By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  Chapman came in, after knocking discreetly. ‘Mr Cate has called, my lord. He’s in the Constable Room.’

  ‘Bring him up.’ Chapman went out and Hoggin looked at his wife. ‘At last he’s going to tell us. But what the hell can we say?’

  ‘We don’t have to say anything, Bill,’ she said, ‘except that we understand … that we will support him and Stella, whatever they decide to do.’

  Daily Telegraph, Saturday, October 12, 1918

  BEYOND THE MEUSE

  AMERICANS ADVANCE

  American Army (France), Thursday (Noon)

  There is, at last, progress to report along the whole front, and our line now extends for some miles beyond the Meuse. The operations on that flank for pushing the Boche away from the river were designed with skill and daring, and have proved entirely successful, and the result of the attack has been to thrust back the battle-line to the position it occupied when the Germans launched their formidable offensive against Verdun in 1916. The heights of the Meuse narrow down to a mere bottle-neck where our front of yesterday joined it. And it was this narrowness that created the difficulties of attack, the southern front being so short and the western covered by the river …

  The risk was run, and an American unit was sent across the Meuse to Remiville …

  Cate read on. He was in his study, reading newspapers some days old, because now at last he could concentrate; for he had told his world what it had a right to know. This had swept out the murk which had occupied his mind these last ten days. Only one person remained who must be told: Stella’s husband, John Merritt.

  After a while he put the newspapers aside, and went upstairs. Stella was sitting up in bed feeding the baby, which was dark brown, with short straight silky black hair, greeny-grey eyes, and high cheek bones.

  Cate sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched the baby’s back, as it dug both tiny brown hands into Stella’s white breast, gasping and gurgling in its hunger.

  He said, ‘Yesterday, I told all our relatives about the baby’s colour. How shall we tell John? Do you want to wait till he comes home?’

  Stella did not look well, nor did he feel that she was really present. The small doses of the drug that were being administered to her seemed to keep her in this state; but the doctor had warned him that unless action was taken to cure her of her addiction, larger doses would soon be needed; and larger doses had other dangers, involving increased psychological and physical addiction.

  She said, her voice small and hoarse – ‘I don’t know … He should not be surprised … There were all sorts of men by the docks, where I was …’

  Cate said, ‘I think I’ll go to Virgil Kramer – he’s still Secretary of Embassy – and see if he can somehow get a personal private message out to John by hand. If he cannot, then I think it would be best to wait.’

  ‘All right,’ Stella said. She glanced down at the feeding baby with lacklustre eyes.

  Cate steeled himself – ‘And, Stella, the doctor says that the baby must be weaned within a week. Otherwise it will start to get addicted, through your milk.’

  ‘All right,’ Stella said again.

  Chapter 14

  London: October, 1918

  ‘Sweete Themmes runne softly,’ Guy Rowland murmured, stretching back in his chair, cup of tea in hand. It was a lovely warm afternoon of autumn, the plane trees dropping crisp brown leaves along the Embankment, the river flowing softly, as Spenser had begged it, towards the sea; but the tide had only just turned and soon the current would be a swarming, rushing of waters, carrying out under the arches of Westminster Bridge the barrels and flotsam, and pulling the barges fast down towards the Pool and the lower reaches.

  Guy, in the new blue uniform of a major of the Royal Air Force, was having tea on the terrace of the House of Commons with his grandfather, Harry Rowland MP. He had been back in England a week, officially posted home to bring the Air Ministry up to date on the experience of the squadrons actually facing the enemy; but, he knew, in reality relieved of command of the Three Threes. He had been proposing to wear his old RFC uniform, as officers of the Royal Air Force were entitled to do; but the Chief of the Air Staff, Sir Frederick Sykes, would not hear of it; and had ordered him to have a uniform made at once. It was important, the general said, that the public should come to recognise and accept the new uniform, and no better way to do that than to have it worn by a man entitled to put up the ribbons of the VC, the DSO, and the MC. It was a bright pale blue, somewhat Ruritanian, but that didn’t bother Guy because he really didn’t care what it, or he, looked like. The killing of von Rackow had numbed him. That was why the wing commander had sent him home, with his score at 66. It would not grow any bigger. Mick Mannock would remain the top British ace, as Richthofen would be the German, von Rackow close behind him – all three dead.

