by John Masters
The party moved on. A man with one arm and a permanent frown, his teeth half-bared, was working ferociously at his task, at twice the speed of the men to his flanks, as though trying to do as quickly with one hand what they were achieving with two. Willum, hovering in his wheelchair by the group, said, ‘That’s Meadows, sir. One of ours, he was. Wealds. Lost his arm at Passchendaele.’
‘I’m Lord Walstone,’ Walstone said, reaching out with his hand to shake Meadows’s good left hand – ‘P’raps you know me better by my regular moniker, before His Majesty made me a peer … Bill Hoggin.’
‘Hoggin!’ Meadows cried, dropping Walstone’s hand as though he had found a scorpion in it. ‘Hoggin, of Hoggin’s Plum and Apple Jam? Hoggin’s Bully Beef? Hoggin’s Meat and Potato Stew?’
‘The same,’ Hoggin said proudly.
‘Hoggin’s Pig Swill!’ Meadows said viciously, ‘except that the stuff you was sending us was ’ardly fit for even pigs to eat. I’d give my other arm to have ’ad you in the trenches with us, eating what you was making us eat.’
Lord Walstone sputtered and turned red in the face. A few other men at the table were murmuring, ‘That’s right! Hoggin’s wasn’t fit for pigs!’
Lady Walstone, née Ruth Stratton, cried, ‘Please … listen … I’m Lady Walstone, Bill’s wife … Ruth Stratton that was. Any of you from round here will have known my dad, Bob, who was killed in the factory explosion in August ’17 … When the war began, my husband was no more than a barrow boy, and he had me to feed and a baby on the way. He did some things he wouldn’t do now, and he’s sorry … he’s come here now to tell you so … by helping to pay for this’ – she waved her hand round the building – ‘by doing all he can to help Sir Guy and Lady Rowland help you. We all suffered in the war. We’ve got to forget all that, only remember that we were in it together, and we’re going to stay together to help each other now.’
Meadows, on his feet, his lips pursed, slowly relaxed. At length he said, ‘Sorry … Reckon if you hadn’t made the money, somehow, I’d be playing a mouth organ in High Street.’ He stuck out his good hand. Walstone took it and shook heartily.
They were sitting in chairs round the desk in Guy’s office, which he shared with Florinda. Lord Walstone said ruefully, ‘That bloke really had his knife into me. I was only doing my best. If it hadn’t been for me …’
His wife said, ‘We know, Bill. Everyone understands.’
Rachel Cohen said, ‘You seem to be off to a good start, Guy. There’s a good spirit, not too military … though I was wondering if it’s a good idea, or necessary, to have the Foundationers use their military ranks, or call the people in authority, “sir”.’
Her husband, Wilfred Bentley MP, said, ‘I didn’t hear much of that, Rachel … one fellow calling the man next to him “sergeant” … everyone calling Guy, “sir” … I think that’s reasonable.’
Guy said, ‘We thought we’d let them call each other, and us, whatever they feel like. We’re only really concerned that they flourish and expand here, and that no one prevents anyone else doing it … which means acceptance of some discipline, some rules. From their point of view, it’s a lot easier, and less formal than what they’ve known, either the discipline of a service, or the discipline of poverty.’
Bentley said, ‘I agree. And I agree that we’re off to a good start. I’ll keep a stream of MPs coming down to you, which will help if you need money, either from the town, or from us … I myself will be down, but not very often. I feel that I must devote all my energy to seeing that there is never again any need for a Foundation such as this. That there shall be no more war.’
Walstone said, ‘I thought we had a pretty good notion in that League of Nations … and then the Yanks went and pulled the plug on it. There’s no ’ope of it working without them – they’ve got all the money already, and soon they’ll have all the battleships and aeroplanes and guns and everything else.’
Bentley said, ‘That was a great pity – the American Senate’s rejection. I can’t help feeling that a lot of the fault lies with Mr Wilson. He thought he could prevail by sheer superiority – of intellect, of moral righteousness. It didn’t work with Clemenceau and Lloyd George, and finally it didn’t work with his own people … But I don’t agree that we are doomed without American help. The major danger spots are not in America, which apparently they intend to look after anyway, through the Monroe Doctrine … The biggest present danger is Russia.’
