A Solitary War

by Henry Williamson

  “I couldn’t put phosphorescence in my painting. So I put sunlight instead.”

  “Yes.”

  He began to worry. What was she really thinking?

  “I can feel you thinking,” she said, turning to take him in her arms. “You are becoming tense again, my sweet man.”

  O, the softness of her breasts. He clung to her, his eyes shut fast. Yes, he was a substitute, until she found her proper lover, her husband. He wanted desperately to possess her, but the passion was all in his head, making him passive.

  “Lie on me,” she whispered.

  He began to shiver. She felt dismayed, unhappy. Was he tired of her, already? Or had she never really appealed to him? It was her turn to feel inadequate. She lay still in shame. He did not like her, she had thrust herself at him.

  He lay at the edge of the blankets. His shivers became more pronounced, he sat up, hands over face.

  “Darling, don’t you feel well?”

  “I’m awfully sorry, I get like this sometimes,” he muttered. He got on his feet, and began to dress.

  She could not think; she felt as though her mind had been taken away from her. At first she thought he had been pretending—doing an act. But no. What had she done or said that had upset him? He was putting on his shoes. She heard him say wearily, “Don’t take any notice of me. You ought not to stay in this cold room. I must go back to my cottage. I’m awfully sorry. Nervously instable. My mother’s father knocked her down when she was pregnant with me. At least that’s the story an aunt once told me.”

  He was dissembling, trying to convince himself that he could never love any woman, except in the head. He was like Runnymeade, too old. ‘Boy’ Runnymeade, possessed by the terrifying and tender illusions of love, since he lacked the natural impulse: love beyond all hopeless hope, love to shore himself against the unfaceable darkness of death.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You see, I began to write only because I couldn’t live like ordinary people in an ordinary world. I just don’t belong. Please don’t go. I’ll go, instead.”

  “What you need is sleep. Promise me you will go to your cottage, and not go wandering off somewhere? Now take these blankets, and wrap yourself well up. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Melissa!”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not true what I said. If I had you now, I’d never be able to let you go. I’ve always loved you. Only I’ve been afraid because you come from a great family, whereas I——Also, there’s my reputation. An illegitimate child …”

  “Yes, I’ve felt that. I’ve thought of taking you on, but always the idea of the family disapproval checked me. So we feel the same way, you see. Darling, back to your fo’c’sle before my baser nature takes over. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  A light kiss on his brow, and she was gone down the stairs. From the window he watched her paleness moving past Mrs. Carfax’s motor car and across the yard.

  Mrs. Carfax, lying sleepless in her room, heard Melissa walking softly up the other flight of stairs. She looked at her watch. It was nearly 2 a.m. She lay on her back, hands folded over chest, feet crossed at the ankles, and felt herself to be turning to stone.

  *

  After returning to his cottage Phillip had worked at his book until nearly 3 a.m., then gone upstairs to sleep fully dressed under a pile of clothing on top of which the sack stencilled BODGER GREAT SNORING was spread. Melissa in the lighthouse room had lain awake until nearly 4 a.m. when, after much turning and sighing, she had dropped off about the same time that Phillip went to sleep. Getting up at first light she went for a walk on the marshes, repeating to herself as she had said often in the past, Keep your hands off that man, you little fool.

  At 8 a.m., when Teddy Pinnegar went up to continue his painting of the window frame of Phillip’s ‘lighthouse room’, he was surprised to see the ashes of a fire in the grate. The willow skep of sticks, which before he had seen downstairs, was lying empty on its side. Blankets were heaped against the wall. A pair of pale blue pyjamas on top of them.

  “The sly old fox” he exclaimed with some enjoyment, and began to look round for other signs, very much as a fox coming across scent-traces would have done, to imagine what had happened.

  He picked up the soft poplin jacket and noted that three of the four buttons had been torn off, and the corresponding buttonholes broken. His eyes twinkled with his thoughts. Further examination told him that the jacket, obviously old, had probably lost the buttons in fair wear and tear. To test this, he tried to extend a break between his thumbs, and found that the cloth tore easily. Anyway, there were no buttons to be seen on the floor after lifting up and shaking out the blankets. He moved the rough bed aside, in order to paint the wainscoting of that corner of the room.

