The Gale of the World

by Henry Williamson

  Laura looked unhappy, Phillip saw. Had Piers forgotten the good Samaritan who had picked him up from the gutter?

  “What’s happened to that tommy gun, Piers?”

  “The police took it. In fact I asked them to take it. Taxi!”

  On the way down the Cromwell Road he said, “I may be arrested as soon as they find out who Bombardier Tofield is. I jumped a troopship when I got Gillian’s letter saying she wanted to marry her American hero, so I’m now posted as a deserter. I suppose you saw the evening papers?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’ve got my photograph now, and will be able to check up. So I can’t very well go back to the flat.”

  “You can sleep on my floor if you like,” said Laura.

  “Ah, back on the old rug! No promotion for bombardiers, I see!”

  Phillip felt relief that his old friend was present. He was afraid of Laura: he feared to put himself into a situation of courting betrayal.

  *

  The Medicean still had a possibility of life. Rows of lighted candles, faces. Ginger-moustached Commando lieutenant-colonel still upright by the bar, reading his book. Pianist playing Paganini theme. Thank you, sir. Your health sir! Glad to see you back, sir. Did the drummer say that to everyone?

  O’Callogan asked them to have a drink.

  “Coffee please,” said Laura.

  “I’m not drinking any more fusil spirit just now, thanks all the same, O’Callogan,” said Piers.

  “Right you are, my boyo. Have brandy. What’s for you, Phillip?”

  “Oh, brandy, please.”

  “I think they’re rather hungry,” said Laura.

  “How about eggs and bacon?”

  “Sounds good to me, ‘old boy’, as Archie Plugge would say.”

  Sitting at one of the small tables along the wall, Phillip glanced towards the longer bar. The Commando colonel smiled. Laura went to him.

  “Go and talk to ‘Buster’‚” said Piers. “I’m going to have a nap.” He closed his eyes.

  “Phillip,” said Laura Wissilcraft, “do you know my friend ‘Buster’ Cloudesley?”

  “Yes, indeed,” replied Phillip recognising a suggestion in the face of the soldier from the Battle School who had come to apologise for the unannounced use of live ammunition on the farm meadows during the war.

  “You came to see me when I was in hospital, I remember.”

  “I do indeed, sir. You became a legend of chivalry in the Battle School.”

  “An accident of an accident, Colonel.”

  “May I offer you a drink, sir?”

  *

  After the brandies Piers collapsed. No food. O’Callogan told Phillip that he would put up Piers in his flat adjoining the studio. After the meal Phillip walked along the Embankment with Laura, hand in hand: a new Laura; the gentlest eyes which had seen suffering that transcended her own.

  The black tide below the Embankment was lapsing fast, silently.

  “How far are you going?”

  “How far are you?”

  “I’ve a long way to go.”

  “So have I.”

  “How far is that, Laura?”

  “You should know, my Prospero. I am your Ariel.”

  “Don’t dream of me, Ariel. I am no Prospero.”

  “Then what are you, Phillip?”

  “I think I must be like Francis Thompson—‘I am an icicle, whose thawing is its dying’.”

  “Music comes from an icicle as it melts, to live again as spring water. Do not sigh, my dear. The dream of resurgence is over.”

  “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  “Because you kept looking at the evening paper. ‘Buster’ found a photograph in Berlin of him lying dead, clutching his mother’s photo across his breast. I suppose someone put it there before they poured petrol on the body and burned it in the Chancery garden. You know about it, I expect?”

  “Yes. Are you writing, as I urged you to do?”

  “Writing is all my life.”

  “It’s all mine too, I suppose, when I can start—”

  “You told Piers you had a shepherd’s hut on Exmoor. Where is it? I know Exmoor, a little of it, anyway.”

  “On the side of a coombe, among bracken and heather.”

  “Do you know The Eyrie in the woods below Lynton?”

  “No.”

  “‘Buster‚’” she went on almost timidly, “is really Lord Cloudesley. He wants to use his place as a guest house for writers and painters.”

  “Does he write?”

