It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

  He sat down, and began to write in the green-covered book, bought with two others for a shilling each at a stationer’s shop in Ludgate Circus. Now he was moving away from the ancient hopes and torments of Gran’pa and Hugh Turney, Uncle Charley and all who had been in the room, to the wraith of cousin Willie in the silence of sandhills and the snow, while frost held earth and water in its thrall; shadowy figures were moving about a house remotely holding the dull growl of the winter sea. But he knew little about the figures with his conscious mind; he only knew they were there. The place was ghostly for him, the figures insubstantial, save that of one, to whom went his reawakened love.

  What she would do, how appear, he did not know; he was trusting himself to the spirit of creation, which caused a strange dissolution within. He did not know what he would be writing on the page a moment before it happened. Trusting himself to the imaginative flow, in the secrecy of the empty house, he wrote steadily, light replacing shadow, living creatures the still figures, sunshine the candlelight of the empty room.

  At midnight he put down his pen, arose stiffly, and regarded a sandy tom-cat that had entered through a broken window, and after yowling about the empty corridors, had come to sit by the embers of his fire.

  “Zippy! Poor old Zippy——”

  *

  There were irruptions in the state of dream.

  “You see, Phillip, I bought back Gran’pa’s house for a special reason. Your father does not understand, but that does not matter any more.” Spoken sadly, with resignation.

  The house had been sold a year or two ago to a childless couple who had lived in two of the rooms only; they had moved away, put the place up for sale, and Hetty had—on what, according to Richard was one of her foolish impulses—bought it back for the same price for which she had sold it.

  “Are you sure I am not interrupting you, Phillip?”

  “No, Mother. All is fish in my net.”

  “But you won’t tell anyone what I am saying, will you, dear?”

  “My mouth is sealed.”

  Her face brightened. “You see, Phillip, I begin to feel that I have not many more years to live, and I want to see my children, and their children, happy. When Elizabeth and Doris come to live next door, how can that possibly interfere with your father’s life, as he insists?”

  “Why, is Doris leaving Bob?”

  “Phillip, he has threatened her! He has actually struck her! And while she was nursing her baby, too! Can you understand that?”

  “Oh, yes. Doris is very stupid and obstinate at times.”

  “Elizabeth went over one evening, and soon came back. She thinks that Bob is going insane.”

  “Mother, can’t you understand that Doris, and Elizabeth, both in the same room with Bob, both disliking him, can cause a break-down of manners?”

  “Ah, but it is the little one I think of, Phillip my son!”

  “Of course—so does everyone else, including Bob, Hetty my mother! However, I’ll try to explain your point of view to Richard Maddison.”

  “Do be careful what you say, won’t you, dear?”

  Phillip said to his father, “I suppose that Mother feels lonely during the day, and it’s rather a journey to go across London to see Doris at Romford, and be back in time for your homecoming——”

  “And pray, why is it necessary that she has continually to be gallivanting about to see Mrs. Willoughby? Whose fault is it that she has made such a disastrous marriage? Who connived at it, who encouraged the secret marriage, and helped to arrange it? Now your mother proposes to make the house next door into two flats, and no doubt will become the servant, in due course, of her two daughters, while neglecting her duties in this house!”

  “Mother and Doris are good friends, apart from the fact of being parent and daughter, Father——”

  “Can you say the same thing about your mother and Elizabeth? She continually uses your mother for her own selfish purposes! She is a little bully, too, the way she gets money repeatedly from her! And now, if you please, your mother proposes to set up Elizabeth in a flat next door, together with Mrs. Willoughby for whom, apparently, she is to provide a home, apart from her husband! Why, bless my soul, has she not heard of such things as Conspiracy, and Alienation of Affection? A wife’s legal position is with her husband, unless she can show cause otherwise—in which case she is entitled to ask for a legal separation; and in this case, on what grounds, pray? It’s a case of ‘marry in haste and repent in leisure’, if you ask me, Phillip.”

  “Yes, I understand how you feel, Father. Human life is very much like rookery life, I sometimes think.”