  It was a few minutes after eight o’clock. Teddy was by habit a man of routine. He had been successful as a business man, having developed a small factory in Hertfordshire for the manufacture of perambulators in light alloy framing. He had started after the first war with some other ex-officers to make a cycle-car, a very narrow, almost canoe-shaped type of vehicle then appearing on the roads. It had been driven by an air-cooled ten horse-power V-twin engine. A few had been sold for the incredibly cheap price, then, of one hundred and fifty pounds. All of them overturned at one place or another in the narrow and winding main roads of the immediate post-war Britain. From the Pinnegar Special had been evolved the super Pinnegar Perambulator, which having a shorter wheel-base and running generally slower, propelled by a human engine, usually remained upright as designed. And then, in Teddy’s angry thoughts, he had been swindled out of his own creation by accepting a verbal agreement of his partner in secret association with a group of Jewish financial gangsters.

  While Teddy painted he ruminated. What ought he to do about getting his capital out of the firm? If only he could resolve the deadlock—his solicitor had told him that an action in the courts was unlikely to be upheld—he would know where he stood as regards that capital. He had talked it over with ‘Yipps’ on occasion, but always he had come round to where he had started: he could not sell what was left of his shares other than at a disastrous price at the moment. To do so would be the act of a bloody fool; yet ‘Yipps’ complained that his attitude was defeatist, and said that that was the real cause of both his material and mental conditions. Weakness, she called it. What the hell could he do but wait? Meantime the factory, run by those crooks who had swindled him out of his controlling interest, was doing damn all. The expected Government orders for munitions had not come. It was a phoney Government, and a phoney war, a Jewish-money war, just as Haw-Haw said!

  *

  At the end of his hour, exactly on time, Teddy went back to the farmhouse to tell ‘Yipps’ what he had seen.

  “My dear man, I knew that. So much for the goose-girl pretence!”

  “I wouldn’t say that, ‘Yipps’. There are possibilities for geese on the meadows. I asked Matt in The Hero last night, and he said they would feed themselves better than ‘the tarkies’. After all, geese are grass-eaters. And Melissa seems to have her head screwed on the right way, as far as I can judge after knowing her only a brief while. Her people are very rich, you know. Her grandfather is the Duke of Gaultshire.”

  “But where can she live, if she comes? What about my boy Roger in the holidays? That bedroom in the next-door cottage where poor little Billy slept last night is a disgrace. Why, half the ceiling has fallen, and rain comes through, under the tiles. What a man to have for a partner!”

  “Keep to facts, dear. There’s only one cracked tile on that cottage, easily replaced.”

  “When, may I ask? ‘Only one cracked tile!’ It’s always one little this, or one little that, in that awful man’s affairs!”

  “Now dear, Phillip isn’t an awful man. He’s in a jam, I agree; but with time and help he will get out of it.”

  “With the help of a goose girl, no doubt.”

  “Well, she’s only here for the week
-end, dear. And he did, after all, ask you if he might bring her, you know. And he’s known the family since she was a kid. And if she’s fond of him—where’s the harm in it?”

  “What about Lucy? How has he treated her? Phillip may be a genii but genii are notoriously difficult to live with.”

  “Anyway, she’s only here until tomorrow night. She told me she was on duty at St. George’s hospital on Monday morning.”

  “And how are we to know that some other little poppit won’t be here for the next week-end?”

  “We’re having a shoot on Saturday, dear, don’t forget. You must come along with your twenty-bore.”

  “My dear man, I shall be head cook and bottle-washer! I’ve got to get luncheon for eight men, and for all I know, their women as well. Anyhow, where is it all leading to? What are you going to do about it? What are you doing now? Acting as an honorary house-painter, like your mad hero Schicklgruber? Is that what you came here for, to paint cottages?”

  “Now dear, be fair. You know we agreed that the first thing was to get Phillip’s cottage in order for him.”

  “Yes, while he turns it into a night-club. Anyway, I can’t stay here and talk. I’ve got the breakfast to get, while the goose girl lies in bed!”