  “He wants to. We’re going to write together a biography of his father, who tried to fly the Atlantic in an old one-engined aeroplane, and fell into the sea. Have you heard,” she went on softly, “of Manfred Carew-Fiennes-Manfred? That’s the family name. He was in your war.”

  “Yes, indeed. He won the Victoria Cross in nineteen eighteen when he took on Göring’s squadron over their own aerodrome in Havrincourt Wood—called ‘Mossy Face’ because it was the shape of the ace of spades—and although wounded again and again, he continued to fight until he had shot down nine of their Fokkers.”

  “Really, my Prospero, that doesn’t show much respect for your ‘Old Alleyman’, does it?”

  “A Fokker, you fu— you funny idiot, was a fighter aircraft, designed by a Dutchman called Fokker. That was his born name!”

  “A better name for a man I can’t imagine.”

  She clung to his arm.

  “Oh Phillip, I love you so. You were a bastard to me, you know, when I cycled all the way up the East Coast to see you, nearly five years ago! Why do you shut yourself away from women? Did you do the same thing to Melissa? Ah, you didn’t know I knew her, did you? We were at the same hospital together in, of all places, Calcutta. She saw me reading one of your books, and we became friends. Where are you taking me to? Are you going to abduct me?”

  “How’s Melissa? I haven’t heard for ages.”

  “Nor have I.”

  After awhile he said, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

  “With you, if you like.”

  “I’m afraid ladies aren’t allowed in the Barbarian Club at night.”

  “Oo-er! Fancy that, now! What orgies you Brother Barbarians indulge in! Well, I’ve got a room in Old Compton Street. If you’re tired, you needn’t see me home.”

  “How long have you known Piers?”

  “Since last night.”

  “You’re not in the old clothes trade by any chance, are you?”

  “Oh yes, I am! I stripped him, and pinched everything I could, before he woke up! I only helped him to my room to get his pants, vest, and socks! Didn’t you know I was in the Rag Trade? Oh yes! I’m known as the Female Totter of Tottenham! I buy rags, bottles, and old bones. I’ll buy yours if you like! Oo, I’d like to have you stuffed!”

  “So you’ve only known Piers twenty four hours, then? Fast work, Wissilcraft.”

  “I’ve spent more time with him than you ever let me spend with you, you prickly old Merlin.”

  “Well, this is my club.”

  “Aren’t you grand!”

  “No, we’re squatters.” He kissed her cheek. “The prickly old Merlin will walk with you to Old Compton Street, if you like.”

  “No, you’re tired, my Prospero,” she said, suddenly gentle. “I can take care of myself. I learned judo in the army. When shall we meet again?”

  “I’m engaged tomorrow, and the next day am due at the Divorce Court.”

  “Oh Phillip, I’m sorry. Really I am. I heard about Lucy from Melissa. She said she was very sweet.”

  “I was a brute.”

  “Yes, you can be the wrong sort of brute, I know. That’s what ‘Buster’ says of himself. Why do you men of intelligence and sensibility always condemn yourselves? Anyway, he’s divorcing his wife in two days’ time, so you may meet. Shall I come and hold both your hands? How is Boy Billy? I took quite a fancy to him, when I came to your farm. He must be almost grown up now. He was so s
weet!” She saw his staring eyes in the light of one of the tall gas-lanterns. “O, Phillip! What happened?”

  “He was killed in the last week of the war.”

  “Oh no!” Her eyes filled with tears, her sympathy was swimming towards him, her arms went round his chest, she laid her cheek against his neck, holding him. “O, not that sweet, sweet, boy!”

  *

  Laura was lying in her small iron-framed bed in her attic room. Phillip lay beside her. Both were in their day clothes, less their shoes. Each was trying to find comfort in the presence of the other. Laura was thinking that Caliban was one’s subliminal self, that Ariel was the spirit’s aspiration; and all human beings were lost in the dark chasm of hopeless hope between the two elements of nature. Phillip was thinking, I cannot lose myself in her, with her. What is it that is holding me back? Perhaps it is all romantic love, no more real in nature than the transfer of a crude picture on the back of a child’s hand. I am afraid, not of her, but of her desire for me, which I cannot fulfil.

  The ghost of the moon, distained by London air, was going down behind black chimney pots.

