Rule Britannia

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Excitement filled the air. Even Emma, who had felt rather superior before leaving home, and half-inclined to remain with Joe and Dottie, who had decided to stay behind, found the atmosphere stirring, somehow foreign, as though she was suddenly in Italy or Spain. All those marines, moving in and out among the local people, their uniforms, their faces, had a foreign cut about them—no, it wasn’t Italy or Spain, it was more like an old movie, an old Western, where there was talk of the “frontier,” and the Sailor’s Rest was the saloon bar with its swing doors. At any moment someone in a cowboy hat would come out with two guns slung in a low holster belt. Local youths, friends of Joe’s and Terry’s, called “’Lo, Emma” as they passed, and she said “’Lo” back to them, but she was used to them, they were just local boys, but these marines, they stared at her, they were… well, somehow aware. The look in their eyes, their slouching walk, the laugh and the nudge to one another, and the accent, it wasn’t like a great bunch of tourists visiting Cornwall, it was foreign, it was the swagger and appraisal of invaders, of conquerors. And somehow this wasn’t entirely displeasing.

  She felt someone touch her shoulder and it was Wally Sherman, the lieutenant—the name no longer quite so absurd—and then he put his arm through hers.

  “The boys have made a grand job of it, haven’t they?” he said, and he pointed towards the pile of driftwood.

  For a moment she was muddled, thinking he meant their boys, Mad’s boys, but of course he was alluding to the marines.

  “Yes, it’s terrific,” she replied. “I only hope the guy doesn’t collapse at once. My grandmother and Terry have been at work on it all afternoon. I wasn’t allowed to watch, needless to say. I imagine it’s dressed up in all the boys’ cast-off clothes, and my grandmother’s too.”

  “Where is your grandmother? I don’t see her, or the kids either.”

  He scanned the heads among the crowd behind, and so did Emma.

  “She was by the inn a moment ago,” she told him, “waiting for the Trembaths—those are our farmer friends. Terry and Mr. Trembath were bringing the guy down in the Land Rover belonging to the farm. Apparently it was too big to get into the boot of our car.”

  The lieutenant laughed. “Some guy,” he said, and then, steering Emma towards the fringe of the crowd, where the ground sloped away and the beach began, he murmured in a lower voice, “And some girl.”

  The thing is, thought Emma, if he wants to start something, which he obviously does, now is the moment either to fob him off or let it rip. The question being, what do I want? A few wet kisses and a mutual fumble, and will it have to happen every time we meet, because honestly… She glanced to her left and saw two figures in the shadows under the overhanging cliff—there was a handy cave nearby—who were obviously one stage further advanced in the universal game. Oh well, why not, and Wally put both arms round her and the clinch began. It made for stimulation, because of the crowds and the feeling of excitement. And then bang… crash… the first rocket went up in the air, splintering the sky, lighting up the world around, and everyone stopped what they were doing and said, “Ah…!”

  The lieutenant loosened his grip, the two figures to their left unclasped, and as the fragments of the rocket fell Emma saw that one of them was Myrtle Trembath, Terry’s girlfriend, and the other Wally’s subordinate, Corporal Wagg. All four suffered a simultaneous shock of recognition but feigned ignorance, the corporal with tact born of experience leading his prey yet further towards the cave, amid giggles and protests, but Emma, stuffing both hands into her anorak pockets, was aware of a sudden feeling of reluctance, of distaste. What she had been allowing to happen wasn’t exciting at all, it was off-putting, cheap, and she couldn’t decide whether the distaste had come about because of seeing Myrtle doing the same thing, which she knew was a snobbish reaction, or because Corporal Wagg and Lieutenant Sherman—Wally—had both taken the girls for granted and it was held to be one of their perks, the dues, to put it bluntly, of territorial occupation.

  “Come on,” she said briefly, “we’d better rejoin my lot,” and she began to walk away out of the sand onto the firmer ground with the lieutenant saying nothing, just stumbling in her rear, and all the while the rockets and the showering stars kept blazing overhead.

  It was certainly a fine display—the marines had done them proud. There were blue stars and red stars and green stars and white stars, the whole mass showering down upon the upturned faces of the watching crowd. It lasted a full twenty minutes and then slowly began to peter away, as is the nature of all firework festivals, and heads turned towards the bonfire which, once lighted, would become the grand finale to the evening’s entertainment.

  “There’s your grandmother,” said the lieutenant, “standing over there with the little boys.” He realized he had somehow boobed, and he wanted to make amends.

  “So she is,” replied Emma with relief, and to show she bore no ill feelings she linked arms once again with her companion. “And there’s Terry,” she added. “He’s got Andy with him, and some of his friends from the technical school. They’re carrying something pretty big, it must be the guy.”