  “What’s that got to do with it, pray?”

  “Well, I only meant it as a joke, Father. You know how the established rooks sometimes drive off the young birds——”

  “I don’t see what that has got to do with what I was saying, but then you are a nature writer, aren’t you? Well, I’m off to the moving pictures down in the High Street, to see Blanche Sweet in Anna Christie, for the second time. There’s drama for you!”

  “Yes, Eugene O’Neill is a real writer, Father. All great drama exalts us in our loneliness.”

  “If you want my opinion, most people are lonely, Phillip. Well, I’ll see you when I get back, if you’re still here.”

  “I shall probably be next door, writing, Father, but good-night in case I don’t see you.”

  Phillip sat with his mother over a cup of tea in the kitchen.

  “What has really happened about Bob Willoughby? Can you give me hard facts, rather than opinions, Mother?”

  “Doris is very unhappy, dear.”

  “I know that; but what about Bob? Do you realize his point of view?”

  “I realize that he is being led astray by a so-called friend of his.”

  “Why ‘led astray’, Mother? Men aren’t ‘led astray’! They go the way they want to go. It’s like the old Fleet Street joke—a man spent his life in the West End of London trying to find a ‘well-known man about town’ of the evening newspapers gossip columns. The search wore him out, for he never found one, and when he dropped dead in Piccadilly, all the evening newspapers printed, ‘Well-known man about town drops dead’.”

  Hetty laughed. “By the way, dear, Julian Warbeck called here this morning to ask if you were home again.”

  “Oh, no! What did you tell him?”

  “I said you were in London, and I would tell you that he called.”

  “Then he knows I am here? Oh, hell and the devil! Couldn’t you have said I wasn’t staying here?”

  “He asked before I had time to think, I’m afraid, dear.”

  “Well, don’t tell him I’m next door, whatever you do!”

  “Certainly not, Phillip. Now tell me about your little son. Have you had a photograph taken yet?”

  “No, Mother—I sent you the newspaper cutting, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Phillip. Will you let me pay for a proper photograph? I would so like to have one. I haven’t seen him since—since that winter day when I came down to you, dear!”

  Her voice trembled. She saw again Phillip, so pale and upright at the funeral; the sleet on his bare head, as he stood to attention, his jaws clenched like his hands, which later almost tore at the frozen earth to drop the first soil on the lowered coffin.

  “Well, my dear son, I must now sew some buttons on your father’s shirts. Don’t work too hard, will you?”

  “Mother, I want to finish my book before Christmas, for a very good reason. I’ll tell you in confidence, if you promise to keep the secret to yourself. I’m going to be married again in the spring. But you won’t tell either of the girls, will you? Or Father? Yes, of course she loves Billy, otherwise it wouldn’t be any good. Now, Mother dear, I don’t want to talk about it, otherwise I shan’t be able to write. Yes, you’ll see Lucy before we’re married, of course you will. Now I really must think about my story!”

  “Yes, dear, of course, naturally! Kiss me, my dear son! I’m so very,
very happy for you!”

  *

  Fire made up, fresh candle stuck on guttering stump, chair settled firm on wooden floor: against memory of the vanished lives of his grandparents, uncles and aunts—who were not characters in the story, that was for time ahead—the scenes of the book created themselves, as a plant grows out of soil composed of ruinous tissues. Every evening he went to the gate, tip-toeing down the darkness of the porch to let himself in at the front door, stealthily, feeling, as he shut it silently behind him, that he was a conspirator in a world beyond life and death. Evening moved into night, which carried him onwards with his story in the silence of the house disturbed only by the soft padding of the cat, his own footfalls, the stealthy noises of the fire. The packet of candles grew smaller, shadows flickered on the walls as he got up, speaking aloud with excitement of the life arising before him.

  This imaginary life grew with a reality that was more vivid than life beyond the empty house. During the day, in London and elsewhere, he avoided familiar faces and walked alone, taking his meals in coffee house or restaurant as fancy settled. He was happy to be alone, he avoided re-entry into the world of chance acquaintance; even Mrs. Neville, once his confidante, was avoided. He had nothing to say to her, after a brief visit.