  “What are you thinking, Phillip?”

  “I was wondering if you were comfortable.”

  “Oh, were you, now. Well, since you’ve mentioned it, I wonder if you could move your arm a little. It’s pressing on my ribs. Oh no, don’t go away,” she sighed. “Come closer. Be with me, my sweet. Just be yourself.”

  “I feel you want me to make love to you.”

  She sighed. “Don’t you have any other feeling?”

  “I’m like men coming out of battle. They can’t change over, they feel lost to themselves, they drop to the ground, crying.”

  “Must you talk of the war? Your war?” She got off the bed and filling a glass with water, swallowed two tablets almost violently, then threw the rest of the water away. He heard her unlocking the chest in the corner by the window, saw her taking out a large book with millboard covers. Then she sat down, and using a knee for desk, began to write. He thought this was himself all over again. But age had sublimated the strain of selfishness in him. There was no jag to make her pregnant. No opposing masochism in her.

  Footfalls were coming up the stairs, between pauses. A man’s boots. Coming to see Laura? Perhaps she’s a tart, I’ll leave. Double knock on door. Laura capped her pen, shut the book, put it under an arm and in stocking’d feet went to the door.

  “I hope you don’t mind my coming,” said the voice of Piers. “Couldn’t stand the snoring in O’Callogan’s annexe. May have been my own.” He saw Phillip. “Ah, already at roost, I see. What’s the book, Laura?”

  “My one and only true companion, the love of my life.”

  Phillip got off the bed and reached for his shoes. “I must be going. I’ve got to deliver an article tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh no, you’re too tired! I can sleep on the floor,” said Laura.

  “How about going back to my flat? Plenty of room there, if you don’t mind American food packs and medals lying about,” said Piers.

  “I really must go,” said Phillip.

  “In that case, I’ll take the bed,” replied Piers.

  When Phillip was gone Piers pulled Laura to him and then began an imitation of a man supposedly in love, so that she turned away from his face and then wished she hadn’t because he began to cry. His mental rupture changed with her compassion, and thereafter she submitted to a variant of mental lust; and then, caught up by frantic despair, felt erotic and tried to enliven him. When he stopped her to ask if she had any brandy, she felt revulsion.

  “I haven’t any brandy.”

  “Then whip me!”

  “No, not that,” she said, and turning him on his side, lay against his back, saying, “Try and sleep. You’re exhausted.”

  Thus relieved of the fear of impotence he lifted her hand and kissed it. She felt a stir of desire at the tenderness but lay still, her thoughts on Phillip. When Piers began to snore she moved slowly off the bed, and wrapping her gown around her, lit a candle and began to write a letter.

  *

  Piers was still snoring when she returned from posting the letter, two hours later. She did not mind the snoring; Phillip would get the letter at his Club by the second post that morning, it had caught the 4.30 a.m. collection, and if he was truly the one she had been waiting for, he would come to her.

  Thus, gentle within, Laura fell asleep.

  Chapter 4

  THREE LETTERS, ONE TELEGRAM

  Phillip looked in the card-room on the way to his bedroom, and found the professor still playing poker with his cronies. Trays of self-cremating cigarette stubs, piles of silver money, intent faces, cards. No-one spoke to him. He went on up to bed. Should he take back the letter from the porter’s lodge? Get it tomorrow; too tired. Bed in all his clothes; eyes shut tight against stare of light-bulb.

  In the morning three letters came up with the tea-tray.

  “My goodness,” said the night porter. “You’re not undressed. You looked a proper tired man when you came in last night. Did you find your friend? You did. Good for you.”

  My Dear Brother Barbarian Maddison,

  Thank you for your letter. It is true, I suppose, that there are considerable Russian forces mobilised in Europe, east of central Berlin. May I, however, suggest one point that you appear to have missed. The Western powers have the atom bomb and Stalin hasn’t.

  At the same time, I have little sympathy for those who misled our late enemies. When British parachutists, the maternal relatives of patriotic young Frenchmen, and others, have been tortured and shot; when prisoners-of-war, notably several R.A.F. pilots, were likewise shot after recapture, having escaped from a certain Stalag—then I hold, with all good soldiers, including many in the Wehrmacht, that these are acts of murder, and that the perpetrators should be brought to justice.