  It all happened very quickly. One moment the half-dozen boys were walking across the piece of waste ground bearing their load, and the next the stuffed figure was straddling the top of the driftwood pile, fixed firmly in position. It stood about six foot high, and it was not stuffed with Terry’s or Joe’s worn-out clothes, it was dressed as a soldier, in camouflage jacket and tin hat, with imitation rifle at the ready, and Emma, catching her breath, remembered the old dressing-up box that had lain stored in the basement for years, holding relics of heaven only knew what timeless past.

  “Your grandma’s sure gone to town this time,” said Wally, in a tone half respectful, half ominous. “Where in the name of Moses did she raise that outfit, and what’s the little fellow going to do?”

  Ben was advancing, or rather marching, to the base of the pile. He carried a flare in his left hand. He stood still for a moment and saluted. Then he bent, put the flare to the bonfire and retreated six steps backwards. A gasp of admiration rose from the crowd, the locals admittedly, with cries from the women of, “Oh, the little dear, see the courage of him!” The marines were silent, crowding together on the fringe, ready to snatch the child from harm should any sparks from the fire blow towards him. As to the guy itself, well, if this was British humor, fair enough. But more was to come. Nobody had noticed that from the rear quarters of the soldier image protruded a USUK flag, and when the flames licked the seat of the guy’s pants the flag was revealed in all its glory. There was a splutter, and an explosion, and as the flag shot into the burning pile so a rocket blew with tremendous force from the guy’s backside, and the guy itself toppled over into the flames.

  The roar of laughter that rose with the rocket and followed it as it burst must have rung, as Jack Trembath said afterwards, from one side of the Cornish coast to the other, but best of all, he declared, was the sight of that little black fellow standing so solemnly at attention, for all the world like a general at a saluting base, and after that the expression on the face of the Marine Commander, who had arrived just in time to watch the finale.

  Then, as parents and the middle-aged moved away, still wiping tears of laughter from their eyes, making for their cars parked outside the Sailor’s Rest or starting to walk back to Poldrea along the beach road, another series of explosions filled the air. Minor ones, it is true, but effective enough. Some joker had thrown lighted fireworks into Colonel Cheeseman’s staff car—his driver had evidently had his back turned to watch the bonfire—and there was a hiss and a splutter, and a smell of burning as the fireworks flared inside.

  “Now see here,” said Lieutenant Sherman, letting go of Emma’s arm, “this just isn’t funny, it isn’t funny at all,” and he started running towards the car, followed by a handful of marines. The scuffle started when a marine saw a youth bending down to tie a shoelace and, thinking he was lighting up more fireworks, booted
him over into the gutter. A yell of protest rose from the youth’s friends. Somebody picked up a stone and threw it haphazard. Unfortunately it smashed a window of the staff car. Then a bunch of marines charged, scattering people right and left. Women screamed, an old man was knocked over, and the tables and chairs outside the Sailor’s Rest went flying in all directions. Mr. Libby, white to the gills, tried to shepherd his clients inside the inn for safety.

  “It’s those damn hooligans of boys,” he kept saying. “It’s not the marines at all. They deserve to be shot, the whole bloody lot of them.”

  Men were clutching their womenfolk and children. Stray dogs, already frightened by the fireworks, barked and ran across the road. There were shouting and whistling and angry voices raised, more scuffling and thumping between the marines and a further bunch of boys, and then somebody started throwing not stones but sand, the loose, gray-brown sand that was the feature of Poldrea beach from end to end. In a moment the sand was flying through the air, without point or purpose, blinding the eyes, filling nose and throat. It was chaos. It was hell.

  “Mad,” shouted Emma, “Mad,” and she ducked her head to avoid the shower of sand flung by some boys. “Andy,” she called, “Colin, Ben…” but they were nowhere to be seen, nor her grandmother either. There was nothing but a swaying crowd, bewildered, angry, none of them knowing why they were angry except that somebody said an old person had been knocked down, a child had been smothered, a dog had been run over… And all the while the remains of the bonfire glowed and spluttered, while the blackened tin hat of the guy hung from the iron spike that had formed its base.

  “You all right?”

  It was Mr. Trembath, his hair blowing, a great smear of dirt on his left cheek, his raincoat torn, and he put his arm round Emma and gave her his own handkerchief to wipe the sand out of her eyes.

  “Oh, thank heaven for you,” she said, clinging to his arm. “Where’s my grandmother, where are the boys?”

  “Don’t worry,” he told her, “they’re safe in your grandmother’s car behind the Sailor’s Rest. I’m going to drive you home, then come back for my own family.”

  He led her past the gauntlet of onlookers to the car park. Mad was sitting in the front seat, and the four boys, Andy, Sam, Colin and Ben, were packed together in the back. Mad was smoking a cigarette. She hadn’t smoked for twenty years. Directly she saw Emma she threw the cigarette away, out of the open window of the car.

