dartmoor lay slate-dim under the sky. They lingered until the sun was going down. Phillip had had a lamp fitted to the Norton, but the carbide in the container was exhausted. Who cared? Arthur, who could run with speed and tenseness, easily outpacing Phillip, was delighted with the difficulties before them: no light, the way uncertain, the only guide for direction being the evening star, a sulphur-yellow globe above the mists. Once, missing direction—the planet Venus lost behind a tall beech hedge—they descended a sled-track over bare rock rapidly, bumpily, ending blindly in a farm-yard. About turn! The problem was to start the engine by pushing up the steep, wet, shaley surface. The engine fired: Phillip vaulted on: Arthur shoved behind while the rider’s left foot pressing on the automatic expanding pulley acted as clutch and low gear simultaneously. The engine was revved up, the bike shot forward, and with a laugh Arthur leapt upon the bare steel frame of the carrier. They slid and skidded and plunged sideways, but got to the top somehow to wait for Rusty as the last carrion crow slunk by silently to its roost.

  Where were they? Miles out of their way, it seemed, after going up and down lanes with faded sign-posts, or none at all. At long last they climbed to a crest whence a view lay away and below them for many miles, coombes and valleys purple below, woods and fields in darkening light to the glimmering immensity of the sea and lighthouses winking very far away.

  “Lundy lights!”

  They stood on a bank against which cut ashpoles had been stacked, and gazed in silence. “We’ve come a dozen miles off course, Arthur.”

  They stared at the darkening scene below them. At length Arthur spoke. “It’s so beautiful, it’s almost sad.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing. I’m awfully glad you came down.”

  “So am I, Phillip.”

  They jumped from the bank, and were off again. Phillip opened the throttle. “Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

  “Go as fast as you like!”

  Phillip held the spaniel within his elbows, while the passenger gripped the thin tubular frame as though preparing a handspring, holding himself clear of shocks on the base of the spine while also balancing with legs hanging loosely on either side of the rear wheel. It must be painful there, thought Phillip, as he kept to a speed of about twenty-five m.p.h. over the rock. As they descended, an unseen cow grazing on the bank above the lane gave a startled leap and slithered down before them. The back wheel locked; they swerved and slewed past the cow; wobbled, rocked, and recovered. Ferns were torn by the brake lever. Great fun!

  They went on, peering into the dimming light, just avoiding a hedgehog which continued its leisurely crossing of the lane.

  It was dark when they descended a smaller moor with its many narrow forkways and cross-lanes, going down steep hills and coming unexpectedly to a village with an old pollard elm at its cross ways. Phillip opened up past the police constable—and turning sharply left went up and past many thatched cottages—to find himself at last beside the estuary, throttle opened full-out along the straight road with blue flames stabbing from the exhaust. Then on through the old town port, the engine beating like a calm heart, and the narrow afterglow of sunset upon the high tide under the bridge.

  They bought a tin of carbide, and with a wan light waving in front set out for the long trek to Okehampton, and a camp near the head of the Teign before Chagford.

  There, shortly after midnight, they made a fire and brewed cocoa, and munched thick slices of brown bread and cold pats of butter, and then dossed down beside the embers. And in the morning they arose in a cold mist and went on to Moreton Hampstead, where they breakfasted on a gammon of bacon each, with two eggs, sausages, kidneys, and tomatoes. Then it seemed like the end of the adventure, the world all dull and sleepy.

  But later on, at Ashburton, it being market day and the pubs open from early to late, beer made the world begin again in interest and delight. And so to the village, and vertical-tail welcome from Moggy holding the fort—Moggy with five kittens in Rusty’s basket, the second safest place in the cottage, since the flimsy door leading aloft to the bedrooms had been shut.

  That night they lay in bed talking, each in his own room; but it was a separation; and Phillip helped Arthur to carry the camp-bed beside his own. They were weary from the cold night on the moor, and talked drowsily, contentedly, while tawny owls on the church tower hooted with mellow cries one to another under the wreck of the moon declining to far ocean. In the morning, after dreamless sleep, Phillip saw that Arthur’s right heel was rubbed raw, for he had been wearing new shoes; he had said nothing about it, for his was the Spartan ideal.

  When they had read their letters, Arthur said, “Father was in
Exeter, last night. He’ll be in Queensbridge today, and wonders if we’ll have time to see him.”

