It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

  The other man slowly put first one sweep then the other sweep through the thole-pins, and began to pull. The shore ceased to slide forward: the puller of sweeps grunted; the thole-pins squeaked. At last they were gaining slowly. Yes, they were definitely gaining, getting farther each moment from the roar behind them.

  It took several minutes to return to the place of embarkation. At Point of Crow the boat swung about as its nose pushed into the backwash of the swilling tide. Sweeps were shipped; cigarettes lit. They sailed very close inshore, carried forward fast by the backwash, then swung into the main thrust of the Taw tide and across to the opposite shore where black rocks seemed to hurtle past on the port bow. The lights of Instow came nearer and larger. Soon the noise of agitated water arose ahead. This was The String, where the ebb of Taw from Barnstaple clashed directly with ebb of Torridge from Bideford. The choppy, agitated water, dancing and jerking in the darkness, seemed thick to enter, confusing to their boat’s shape. They swung about amidst water leaping in a thousand jets, each with its splashing sound: but the water was comparatively level, tide holding tide and leaving a luminous ribbon of froth to wander irregularly seawards in the midst of petty agitation. The noise of the tides in conflict filled Phillip with dread, and when the boat swung round, its rudder momentarily useless, he took Lucy’s other hand, fearing the worst: a repetition of cousin Willie’s fate.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” she whispered.

  He felt apart from her; he smothered the feeling. How could she know his thoughts?

  Now the bows of the boat were pushing into the press of the opposing tide; and the Torridge ebb was too strong, they moved backwards, rocking, faster than they had crossed. And suddenly, all was calm. They were in an eddy taking them into the Pool, where the conjoined tides of Taw and Torridge were racing at possibly twelve knots to the open sea. Christ, he thought, it is going to happen after all, and my thoughts of Willie were foreknowledge? What was the helmsman doing? Was he drunk? Stiff with fear?

  It looked as though they were, after all, to be carried down in the whirls and hollows of the tide, past the Lighthouse, to the swamping white water of the South Tail; but this was Phillip’s inexperience, the men knew what they were doing. Soon the boat was in the offshore backwash, a riband of water going the opposite way to the main ebb, and coming easily to the quay below The Royal George.

  How quiet it was there!

  “Thank you very much. How much do I owe you, please?” The usual charge was a shilling a head, and he thought five shillings would be fair.

  “Ten shilling it’s worth, sir. Dirty night, too.”

  He gave them his last note, while wondering where he could cash a cheque on the morrow.

  They walked side by side down the sett-stoned street, dark and narrow between fishermen’s cottages lit by an occasional gaunt gas-lamp.

  “It’s been lovely, Pip!”

  “Do you know, Lu, I almost feel that I’ve no right to be here.”

  She thought that he was worried about being late, and said, “Oh, I don’t suppose Aunt Jo will mind in the very least!”

  They found Commander Gilbert waiting by the fire in the hall. He was polite but curt, and apologised for his wife having gone to bed; then led them into the dining-room and to a plate of sandwiches.

  Phillip saw that it was nearly midnight.

  “I must apologise to you, sir.”

  He told Commander Gilbert about the rain, and the eventual telephoning for a boat from the lighthouse; and as he spoke, he realised that he had forgotten to suggest to Lucy to ring up her aunt to tell her that they would be late. The Commander showed them where coffee was being kept hot under a spirit flame. As soon as they had finished, he led the way to Phillip’s room upstairs, said he hoped he would find all he wanted in his bedroom, gave him goodnight, and went away.

  *

  After breakfast Mrs. Gilbert took Phillip to see the gardens, where men were at work bedding out, sweeping paths, and edging lawns. He thought she was going to ask him about himself, but it turned out that she wanted to speak about Lucy’s brothers.

  “I hear that they intend to sell their reversions,” she said. “Have you any idea of how they intend to go about it?”

  “I really have no idea, Mrs. Gilbert. I have heard that they are thinking of erecting some sort of engineering works in their garden.”

  “How can they possibly know about engineering? What is Adrian doing to allow them ever to think of such things?”

  Later, Commander Gilbert had a word with him in the smoking room.