Rachel said sharply, ‘The Russians see their revolution threatened by capitalist counter-revolutionaries inside their country and by foreign interference outside.’
Lord Walstone said, ‘What are they marching into Poland for, eh?’
‘You can’t stand on the defensive if your enemies mean to destroy you,’ Rachel said. ‘They’ll retreat inside their own borders as soon as they feel safe. Socialists are opposed to all war, and once the working class is in power everywhere, they will see that there is none.’
‘In a pig’s eye, they will,’ Walstone muttered. ‘The Russians mean to shove their revolution down our throats, so the whole world will be singing the Red Flag.’
Bentley said soothingly, ‘Europe is very unstable. Russia is certainly a threat until she settles down and until the outside world stops regarding her as a dangerous beast escaped from its cage. But there have been revolutions everywhere – Austro-Hungary – the Kingdom of the Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes – Czecho-Slovakia … these new names still sound funny in my ears … Hungary, Poland … I personally think the biggest danger is Germany – humiliated, starving, its currency becoming worthless, saddled with impossible reparations. They were beaten, yes, beaten in the field, no doubt about that, but their men know they fought well, as well as anyone, better than most, against increasingly impossible odds. They have nothing to be ashamed of … Their pride will become a powder keg, waiting, growing more volatile, for years, decades perhaps … but if the right spark comes …’He shrugged, ‘The League of Nations will have to be very strong, and very wise, to contain that explosion … We must be going, Guy. I have a meeting with Keble-Palmer and Bert Gorse for lunch, about changes in Hedlington Aircraft … If there’s anything I can do for you at Westminster, you know I will.’
They all stood. Guy said, ‘And if there’s anything I can do … about your problem – war – ask me. Between us, the Governors of this Foundation know a lot about the subject, and we are all well known in our countries. If we speak together, with one voice, we will be heard.’
‘What am I to do about this?’ Louise Rowland said, passing over the long, official-looking envelope, with the Government of India stamp and the notation ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE. She found herself close to tears, and dabbed furtively at her eyes with her handkerchief. David Toledano took the envelope, and extracted the contents, which Louise had already read.
He said, ‘It’s a demand for 64 rupees 14 annas 4 pies from the Indian Ordnance Depot in Lucknow, on account of two pakhals lost on manoeuvres in 1914. It mentions a Court of Inquiry … so I suppose the Court found Boy responsible and said he had to pay.’
‘But he has … twice I think,’ Louise said. ‘He told me the last time he was here …’ The tears were streaming down her face now. ‘Then Quentin made him pay again.’
‘That’s true,’ Helen – now Lady Helen Toledano – said. ‘He told me, too, at the same time. He said the Indian Government was like an elephant, they never forget. But they were also like the Bourbons – they never remembered, either.’
‘This is too bad,’ David said. ‘But if he has paid … don’t do anything. I know what the army’s like. Some day the facts will trickle down to the right clerk … and you’ll get back the overpayment that Boy made. In the middle of the next war, probably.’
Louise dried her tears – ‘Don’t talk about the next war,’ she said. ‘I know there’s not going to be peace for ever, but I don’t want to think about the next war.’ She looked across at Helen; she too had wept a little just
now but her young face had recovered, and she looked serene, almost no trace of pink at her eye. She was wearing black, in mourning for her father. They were four at the lunch table; herself, David and Helen, and little Frances Enright, now foreman at the farm; Joan Pitman, Addie Fallon, and Carol Adams, the other Land Army girls, had gone, two to get married, one to look after aged parents. Two men had taken their places, both married and living in Walstone. Young Boy was upstairs, eating his lunch in the day nursery with the new Nanny.
Louise said, ‘I could leave tomorrow, you know, really.’
Helen said, ‘Please, we’d be miserable if you weren’t here to share Christmas with us.’
‘But on your honeymoon …’
‘It’s the best honeymoon we could dream of,’ Helen said. ‘Being back at High Staining, knowing we’re going to live the rest of our lives here – and bring up young Boy here, where he belongs … and which will belong to him. And with Frances … we went through a lot together in the war, didn’t we? And we’ve never really had the time to, well, sort of have a communion over it. I wish Joan and Addie and Carol were here.’
Frances mumbled something and looked down at her plate; but Louise knew she was deeply moved.