  A heavyset man in a frock coat stopped by their table and held out his hand, ‘I’m Carson … This must be your nephew, Guy Rowland.’ Guy was on his feet, shaking the proffered hand. Carson was saying, ‘We’re all proud of you. After the war, if you want to come to Ulster, Ulster’s yours … member of our parliament, a good job with one of the shipbuilding firms, anything.’

  He moved on, nodding. Guy sat down again. His grandfather said, ‘He thinks you’d be a counter to your Aunt Margaret. He knows all about her … talked to me about her the other day.’

  Another man stopped beside the table – ‘Good afternoon, Rowland. May I be introduced to the young hero? No, no, please don’t stand up, either of you.’

  Harry sank back – ‘Guy … Mr Winston Churchill, the Minister of Munitions … Major Guy Rowland.’

  Churchill said, ‘Congratulations on your magnificent achievements, young man. Thanks to you, and others like you, we’re on the last lap … at last. What are you proposing to do with yourself after the war?’

  Guy said, ‘I don’t know, sir. I haven’t thought.’

  ‘Well, think. How old are you … twenty-one, twenty-two? We need young men like you in the councils of this country, sir. Men of action as well as of intellect. Men to translate verbiage into deeds. Men to unify the diverse energies of the nation and harness them towards a future even greater than our glorious past. Anything you may want to do, or have, is within your reach. You may count on my full support to get it for you. And I am not without some small influence in industry as well as politics … some small influence.’ He chuckled, lifted his cigar and moved on.

  Harry said, ‘I hope you don’t mind being shown off a bit. We’re all so numbed by the war that a real hero is as good a tonic as a beautiful young woman might have been in our younger days, eh, eh?’ A waiter brought them a second plate of buttered crumpets. Harry took one, leaned back, and said, ‘Well, Guy, if you really have no idea what you want to do, consider this’ – he waved his hand at the towering facade of the Houses of Parliament. ‘As you know, I am going to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds as soon as the next election is announced. Why do you not stand in my place?’

  Guy said slowly, ‘I hadn’t thought of it, Grandfather … I suppose I could do the job, if I were elected. It can’t be too difficult, seeing …’

  ‘Seeing what asses do become MPs,’ his grandfather finished for him. ‘Quite right!’

  ‘But … just now, it’s impossible for me to think of anything with enthusiasm.’

  ‘Stale,’ Harry said, nodding. ‘That’s natural. You were out over two years, weren’t you … heaven knows how many aerial combats … sixty-six kills, not counting balloons …’

  ‘But including von Rackow,’ Guy said.

  ‘But you couldn’t help it,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve told me, it was an accident … a terrible accident, as you’d promised yourself not to attack him, but an accident just the same.’

  ‘Was it?’ Guy said. ‘I keep thinking back. All night I lie awake, seeing that Triplane dart out of the cloud across my front … The pilot’s hand came up in a wave almost at once … my thumb was on the trigger, but an idea
was in my head, two ideas – Why is he waving? Can it be Werner? … Simultaneously, it’s a German, fire or he’ll get away into the other cloud mass … But which came first? Did I fire deliberately, because I need to kill, knowing in my heart of hearts that it was von Rackow?’

  Harry put his hand over his grandson’s and said, ‘You mustn’t think about it, my boy. You mustn’t …’ A shadow fell across the table and both men rose. The Prime Minister was standing beside them, a sheaf of papers in his hand, his heavy mane of hair stirring in the soft breeze. ‘You’re Rowland,’ he said. ‘Harry here’s grandson … Do you think there should be a separate air force or not?’

  Guy said, ‘Yes, sir. The air covers the land and the sea. Airmen think and see differently. The air force would not be thought of as just another arm, like artillery. If you’ve grown up in it, you are three-dimensional.’