  One night, as he shut the gate on leaving, a form detached itself from the hedge and came forward to greet him in a rough, scornful voice which made him, as always on hearing it, flinch a little before fortifying himself against its abrasion. He had not seen Julian Warbeck for two years. Julian’s hands were thrust into the pockets of his overcoat. Phillip knew by his tone of voice that Julian had been drinking.

  “Well, Maître, how goes it? Still like a spider getting thinner and thinner as it pulls gossamer after gossamer from its spinnerets, to launch itself into an air of flaccid dream?”

  “I’m just going for a walk. On the Hill. But I warn you that I’m a very dull dog nowadays.”

  “Why only nowadays? No, don’t take any notice of what I say. Honestly, I’m extremely glad to see you again! I’ve read all your books. Gossamers, I think you used to define your poetic inspiration? But you aren’t that kind of spider, old boy. You’ll never rise into that air which nourishes true poets. You’re a reporter of talent—sometimes——Otherwise you’re a wall spider, grabbing what passes. But seriously, old boy, I’m very glad to see you again.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “‘I have my methods, Watson’!”

  Phillip could tolerate the image of Julian absent, for then he could see the authentic Julian, void of that scorn which was of his own exacerbating self-doubt and therefore unhappiness.

  He had heard about Julian from his literary agent, Anders Norse: how Julian was deteriorating, a seedy sponger upon his old father; a haunter of Fleet Street pubs where journalists and writers foregathered, some to turn their backs upon his entry.

  In the light of a street-lamp, as they left the north side of the Hill, Phillip saw that Julian’s boots were down-at-heel. His face was more puffy than when he had known him before. Walking down to the High Street, he caught a ’bus going towards London, followed by Julian: to get off at the next stop because Julian’s loud voice and manner were drawing attention. They walked along the Old Kent Road, stopping at various pubs; at every visit becoming more remote from each other. Phillip strode on, followed by Julian, until he came to Blackfriars Bridge. On the Embankment Julian became so derisive that to escape the torment of his presence Phillip jumped on a motor-bus that had slowed down to pick him up, and jerked the cord twice for the driver to go on. Julian ran after the bus, but was soon winded. Phillip saw him ramming his hat over his eyes, before the hunched figure strode away into the night.

  The next evening he was unable to write; he spent the time prowling about the empty rooms, cursing Julian’s wraith and lamenting the dereliction of his poetic talent, while dreading to hear a resounding hollow bang on the door which would entirely dissipate the vision of the manor house by the sea, of imagined figures washing plates in the scullery; while outside lay ice and snow, under a keening wind which brought the wild geese to the estuary; and in another room an old grey-bearded man took down his 10-bore fowling gun.

  *

  Such fancy was for the night only; by day he wrote short stories, despite the knowledge the last seven he had sent to Anders remained unsold. The chief English magazines, together with the high-paying U.S.A. editors, had rejected them. One was about a bob-tailed fox which, during two seasons, a certain pack could never kill. It had been told to Phillip by a retired huntsman who kept a pub in the South Hams. Another was an account of the last run of a pack of harriers on Dartmoor, and their destruction by the Master, officially for sheep-worrying; but, it was said, because they had worried and eaten an escaped convict. There were others, most of them arising from what he had heard at night, while sitting in various inns. One had been written in a couple of days following delivery by post of a crude pen-and-ink sketch from the United States, sent by a poor student, of baboons sitting on rocks in South Africa. Having written a story, he had posted it with the sketch to the artist who had hopes of a career as an illustrator of magazine stories, and was working his way through a mid-Western college. It was a poor bit of work, and Phillip was not surprised when the story was rejected.

  Nevertheless, he considered that the editors were missing something when they turned down his later, and better, short stories. Looking at printed stories in American and English magazines, comparing them critically and with detachment for excitement, colour and originality with his own rejected stories, he had given a few contemptuous snorts and realised that his stuff had no hope with such editors; or perhaps such a magazine public. The English magazines, particularly, printed feeble, false, conventional stuff, and were obviously so out of touch with the rise of modern feeling, that surely they could not last for many years. Even so, he must earn some money; he had less than five pounds in the bank.