David said, ‘We’re going to put lights all round the house, Aunt Louise … all round the eaves, over the roofs, everywhere … little oil lamps of clay, with wicks in them.’
Louise looked puzzled. She said, ‘I remember Quentin telling us the Hindus did something like that, for some holy day, in India … I can’t remember the name of it.’
‘Well, this is Chanukkah,’ David said. ‘The Feast of Light in the Jewish calendar … it ends tomorrow … we were married during Chanukkah, of course … very lucky, and very beautiful … It’s nice when Christmas and Chanukkah come together.’ He stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going up to talk with Young Boy. He ought to learn early that men, too, have a right to go into the nursery … and like to.’ He leaned over and kissed his wife on the top of the head. ‘By the way, have you entered him for school yet?’ Helen shook her head. He said, ‘I’ll do it then – Wellington, I suppose?’
‘Of course. The Beresford, like his Uncle Guy … and his father. And his stepfather.’
Probyn’s Woman stirred the big pot with a long twig. It had been peeled long ago so that the juices of the years, of chicken and mutton and carrot, barley and potatoes, tomatoes and onions, had steeped it, turning it from its original greeny white to a rich dark brown. The other woman in the cottage’s front room was in her thirties, wearing lisle stockings, a large would-be fashionable hat, and a little make-up. Her accent was ‘refeened’, that is, laboriously modified from its original Woman of Kent. She held a small package in her hand, a bundle of something wrapped in a twist of newspaper. She said, ‘Does it taste bitter? He has a very sweet tooth and will notice anything sharp.’
‘Try it before you give it to him,’ Probyn’s Woman said. ‘It won’t turn you into a man.’
The other woman simpered – ‘And I am to give it to him near bedtime, in something he likes … like a little whisky and soda?’
‘Or a cup of tea,’ the Woman said. ‘And mind you’re wearing pretty drawers, ’cos he’ll be on you like a bull.’
The other blushed, muttering, ‘I keep wondering if it’s another woman and he’s, you know, spending himself on her.’
‘Don’t you worry about no other women,’ the Woman said. ‘Just make yourself look nice, act nice, wear clothes what look like they’re for whores, and give him that. That’ll be two shillings.’
The woman handed over a florin and went out, muttering her thanks. Five minutes later another woman knocked. The Woman said, ‘Come in.’ This woman was in her twenties, but dressed remarkably like the first, and speaking in a remarkably similar accent, or non-accent. She said, ‘I’ve come to see you … because … my friend said I should see you because … I don’t know how to say it, but …’
‘You’re pregnant,’ the Woman said, ‘and you’re not married.’
‘That’s it,’ the other gasped with relief. ‘Five months.’
‘And the man won’t marry you?’
‘He’s gone … three months ago. I don’t know where. He hasn’t written or anything. Men are such brutes, and …’
‘Women are such ninnies,’ the Woman said. ‘I can’t help you. You’re too far gone.’ The younger woman began to weep silently, and the Woman’s voice softened a little, ‘Look, there’s lots of girls have babies with no husbands … war babies they was calling them till last year. A patriotic thing to do that was, then – make more soldiers to fight for England. Just have the baby and then tell your mum and dad. And get something to do … work.’
The woman stood up, fumbling in her purse for money. She found the required florin and handed it over.
The Woman said gruffly, ‘Keep it. You’ll need it. And next time, remember that florin’ll keep you from getting in the family way again. Guaranteed.’
‘How will it do that?’ the young woman said, astonished.
‘Hold it between your knees whenever you’re with a man,’ the Woman said.
Twenty minutes later another woman knocked. This one was in her forties, but once more remarkably similar to the first two in manner and dress. The Woman said, ‘You’re Mrs Fagg, and you want to hurt Mrs Graveney.’
The woman gasped, ‘But, how …?’
The Woman said, ‘None of your business. Tell me what you think, what you know.’
The client said, ‘She’s having an affair with my husband. One day I seen him, down by the Scarrow, with her. They were doing, you know …’
‘Fucking,’ the Woman said; the other winced, but nodded.