  ‘H’m … See Smuts when you have time. Tell him I sent you to have your brains picked. Anything you want?’

  Guy said nothing, not understanding. The Prime Minister said impatiently, ‘Job? Medal? Promotion? Travel? … I’ll send you round America if you like … lots of pretty women eager to get into your bed, parties all the time, and it won’t cost you a penny.’

  ‘No, thank you, sir,’ Guy said. ‘I’m just … tired.’

  The Prime Minister nodded and walked rapidly away along the terrace.

  A bachelor gay am I tho’ I’ve suffered from Cupid’s dart

  But never I vow will I say die, In spite of an aching heart

  For a man always loves a girl or two, tho’ the fact must be confessed

  He always swears the whole way thro’ To every girl he tries to woo,

  That he loves her far the best.

  The singer flung out his arms and swung into the chorus, everyone in Daly’s Theatre humming with him; for this song from Freddie Lonsdale’s musical comedy The Maid of the Mountains was as well known as ‘Tipperary’:

  At seventeen he falls in love quite madly

  With eyes of a tender blue.

  At twenty-four he gets it rather badly

  With eyes of a different hue.

  At thirty-five you’ll find him flirting sadly

  With two or three or more.

  When he fancies he is past love,

  It is then he meets his last love,

  And he loves her as he’s never loved before.

  Guy’s companion in the box was a tall young woman with a placid face and deep, dark blue eyes, Helen Rowland – née Lady Helen Durand-Beaulieu. She and Guy had known each other all their lives, though Helen was five years older. Guy knew that she had borne his cousin Boy’s baby, and had gone to call on her on his second day in London. She was living in a poky little house in Soho, though large enough for Helen, the baby, and Ethel Fagioletti (née Stratton), who owned the house, and worked for Helen in her Mayfair boutique. He had persuaded Helen to come out to the theatre with him; and she had agreed. He was wearing uniform, unwillingly, but General Sykes had given him a flat order to wear it on all occasions … and so, on arrival to claim the stall seats the Keith Prowse people had got for him, the theatre manager took one look at the ribbons on his chest and escorted them instead to this box, over the stage on the prompt side.

  Helen leaned across and whispered in his ear, ‘What colour are your love’s eyes?’

  Guy muttered back, ‘That’s a secret.’

  ‘Do you still see Florinda? You used to spend all your time with her, when you were ten. I was fifteen and despised boys, and thought love was stupid … but I suspected you of being in love with her.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her this time,’ Guy said. ‘I read all the time about her with Billy Bidford, so …’

  ‘She couldn’t have been seen with you while you were in France, could she? You ought to call on her. She’s in the phone book … She’s been to see us a couple of times. She’s nice, really nice.’

  Then they were quiet for a time, and stayed in their box during the intervals as Guy could not face the mobbing he knew he would receive if they went to the bar. As the end of the show approached he began to fidget and glance over his shoulder … they could get away now, and no one would notice; but Helen was enjoying herself so much, her face rapt, her chin cupped in her hands. Too late … the cast was lining up. A spotlight was turned suddenly on to their box and the whole of the cast was facing them. The leading lady stepped forward, holding a single large chrysanthemum to her breast. She began to sing, directly at him, where he sat frozen, barely fifteen feet from her.

  At seventeen I fell in love quite madly with eyes of a tender blue.

  At twenty-four I got it rather badly with eyes of a different hue.

  At thirty-five you found me flirting madly with two or three or more

  But when I fancied I am past love, It is now I’ve met my last love

  And I’ll love you as I’ve never loved before.

  She threw the chrysanthemum gently up into the box, where Guy instinctively caught it, then sank slowly into a deep curtsy, one hand to her breast. Marian de Forges was the darling of the musical comedy theatre, a good actress with a great voice, who could dominate powerful dramatic roles as easily as such mild fluff as this. She was of medium height, with flashing dark eyes, and probably of gypsy blood; no one knew her real name. She had never been married, though her name had been linked with half a dozen men’s, including King Edward VII in her youth, the Kaiser, King Alfonso III of Spain, and Toscanini.