  A Committee member has asked me to confirm certain statements alleged to have been made by you last night at the dinner table. I told him that you did not say what is alleged, in my hearing: I told him that one-sidedness is a vice of great virtue; and that the war has been fought and won for free expression of opinion.

  Ever yours,

  Bruno da S. Hendrade

  Phillip opened very carefully the next envelope. Every aspect of it was suddenly precious.

  Old Compton Street.

  My Prospero!

  Physicians can often save others when they can’t look after themselves, so this. You are in the low state of a shrinking icicle and all cold thoughts are bogus in that they are not of the stream of spring-water but stagnant, enslaved, abysmal. You—and I—we all—Europeans—Asiatics—soon-to-be Africans—Americans—Russians—have had a hell of a time and feel all to hell and death or revenge the only forked ways forward.

  I am a dark soul but I go to the light, you a bright soul sometimes, filling me with terror and darkness, being not so well just now, but nothing considering what you’ve had to bear. Mine was a mere high temperature and pain for a few days, my head a battered ram, and leaching away tears at the slightest bit of poetry or some sad tale of the death of loyal soldiers and sailors since there are almost no more kings, as thou knowest, O my Prospero, Shakespeare’s loveliest creation.

  Will you come and eat something with me in my shepherd’s hut, you said. Yes please. Irish blue eyes and the youngest face I know. Fifty you said, sixteen I thought. Then God, what am I doing, looking into Prospero’s fathoms-deep sea? I willed you to look at me in the Medicean, for I recognised you from the Wooltod Inn meeting all those long years ago, when I said, That is the man. Since then I’ve given to others but never given myself. Please be kind to me this time. You were so hard and away when I saw you on your farm, but no longer. Gentleness, mutual gentleness. Relief. But what sort of a girl am I now. Can I be Ariel again, I who am also Kundry? And you see with paradise clearness. That’s a phrase from your very first letter to me, written in 1939, urging me to write. Learn to see all things with paradi
se-clearness, you said. Are you still in love with Melissa? Am I being non-paradisaical, impertinent? I feel no reserve whatsoever with you. But you are so young, and I am so OLD. Tell me, I beg of you, where do you get the dye for your hair? Such soft hair, so beautifully white. I must dye mine, too. Some said in Ypern, my village, I was a black witch. Am I? To be burned at some stake? I have always, as Francis Thompson wrote in his Shelley essay, burned at the stake of my own heart. But now the fire warms, no longer scorches. I shall dye white my black witch’s hair, it shall turn white overnight through courage, which is, you told me, love. Comradeship equates with the social instinct, the centre is personal love, I’ll come any time you want me and serve you in your shepherd’s hut on the moor. And we’ll have a routine, never meet until noon every day. At night I’ll creep up to you from the foot of your bed and slither away at dawn while you are still sleeping. And write my prose, and you yours, so we won’t fight through frustration and try and Calibanise each other. Have you a bit of wild heather near, where I can lie and hear the lizards and mice creeping about? I’ll go barefoot and cook for you, or you for me sometimes to give balance. Only I can’t do arithmetic, you must do your own accounts and taxes and all that. I don’t expect you to love me now, so don’t try, you’ve been so long in the wilderness. You are almost all saint. But you mustn’t let the tears drip so much. I do, I know, but you mustn’t. I’ll look after you, and guard you, but please never shout at me or I’ll die.

  Piers said you had been an awfully good friend to him and I can see how you are about half of one another to each other, but not more. He is not a steady boy just now, but will recover.

  Darling, it may be a difficult time for us both, we are as it were both reprieved. O Phillip, my Prospero, you are such a fine person. Lucky me. Yours for ever and ever, Laura.

  River Cottage,

  Drakenford,

  Dorset.

  Dear Phillip,

  I am writing to tell you that our Father is very ill and has had an operation which confines him to a nursing home near here. Will you please come down as soon as you can and help me prepare for the worst. I read in the paper that you have given up your farm, so I am sending this to your club in the hope of reaching you as soon as possible.