  ‘Yipps’ went down the stairs. She found Melissa in the kitchen, washing up. Offended by the intrusion, Mrs. Carfax asked her to go out of her kitchen. “If it can be called a kitchen!”

  It was a Saturday. Lunch was at one o’clock; then, without Mrs. Carfax, who said she had work to do, they went for a walk in the marshes. The aged retriever which in the parlour could not find security from draughts except in one of the two armchairs, preferably the leather one, went with them. It was a sunny afternoon, and they walked south, drawn by the clear air arising off a sparkling sea; and returned as the sun, a small red spot, was going down into the level land horizon at four o’clock.

  That evening they went to the pictures in Crabbe. Billy had already seen the programme, but was keen to see again the feature film of harvesting by combines in Alberta. They drove back after a drink in the Schooner Inn, to arrive exhilarated by the dry cold, to another of ‘Yipps’s’ splendid dinners. Afterwards a game of cards was proposed. There were five of them. Before Mrs. Carfax could disclaim herself Phillip was through the door, saying he must get on with his work.

  “Unpredictable genii, that’s our ‘Little Ray’,” said Mrs. Carfax after he had gone.

  Billy spoke up. “My father has to earn money somehow to support all ‘the farmers’, and Mum and the children as well!”

  “Of course, Billy, we know that. But after all, he has his guest to consider. And who, pray, are ‘the farmers’?”

  “You know.”

  “Now then, my lad, you mind your pees and queues” said Mrs. Carfax, amiably. “What is it to be—bridge, rummy, whist, or pontoon? You choose, Billy. We’ll play until ten-thirty, then I am going to give you a bath.”

  “I can bathe myself,” he muttered.

  “I said ‘bath’, not ‘bathe’, Billy.”

  “And I said ‘bathe’. That’s what my Mum calls it,” he muttered.

  “Anyway, I don’t want you to get chilblains on your toes as well as on your fingers, and you will if you don’t dry yourself properly. I must put some cream on them. You poor child. Are they painful, dear?”

  “Not much,” he replied, hiding his red, swollen fingers. He was near to tears. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You shouldn’t mutter to yourself, Billy. Well,” she went on with forced cheerfulness, “what shall it be? Rummy? Or Snap? I know, let’s play Snap, it will warm us up! I’ll deal, shall I?”

  After that, Billy enjoyed Snap. Often he had played with Mum, Peter, and Roz. Happy Families, too. Peter wasn’t coming to them for the holidays. They would all be together at Uncle Tim’s. But he would be able to think about them all when he lay in bed at night; and Dad would be there with him. Soon Billy’s thoughts were lost in the noisy, merry game of Snap!

  Melissa played quietly, and by concentrating on the game managed to collect a pile of cards. She lost them to Billy, to help him to feel good. She wanted to paint the boy, she could see Phillip in him. She did not allow any of her thoughts to show in her face. She knew she was the one for Phillip; in time, he would know it too. Until then, until the moment when he would come to know it with the union of all sides of his varied mind, which would shut-out his destructive self-criticism, she must be patient. She knew him; but he did not know her. Darling Phillip, he had quoted Birkin—the power to endure. She, too, would endure, having found the man to be the father of her children.

  “Which part of the country do you come from?” Mrs. Carfax asked, as she was dealing cards.

  “Gaultshire, Mrs. Carfax.”

  “I thought so. You have the China-blue eyes of the Watt-Wilbys. Now are we all ready? Go!”

  Cards slapped down. Snap! Snap! Too late—Teddy got them.

  “Does your father farm in Gaultshire?”

  “He lives in Norfolk, Mrs. Carfax.”

  “Your deal, Billy. Take your time. Have you any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have two brothers, Mrs. Carfax.” Melissa, foreseeing more questions, decided to forestall them. “I have an aunt who lives near here. I’d like to ring her up, if I may. I have to catch the early train on Monday morning, and it might be more convenient to go from the Junction.”

  “Do you know ‘Little Ray’s’ friend, ‘Boy’ Runnymeade?”

  “Yes.”

  “You met Phillip there, didn’t you?”

  “He came to Captain Runnymeade’s children’s party. What a wonderful Edwardian group all the nannies made! I remember Captain Runnymeade saying that if the war came it would be the last of the nannies.”