  The theatre was on its collective feet, clapping and cheering. The building shook and swayed to the thunderous applause. ‘Stand up,’ Helen shouted, in his ear. ‘Bow.’

  Slowly he rose, the chrysanthemum in his hand. He saw the mouths open wide, heard the sounds, the orchestra, Marian de Forges singing, her arm raised … von Rackow’s arm raised, in salute, in death.

  The office was a shabby little place off Aldgate, a small old house that looked as if it might have been one of the survivors of the Great Fire of 1666, with three steps up to the front door and a small brass plate beside it, reading in a flowing script, Toledano’s, Bankers. Inside the door a narrow dusty passage led a long way towards the back of the house, which was surprisingly deep, with doors opening off to each side. Behind those doors, which were all shut, little old men sat on high stools, stooped over large ledgers, writing with quill pens dipped in pewter inkwells. An urchin of about fourteen, gawky in trousers and coat he had outgrown, sat on a chair in the passage reading The Boys’ Own Paper. He was the office boy and messenger. No women were employed at Toledano’s. At the very end of the passage, the door on the right looked no different from any of the others; but behind it was the private office of old Isaac Toledano, son of the founder of the bank, and its sole owner. He had a small table instead of a sloping desk like the clerks down the hall, and there was a telephone on the desk, which was otherwise all but empty. A seven-branched menorah decorated the mantelpiece; there was no fire in the grate below, the windows were grimy and in one place patched with brown paper. The room seemed barely large enough for the desk, the old man, and his visitor, a young man resplendent in Royal Air Force blue.

  Isaac said, ‘It ith good of you to come and see me.’

  ‘Glad to come, sir,’ Guy Rowland said. The old man must go out of his way, he thought, to look like a caricature of a Jew – curls like Disraeli was always shown wearing, a big hooked nose, a black hat he had only just taken off, when Guy was shown in by the office boy, and a black skull cap under it, frayed old black clothes. It was a wonder he was not wearing a medieval robe.

  ‘We have met before,’ Isaac said. ‘Speech Day at Wellington. 1911.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Guy was surprised the old man remembered. He himself remembered very well because it had been his first Speech Day and he had admired David Toledano for being, and showing himself, so obviously proud of the bizarre figure of his father. Most boys were acutely embarrassed by their parents, who, they thought, wore the wrong clothes, or greeted ush
ers in too friendly a manner, or walked on the sacred Turf; but if David cared, he didn’t show it.

  ‘Vell, David writes that you are a very bright young man and I would do well to employ you … Vot do you think vill happen to the world ven the war ith over? Vot vill people need?’

  Guy said slowly, ‘Reconstruction, first, sir, I think … roads, railways, houses, ships … But if there’s one thing the war has taught it is that man can’t compete with machines. In France, it was the machine-guns and artillery and tanks … but the artillery couldn’t have been supplied without lorries. And people are going to ask for more for themselves. I think that machinery will take over and …’

  ‘In what area of bithneth?’

  ‘Everywhere, sir … manufacture, retailing as far as possible, accounting, road making, shoe making, the lot.’

  ‘Vot about chemicals? Vill they grow?’

  ‘I suppose so … especially chemicals that are used in machine making … better chemicals. We use chemicals for practically everything, already, to make batteries, steel, porcelain for insulators, to dope the wings of aircraft …’

  ‘Aircraft. I remember David telling me that he vos hoping to start a new aircraft-manufacturing company, with you as a test pilot, he called it, and some other boy as designer. Do you still think there vill be a great increase in the demand for aircraft, once the war ith over?’

  Guy said, ‘I wish I could say so … but I don’t see how it’s possible. I think we must have a British commercial airline at once, to fly regularly to all the big cities of Europe. But I don’t see how it can need many aircraft – yet.’

  Isaac nodded and stroked his pendulous lower lip – ‘The Americans are going to be very powerful when the war’s over. They will take over our markets – they are doing it now … unless we form companies big enough to fight them … You know Mond and Isaacs?’