  “Ernest and Fiennes stayed here recently,” he said. “Ernest said not one word to me or to his aunt, indeed when she came into this room he continued to sit still, making no attempt to get up when he saw her. As for Fiennes, all he did was to smoke his pipe in my wife’s drawing-room, as though it were a public house. He also remained seated when my wife went there to write a letter. What is the matter with them, haven’t they any idea of manners? One has heard of young people in London behaving oddly, even with downright insolence, to their parents and others, but one hardly expects that sort of behaviour from one’s nephews.”

  “The Boys seem to have an unworldly approach to life, Commander Gilbert. It’s an innocent sort of household altogether, at Down Close.”

  “I should not call it innocence.” The Commander was annoyed. “I should call it something else. After all, one does expect people of our class to know what manners are. And when they had gone home we had not one word of thanks from either of them.”

  “They’ve been extremely busy, often working all through the night.”

  “No doubt it’s good of you to find excuses for them, Maddison, but damn it, among people of—of—our sort, such conduct is inexcusable!”

  *

  The scullery walls at Down Close were distempered, the ceiling was white, the larder shelves were clean. Pa had shot Bukbuk’s kittens, “the only shooting I get nowadays!”—and having returned the Purdey to the gun case, imperturbably continued his work in the lichened orchard of renewing the zinc labels which Tim, years before, had taken to make battery wet-cells.

  Fiennes and Tim treadled away in the workshop, Ernest pored over blueprints that arrived from a monthly advertisement in The Model Engineer, which cost £9 every issue, Phillip had found out. Inventors wrote in, asking for models to be made—every kind of machine and gadget. Plans and sketches arrived by almost every post, to be examined, discussed—and set aside while Ernest continued to work at his selected model.

  The one he was working on had already occupied Ernest more than ninety hours. Phillip asked Lucy what he would get for all that work.

  “Oh, I don’t think Ernest charges very much. The ‘little men’ haven’t any money, usually.”

  “Does he quote a price?”

  “Oh, no. You see, the models always take much longer than he thinks they will. So he usually charges about ten shillings.”

  The Boys were late with deliveries of sac-machines for the firm of Scotland-Roberts (Fakenham) Ltd. And daily frantic letters in red ink arrived from Mr. Scotland-Roberts at that East Anglian town, demanding that orders sent weeks, months before, be dispatched forthwith.

  “I’m a bit overdue in my work, too. I must go to London and see my agent, Lu. I think I’ll go tomorrow.” But tomorrow was tomorrow, and tomorrow; while Phillip went on with paint brush, distemper pail, and putty knife.

  “I’ve had a letter from Granny, Pip. She wants to meet you. Do you think you can spare the time to see her?”

  “Of course, of course! Ought we to arrive on the Norton?”

  “I don’t see why not. Grannie doesn’t fuss, like Aunt Jo.” She added, “Although Aunt Jo is a dear.”

  “It was all my fault. Mrs. Gilbert must have thought badly of me, bringing you there after midnight!”

  “But you couldn’t help the weather, could you? Anyway, what does it matter?”

  “I still think it might look a bit strange, arriving on a mot
orbike at your Grannie’s.”

  “Oh, I am sure Grannie won’t mind. But if you would rather go in the Tamp, the Boys will lend it, I’m sure.”

  No, not in that canoe on wheels, not after Bédélia——

  “Well, thank you very much, but I’m not a very good driver, and it looks as though it might turn over at the slightest accidental flick of the wheel. Are you sure that it won’t matter if we go on the bike?”

  “No, of course not! I love the dear old Norton!”

  Mrs. Chychester lived in Belville Cottage, not far from the gates of her old home, Tarrant, a Palladian-styled building standing amidst trees on a hill west of the town. Lucy had told Phillip that Tarrant had been sold on account of some trouble through an uncle, Grannie’s younger son. Thereupon Grannie had gone to live in the late butler’s cottage, at the invitation of Ennis, her lady’s-maid, who was seventy, and ten years younger than Grannie. Ennis had been the butler’s wife. When the butler had died he had left the cottage to Ennis; but really, said Lucy, the cottage had not been his to bequeath. It was Grannie’s cottage. Of course Grannie had not told Ennis this, but had secured it for her in her own Will.