  “I’ve heard of Captain Runnymeade, but not met him,” remarked Mrs. Carfax. “He’s rather a buck, isn’t he?”

  Melissa said calmly, “I think all his friends feel that he’s rather a dear.”

  Teddy laughed. “A buck is a deer, isn’t it? Did you mean it for a joke? If so, it was jolly good.”

  “I am afraid I didn’t intend a pun. Snap! Snap Pool! Oh, I am sorry, Billy wasn’t ready. May we have it again?” she appealed to Mrs. Carfax.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Billy. “You have it.”

  At 10.45 P.m., Mrs. Carfax took Billy for his bath. In due course Phillip went next door to say good-night to his son.

  “I think I’ll ring up my aunt now,” said Melissa.

  “D’you know the number?”

  “Yes.”

  The Wing-Commander and his wife were away on leave. “Well, that’s that,” said Melissa. “I simply must catch the train at the Junction at seven o’clock in the morning.”

  “Won’t Phillip take you? How far is it? A dozen miles?”

  “It’s rather early, I’m afraid, and I don’t want to disturb him at his work. He writes in the morning.” She was worried because she had not enough money for the fare.

  The telephone bell rang. Teddy answered. “It’s Captain Runnymeade asking for Phillip,” he said.

  “Talk of the devil,” said Mrs. Carfax, brightly.

  Melissa took the receiver. Teddy heard the other voice faintly in the diaphragm. It did a lot of talking. Melissa laughed. “Yes, of course!” Then, “He’s hard at work. No, of course not, ‘Boy’. Writing.” The tiny buzzing voice zigged about. “Tomorrow? I’ll tell him.” More bizz-buzz. “No, I have to leave the Junction at crack of dawn. Dawn, not doom. May I? It’s awfully good of you. May I leave it until I see him? Thank you so much, ‘Boy’. Yes, certainly. Au revoir. He’s on leave, apparently. I’ll ring you back. Goodbye. Sorry, I meant au revoir.”

  Teddy waited for her news. Melissa knew this and drew herself in. She relented. “‘Boy’ wants to see Phillip tomorrow. He’s asked us over for tea, and offered to put me up for the night.”

  “I see,” said Teddy. “Perhaps I’d better go down and tell Phillip? Or would you rather go
?”

  “I think I’ll go to bed, this air makes one sleepy.”

  “Righty-ho,” said Teddy, “I—I’ll go down and tell Phillip. You’ll want a hot-water bottle, Melissa, it’s damned cold in that room.”

  “I’ll get it. Please don’t bother.”

  “You know about the switch? Over there. It’s high up isn’t it? Wonder why?”

  “For the small children’s protection, don’t you think?”

  Phillip returned with Teddy. Melissa was sitting by the kettle from which came bird-like pipings, as from the sea-shore. Phillip telephoned Captain Runnymeade, who suggested that Melissa spend the night at his cottage, in order to catch her early train.

  The next afternoon he took her over to Staith. He returned at seven, and sat in the leather chair. The golden retriever sprawled on top of him. A buffet supper was laid on the table. ‘Yipps’, said Teddy, had gone to supper with Penelope.

  Three days later, a letter from Melissa. She felt there was no job for her on the farm for the present, thanked him for the drive down from London; sent her love to him and to Billy, and enclosed the two pound notes for her fare to London he had lent her, Mrs. Carfax also had a bread-and-butter letter from Melissa.

  Chapter 8

  SOME SPORT AND SOME SPORTSMEN

  For the shoot Teddy offered his services as organiser, but Phillip was determined to make his own arrangements for the day. He and Luke marked out the stands for eight guns; and in his cottage the night before the party, they worked out the tactics of beating: where the boundary stops would go before dawn to wave flags and so prevent pheasants leaving their roosting woods for fields beyond the farm: how the line of beaters would advance to each stand, driving the game to the guns spaced and concealed before them.

  ‘Yipps’ was to prepare the luncheon, to be given in the workshop, which Teddy and Phillip had already swept out and cleaned. A fire burned in the anthracite stove, glowing behind the mica of the door. The sky did not look promising; and there were no weather reports published in the papers, or over the B.B.C.