  “Well, I must do an article today, Arthur. Also I must look through Massingham’s book sent to me by the Outlook, and post off a review. But why don’t you go on the Norton? You’ll make my apologies, won’t you?”

  Phillip sent off his work by the midday post, and replied to his letters. His cousin returned in the afternoon, looking subdued.

  “How did you find Uncle?”

  “Oh, very well. He sent you his kind regards, by the way. He’s gone on to Plymouth.”

  There was something on Arthur’s mind. While they were walking along Malandine sands Phillip asked if he was worried.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Well, I may as well tell you. Father, as you know, is a bit old-fashioned. And many of the firm’s customers are solicitors, of course.”

  “Whatever are you driving at?”

  “I hardly like to tell you. It may be nothing, after all.” At last he said, “Apparently there’s some talk about the nursing home, where your baby was born.”

  “Well?”

  “Father heard something—it’s probably only talk—of what you are supposed to have said about the midwife and her mother.”

  “Both the old girl and her daughter went to bed and left Barley to look after the baby, from one-thirty a.m. until I found her sitting up in bed six hours later! In that time she had had the hæmorrhage!”

  “I don’t doubt it, Phillip. But the point Father made was that, if I am to take over his territory when he retires, I can’t be too careful where customers are concerned.”

  Phillip went straight to Porto Bello.

  The midwife’s mother stood in the doorway, looking at him accusingly.

  “Well, y’ung mahn, what have you to say for yourself?”

  “If I did say anything which upset you both, then I am very sorry, but I don’t remember saying anything to you on that morning.”

  “But you told young Mr. Pole-Cripps, the Vicar’s son, didn’t you, that your poor wife died through neglect while in this house?”

  “I’m not responsible for what Mr. Cripps says, surely?”

  “But you told y’ung Mr. Pole-Cripps, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember, but I may have done.”

  “My daughter, Ah’ll have you know,” went on the grim little woman, “is a licensed midwife, and very upset by what people have said! What’s more, Ah’ve taken her to see Mr. Wigfull about it, and he’s going to write you a lawyer’s letter. Ah’m leavin’ it to Mr. Wigfull, so it’s no good saying anything ’ere, y’ung mahn!”

  He walked down to see Mr. Wigfull, who was out. The clerk asked him if he would like to see Mr. Thistlethwaite.

  “Ah, we meet again!” said Mr. Thistlethwaite, shaking hands.

  He got up and closed the door.

  “Now I know very well how you feel, and it would be unkind of me not to try to help you. If you will consider making an offer to compensate them for what they have suffered in the matter, I will be prepared to pass on that offer to them.”

  “But I, too, have suffered from their neglect! They both went to bed, leaving my wife sitting up to nurse a crying infant!”

  “It would be very hard to prove neglect on their part, you know. Dr. MacNab, I understand, issued a certificate of death due to natural causes. Furthermore, I understand that it was a most unusual type of hæmorrhage, and one that could not be detected, as it was an interior bleeding, showing no outward sign. Also, both the good women are prepared to swear, in court if necessary, that their patient asked to be allowed to nurse the crying infant. In fact, she suggested that the midwife should have a rest, and lie down. So it would not be easy to establish the contrary in court, in view of what mother and daughter say.”

  Phillip replied bitterly, “Don’t worry, Mr. Thistlethwaite, I would never sue anyone for anything!”

  “I think that is the proper way to look at it.” Mr. Thistlethwaite pushed over an ash-tray. “I well remember your magnanimous attitude, if I am allowed to call in that, in the matter of Mrs. Nunn and that tennis-club affair three years ago. You were misled, if I may say so, by the wrong advice on that occasion. Now strictly between ourselves, I’m not taking up a partnership with Wigfull. In fact I’m leaving here very shortly, and setting up on my own in Dorset. Shakesbury to be exact. But that’s between ourselves, of course. Now about this ‘Porto Bello’ business. I take it that we are both men of the world. My suggestion to you is to give the old girl a tenner, to shut her mouth! Well, what do you think?”

  “I think Queensbridge is a dreadful place!”

  “So do I, old man, but we don’t have to stay here! Now look here, I give you my word that I’m trying to help you. After all, the midwife has lost money on her room, you know.”

  “Yes, I understand that, Mr. Thistlethwaite.”

  “Good. Now may I say how very very sorry I was to hear of your recent sad loss. I do assure you that my two old girls, too, were deeply upset. They may be a couple of fuddy-duddies, but they’ve always done their best according to their lights, and as I said, Dr. MacNab’s certificate clears them of any blame They’re quite poor people, and can’t afford, really, the loss of profits due to the non-use of their only accouchement room, which was, I understand, engaged for ten days. A pound a day is not exorbitant.”