  “Now Grannie lives there with Ennis and Martha, the undercook from Tarrant.”

  Belville Cottage was meticulously clean, with copper kettles and pans polished on the shelves along the walls of the lower room, an oak dresser with china, an oak table and chairs—these, he understood, belonged to Ennis. Upstairs was Grannie’s own room, containing a few of her cherished belongings, including the campaign clock that had accompanied her husband throughout the Crimean War, and later, with the regiment in India.

  Ennis, otherwise Mrs. Rawlings, received them at the door. She was tall and stately in mid-Victorian bodice and skirt from which the bustle had been removed, the embodiment of simple dignity. Mrs. Rawlings had accompanied her lady for more than half a century in her travels over half the world with the regiment. Mrs. Rawlings had a complete set of the paper-backed sixpenny Railway Books which she had bought in India when the young Mr. Kipling was beginning to be talked about, not always favourably, in the hill-stations; he was considered to be a half-and-half person, not exactly a gentleman, for he went to the bazaars and talked among the natives as though he were one of them. That had been towards the end of the Colonel’s soldiering, when he was about to be retired, to return home to spend his days as a country gentleman. Mrs. Rawlings had held Lucy’s mother in her arms; she had nursed Lucy herself, not as a duty of course, but as a privilege. She knew all the grandchildren, and their many cousins, and had seen them all grow up; to the young men she was always ‘Mrs. Rawlings’; to the daughters and grand-daughters, she was ‘Ennis’, which may have been either her maiden name, or her name before she was married.

  “Hullo, Ennis,” said Lucy, happily.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lucy, good afternoon, Sir,” replied Mrs. Rawlings, with a slight curtsy to each in turn. “Mrs. Chychester is in her room. She is much better than she has been lately. Her cold is nearly gone, I am most thankful to say. What do you think of our garden?”

  The little square of garden was formal as herself: lobelias, geraniums, and arabis with other plants arranged within small beds of correct earthen slope, and set with a minute border of clipped box. Not a weed was to be seen. The coconut mat behind the oaken threshold of the door seemed not to have a fibre out of place.

  After praising the flowers, the two visitors went up the stairs to Mrs. Chychester’s room. She had seen them arrive from the window, but had drawn back to greet them as they climbed the stairs.

  “My dearest Lucy, what a happy surprise for me! How well you look, my dear!” She took her grand-daughter’s hands lightly, drawing her to be kissed gently on the cheek. “And this is Phil!” as she turned to him and clasped his hand between hers, and it seemed natural that he should incline his head and touch the back of her hand with his lips. “Now come and sit down, draw up the chair, my dear Phil, and tell me about your work—I hear such good account of your country essays——”

  From the first glance at Mrs. Chychester’s face and sound of her voice, Phillip had felt at ease; he could be nearly all of himself in her presence; more so than with Pa—in fact, he could be only about one-tenth of himself with Mr. Copleston. But now, with Mrs. Chychester, he could talk freely. Was it because her father had been an architect, as she told him—a soldier turned architect. “A square peg in a round hole, dear Phil, he was never really happy when in uniform, but with sketch book and pencil, he was the dearest of fathers.”

  After tea Mrs. Chychester said, “Do smoke, won’t you—have you your pipe? I do so miss the scent of tobacco, you know!” When the Navy Cut was burning well, having been first rolled on the palm, the old lady gave him an ivory paper-cutter, the handle carved in the likeness of an eagle about to tear a snake which was coiled round the bird’s body; open beak menacing open fangs. She said she had had it more than half a century, and she would be so glad to think of him having it on his desk, as a small token of her regard and affection for one who henceforward would be taking care of her dear Margaret’s girl. Would he accept it as a mark of her esteem? She spoke with so soft and charming a voice that he found himself wanting to say that he wished he could take care of her, too; he stammered a phrase of conventional thanks and added that as all his grandparents were dead, might he call her Grannie?