  He went to see Anders Norse in the Adelphi, who suggested that he call on the editor who, having accepted half a dozen of his earlier yarns, had rejected the later ‘more realistic’ stories.

  “Well, the later ones are more truthful, you know, Anders.”

  “Why not go and see Teddy Dock, Phillip? You’ll find him a very nice person. Right! I’ll give him a ring that you’ll go round straight away.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Dock began earnestly, “the very young fellow I want to see! Come in and sit down! Now tell me—when am I going to have some more good stories from you?”

  He was a kindly man, his manner was encouraging. Phillip told him that he was going to be married. Mr. Dock listened carefully; and then, pursing his lips, he said, “Now look here, Maddison, I am really concerned about you! You say your writings earn for you what must be little more than the wages of an agricultural labourer. A man with your ability ought to have a big reputation, which means a big public. Yet you are wasting your powers of perception, your sense of narrative, your faculty of observation on—what? On animal stories! No no, hear me out, wait a minute! I know I am right, man! Take those stories of an otter your agent sent me—how many people are interested, frankly, in the rather humdrum details of an otter’s life? Besides, your otter is not a very pleasant creature, judging solely by what you have written! And again, the animal-story public is a very small and limited one. Now take my advice, and write about human beings! There must be romances in the country where you live! Write stories which please the average man and woman, that take them out of their surroundings—romantic, clean stories about human life. Now just a moment! I know what you are going to say. Now don’t be offended——”

  “I’m not offended. Do please say exactly what you think——”

  “Very well, I will, Maddison! Don’t write about sordid things! That little story your agent sent me about a mouse, for instance! It was well-written, I admit, but aren’t you aware of a misplacement of your talents in writing such a thing? Why bother to do it at all
?”

  *

  … Donkin observing the skeleton of the mouse in the jam-jar, amidst a few grains of rice, on the larder shelf: Donkin fully aware that all living was based on the dead—moths flying down to lay their eggs, the grubs consuming fur and skin, spiders descending delicately on their life-lines to climb up again with fragments for their egg-nests: all patient removal and use of the dead until only the little bones were left; shadows in the eye-sockets of the fragile white skull; yellow bones of tiny paws, lying so silent and quiet, so peaceful behind the bubble-flawed glass, after the hours of jumping up the walls of a waterless prison; even as Donkin’s own mind, after …

  *

  “Now I am telling you exactly what I think, mind! You’re not offended, are you?” went on Mr. Dock.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Very well, you have no sense of humour! Now take that story of the hare being hunted in Surrey. Why harrow people’s feelings unnecessarily? Frankly, I can’t see any point in it!”

  *

  … hare in a chalky field near Cross Aulton dragging stiff limbs, straining for its life from beagles in a wheat-field whose green blades were not yet shining with the late winter sunshine. A heavy City man running slowly past, white stock round thick and ruddy neck, yelling at hounds with excitement. The great vein of his neck swelled. So were the eyes of the hare as it limped into a garden of one of the new houses of the new road made through the cornfield. A thin froth on the sportsman’s heavy lower lip which soon would be pressed against the rim of a large glass of whisky-and-soda, this Saturday morning sportsman of the City of London.

  Donkin, a stranger come among them, stood apart observing the scene and all it implied; hating nothing, despising nothing, but looking at these things as they happened: looking at the truth: and trying afterwards to convey it in words …

  Almost pleadingly, Teddy Dock was saying, “People don’t want to be made melancholy, my dear boy. There is enough sadness, God knows, in the world already. And it is my opinion—and I know I am right!—that a kink in you prevents you from writing as you ought to write! Something in you has checked your life, your youthful exuberance. What is it? Or is it just perversity? I know! You say to yourself scornfully, ‘The public—Why should I write for clods!’ Well, why do you not say something?”