  “Of course I don’t want anyone to be the loser for anything he or she has done for me. So I’ll offer seven guineas.”

  “Spoken like a gentleman!” said Mr. Thistlethwaite, rising to hold out his hand. “You’ll send along your cheque, then?”

  “I’ll write it out now!”

  Having done this, Phillip said, “I do realise that my previous hard feelings about ‘Porto Bello’ were based on ignorance of all the circumstances. I had no idea that—that—their patient had suggested that the nurse should lie down——”

  “It’s not unusual, you know, for the mother to want to hold her baby in her arms. There was, I understand, a crib beside the bed——”

  “Yes, I saw that.” He steadied his voice. “I’ll go round and thank them for letting me know the truth.” He said after a pause, “She was generosity itself. I see it all now.”

  “I like you,” exclaimed Thistlethwaite. “You’re North Country by your name, I fancy. By the way, didn’t you once have a tame otter? I thought so. Someone was saying in the Club here that it got caught in a rabbit gin, and lost two of the toes on one of its front feet—pads I think is the correct expression. I ask because I was out with a pal of mine last week, following the otter hounds beside the Taw in North Devon, and they spoored one below the bank with a maimed front pad. It got away, let me add! I told someone afterwards about your tame beastie, and he said it was quite possible for it to have got up the Avon here to the moor, and then gone down the other side of the watershed, otters being nomads. I thought I’d tell you if I saw you, and now this gives me my opportunity.”

  “Mr. Thistlethwaite, I am doubly glad I came to see you! Good luck to your new practice in Dorset! I’m going to North Devon to live! I feel I shall be able to write there!”

  Cousin Willie’s cottage at Speering Folliot had remained empty after his death; the day was fine, he would collect Arthur and go across the moor at once.

  He returned that evening the new tenant of Scur Cottage.

  *

  He made up his mind to burn the furniture, together with all Barley’s things, before he left; but when the time came he packed everything into his trunk while awaiting the van. Even the broken lace was taken with the sand-shoes, for she had broken it.

  Scur Cottage

  Speering Folliot

  N. Devon.

  Date unknown. You never date

  your letters; I think I know why,

  now. Don’t worry.

  Dear Mother

  Please note my new address. This is Willie’s old cottage.
About your letter—I am sorry I can’t make up my mind about Doris taking the baby. Nor about anyone coming here for holidays. The baby is still at the Cottage Hospital. No, he won’t be christened until you come down. I cannot say when that will be. I am sorry about being inhospitable, but will write later——

  He had written variations of this letter during the Sunday and Monday, each version being scrapped. He had eaten nothing since his arrival two days before. It was now the late afternoon. Soon the farmer who tilled four of the splatts in the Great Field would be passing down the lane with his horse and butt, after collecting sea-weed from the shores of the Crow shingle tongue.

  He heard the clang of the falling bar of the double doors leading to his yard, followed by the rattle of butt wheels on the dry stones within.

  Phillip sat in his armchair. He wore his trench coat. The kitchen door was open. He had sat there for two days, while the cries and sounds of the hamlet had floated in. He was filled by a strange comfort, a calm detachment from all life, a sensation of ease beyond the body. He floated in a vacuum, occasionally drinking water; and went to bed while the sun was still in the sky, to lie between army blankets, still with the feeling of Nirvana; to get up when the sun shone in his window and take his rest in the armchair once more, deliciously void of life.

  The baker’s horse and van was approaching. It stopped. The single loaf, left there on the Saturday, was still on the table. The baker’s boy’s iron-shod boots struck upon the sett-stoned path.

  “Nothing today, thanks.”

  “Nice day again! Thankin’ yew!”

  The boy went out again, prepared to close the door behind him. Almost anxiously Phillip cried, “No, leave it open!”

  His eyes closed, he drifted, lapped in warmth.

  Beyond the edge of consciousness light footfalls, as of small feet on tip-toe, came nearer, slower and slower. With eyes closed, he could sense the boy peering round the door-jamb to see if he were still there. He heard the boy creeping back.

  “’A be still sittin’ thur, Mum. ’A didden move!”

  Then the boy was running past, crying, “Thur be my daddy! My daddy’s corned whoam, Mis’r Mass’n!”