  “Indeed you are to be my new grandson, my dear,” she replied. “And I do not know of another so kind and considerate to go through life with dear Lucy.” Did her voice tremble ever so slightly as she spoke? He could not be sure, for he felt the tears coming to his eyes, and thinking to blow his nose, noticed with dismay that he had no handkerchief in the breast-pocket of his jacket, as was the correct thing.

  As they were about to say goodbye, the door opened inaudibly and Mrs. Rawlings glided into the room with something in her hands. It was a folder of tissue paper, and some light blue silk riband.

  “Ah, Ennis, how thoughtful of you,” she murmured, as Mrs. Rawlings took the ivory paper-knife and discreetly, a few feet away, wrapped it with care and tied the blue riband with a neat bow, before giving it back to Mrs. Chychester.

  “With my love, dear Phil,” she smiled, her faded grey eyes looking into his as she took his hand, patted it, and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “You will forgive an old woman for not coming to your wedding, won’t you? I shall be thinking of you on the day. And be sure that my thoughts will follow you to London tomorrow, on your adventure to work hard and win further successes. Now do come and tell me about it, won’t you, when you return at Christmas? Good night, Lucy dear, you look so well and happy.”

  Mrs. Chychester went to the door, and stood there with a smile as they went downstairs, to be shown out by Mrs. Rawlings, who remarked confidentially that Grannie was not so well as she would have liked, but it was nothing to worry about. Martha came from the kitchen, with her face of a young girl, though she must have been nearly forty; curtseying to Lucy, and pressing something into her hands, a wedding present he thought, as he pretended not to see, for Martha looked shy. Mrs. Rawlings came to the little green-painted gate, and as he got astride the Norton, praying that the engine would fire as soon as he paddled off, with Lucy perched on the carrier, down the road. It fired beautifully; and on the pilot jet they went slowly and almost silently down the lane past the demesne walls of Tarrant Park.

  *

  In bed that night, lying in the chalet, he meditated upon this experience of meeting a lady of a past generation. Was her graciousness more than the effect of good manners practised since before she could walk in the nursery, in the school-room, and later with her governess abroad; or were hers the natural manners of a clear nature reinforced by training? Was human nature perfectible, under a balanced economic system? That seemed to be the problem that Willie thought he had solved.

  While the wind moved in the branches of the trees beyond the little lawn, he sought to find some fixed truth in human na
ture, other than that aspiration and emotion of the mind which saw the poetic truth of life; and considering this now in relation to Mrs. Chychester, he wondered how much of the balance of her character was made by environment, and how much of it was born in her.

  Mrs. Chychester was what was called an early Victorian—by popular literary accounts she should have been a woman of frustration and unnaturalness. Or was that phenomenon only of the aspiring middle-class commercial and professional families: of the rise of the Victorian and Edwardian middle-class, coincident with the growth of factories and slums in a dark period of England’s history when the influence and stability of the landlords were waning, and the power or money of the nation was being transferred, through trade, to a class which outwardly imitated the landed families but lacked their traits of responsibility and obligation?

  He thought again of Willie—he saw his cousin’s life suddenly in perspective. He must write the last novel of Donkin’s short life. He could not write it where he was; he must go to London in the morning. It was as though Willie was urging him to write it for him. Speak for us, brother; the snows of death are on our brows.

  Chapter 14

  TURMOIL

  On a dull and rainy London evening Phillip drew up his chair to the green baize table, uncapped his pen, wrote the words Chapter 1, paused, lit a cigarette in a sudden mood of excited satisfaction, pushed back the chair, and began to pace the floor of the room. It was a thrilling moment; he felt that the breath of creation had come upon him, its servant. Then he closed his eyes and tried to think of Willie.

  In one corner of the otherwise empty room were his camp-bed and sleeping-bag, and an army hold-all. A coal fire burned in the grate. Every footfall was magnified with echoes in the empty house. Uncle Hugh had died in the very place where now he sat, alone with what spirits of love and hope. His footfalls resounded on the floorboards; the vibration gave him power. When he listened, silence fell as dust; and the peculiar stuttering flap of coal-flames came intermittently from the hearth.