‘He came home two hours later, and told me he had been on overtime … She’s a … a bitch!’ She spat out the word. ‘Trying to take my George away from me. He’s weak, like all men, that’s what he is, and she’s …’
‘Fifteen years younger than you,’ the Woman said. ‘And knows how to make a man look at her, and think of what’s under her clothes.’
The woman said, ‘What should I do? Just go and tell her that I know … that I’ll …?’
‘That you’ll scratch her eyes out if she don’t stop it?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ the other cried.
Too la-di-da, the Woman thought, and she only a small grocer’s daughter from Headcorn. She said, ‘He’ll get tired of her soon enough. Men do.’
‘But she ought to suffer,’ the client cried.
The Woman left the big pot, went to a corner, rummaged in a box. She pulled out a rag doll, about six inches high, naked, and obviously female from the pointed breasts sewn on above and the large slit sewn in below. She said, ‘Take this home and keep it in a safe place. Every day, as the church clock is striking twelve, say six curses on her, with this in your hand. And six more at five o’clock in the evening. And after each lot of curses, stick a hatpin into the doll where you’d like to hurt Mrs Graveney. Don’t stick it into the heart, ’cos you might kill her, and then she’ll haunt you till you die.’
The woman took the doll, muttering, ‘And that will really hurt her?’
‘’Course,’ the Woman said. ‘Two bob and the cost of the doll, half a crown … four and six.’
The woman paid, slipped the doll into her handbag, and hurried out.
Probyn came in shaking himself like a dog out of water. ‘Trying to snow out there,’ he said, ‘… smells like Irish stew.’
‘It is. I made six and six this afternoon. There it is.’
Probyn whistled, pocketing the money – ‘Never thought you’d get these new folks coming to you, with their London ways. Think they know everything already, from books, I’d ’a said.’
The woman said, ‘They’re no different from the rest. To look at, and listen to, they are … with their smart, cheap clothes and trying not to speak like country folk … but underneath, when it comes to real things, they’re the same.’
&n
bsp; That’s right, when you come to think of it, Probyn thought. It’s the earth, and the water, and the air. Stood to reason they’d soon be the same as anyone else. This was Walstone earth, Kentish water, English air, and they were standing on it, drinking it, breathing it.
He sat down, and said, ‘I been teaching that young Rowland boy – Tim – how to cook a hedgehog. He’s going to be a good man in the woods and fields, soon, day or night.’
‘And his sister, the girl, Sally?’
Probyn growled, ‘Her? She’s going to be a whore, if you ask me. Like her mother, but more expensive, she having been brought up by the Rowlands.’
Richard Rowland, his wife Susan, and the three children, Sally, Tim, and little Dicky were decorating the Christmas tree in the back of the drawing-room at Hill House. ‘Santy Claws come tonight,’ Dicky crowed excitedly.
Sally looked in a knowing manner at Richard and said, ‘Yes, Dicky. Santa Claus will come tonight – down the chimney.’
‘Down chimney!’ Dicky cried in delight. He gazed at the fireplace where a coal fire burned. His brow furrowed – ‘Santy Claws burn hisself?’
Susan said, ‘He likes fire and smoke, Dicky. They don’t hurt him.’
They finished the job and Nanny came to take Dicky to his supper and bed. Tim said, ‘Probyn showed me how to cook a hedgehog, in clay, this afternoon, Daddy … How soon can I have a gun? A 410?’
Richard said, ‘You love the country, don’t you, Tim? Sit down … listen. We meant to wait till after Christmas to tell you, but perhaps we’d better do it now … We’re moving to London.’
‘To London!’ Sally cried, jumping to her feet, her eyes shining. She was a big girl, well-developed for her age of twelve, breasts pushing out her woollen sweater, the curve of her buttocks already those of a grown woman.
‘To London?’ Tim cried, horror in his voice. ‘But … I can’t shoot anything in London! There are no ferrets, no larks, no hares … nothing!’
Richard said, ‘You know I have left the factories here. But I’m only forty-nine and I can’t just sit back and do nothing. David Toledano has offered me a job at his bank, to do with industrial financing … finding out what firms need money, how much, what for, and how best to get it to them, with safety for the bank, and benefit to them. I will be consulting with David and industrial experts all the time, and I can’t do it from here … From London I can be in Birmingham in a couple of hours, and back the same afternoon. From here … four or five hours each way. So, we have to move.’