  “Oh, darling,” said Emma, near to tears, “I’ve been so worried about you. I called and called, and there wasn’t a sign.”

  “We did the same,” replied Mad briefly, “and when someone shouted that a girl had been knocked down I feared it was you. All over now. Jump in, you’ll have to sit on my lap, you’ve done it before in days gone by. Mr. Trembath, I’m more than grateful to you. Shall we go?”

  Neither had reckoned on the roadblock, and instead of one sentry to examine passes there were four, and an officer in charge. The crowds by the beach were quieter now, but no one was permitted to leave without a rigorous examination of their passes. Men and youths had to turn out their pockets, women and girls their handbags.

  The officer by the barricade examined the yellow ticket on the windscreen of the car. Then he asked for the adults’ passes. Then the names and addresses of everyone else in the car. Tonight Mad allowed Jack Trembath to answer for her and give the details.

  “Out of the car, please,” commanded the officer. “We want to search it.”

  No one said anything as they all got out. The officer stood by while two of his men turned up the seats of the car, examined the pockets, lifted the floor rug, and finally inspected the boot.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Jack Trembath.

  “Explosives,” replied the officer. “O.K., you may go.”

  They climbed back into the car and the farmer started up the engine.

  “Explosives!” he exclaimed. “Where in the world would we find explosives? Weren’t we asked to their darn firework party?”

  “Perhaps,” said Mad, “according to their way of thinking fireworks are explosives. They can use them but we can’t.”

  “That’s about the size of it,” replied Jack Trembath. “Well, I’ll say one thing. We may all have had a bit of a scare just now when things turned ugly, but when the guy exploded in the hindquarters I had the biggest laugh I’ve had in years. And the Yanks didn’t like it either.”

  He began laughing again as he turned off the road and into the drive, and when he set the party down before the house he said to Mad, “Don’t worry about that practical joker Terry. I’ll pick him up directly when I pick up Myrtle. He can sleep at my place tonight and bring your car back in the morning.”

  It was not until he had driven out of sight up the drive that Emma remembered Myrtle had not been with Terry, but with the corporal on the beach. After the fireworks started both had disappeared towards the cave, and during the mêlée that followed anything could have happened. Should she tell Mad, or wasn’t it her concern? Mad went into the cloakroom to take off her boots, and the boys ran excitedly into the kitchen to give an account of the evening to Joe and Dottie. All but Andy, who appeared thoughtful.

  “What’s on your mind?” asked Emma.

  Andy looked up at her, mischief lurking in his soft brown eyes. “I know why they searched the car,” he said.

  “Oh why, pray?” Emma knew that the word “pray” following upon a question often elicited information, if spoken severely.

  “They were looking for gely, not fireworks,” he answered.

  “But we haven’t got any gelignite.”

  “No, but Terry knows where to get it. Some of his friends work up at the clay pits and they know where it’s kept.”

  He stuck his hands in his pockets and smiled, then strolled off to the kitchen after the smaller fry. Emma waited for her grandmother to come out of the cloakroom. She looked exhausted, and small wonder.

  “You,” said Emma firmly, “are for bed.”

  “I know, I know.” Mad stretched out her arms and made for the stairs. “A very satisfactory evening’s work, but for the mess-up at the end. So typical of those marines to lose their heads just because someone threw a few harmless fireworks into Colonel Cheesering’s car. No sense of humor.”

  “It wasn’t just the car,” protested Emma. “Somebody started throwing stones, and then sand and gravel. You can’t blame the marines.”

  Her grandmother paused from halfway up the stairs. “The only thing I regret is that Martha Hubbard wasn’t on the beach beside me and the Colonel when Terry’s rocket shot into the air from the guy’s behind. She would have wanted to know what motivated the action.”

  She disappeared to her bedroom humming a song at least thirty years old. Emma went into the kitchen. Sounds of protest from the little boys’ bedroom suggested that Dottie was scrubbing their faces before putting them to bed. Andy had gone to his lair. Only Joe and Sam remained, and Sam was still giving Joe an account of all that had happened… “Madam was worried ’bout Emma,” he was saying, “but Colin told her not to worry, he had seen Emma go off with that lieutenant ages before the fireworks started.”

  Both boys looked up as Emma came into the room. Sam’s cross-eyes seemed to be staring at some point above their heads.

  “Isn’t it time you were in bed?” she asked.

  “Yes, Emma. I’m just going. I was only thanking Joe for seeing to the squirrel and the pigeon.”

  Why, though, did Joe have to look at her in that strange accusing way? Why did his clear gray eyes make her feel younger suddenly, rather than two years his senior? Instead of staying behind with Dottie he might at least have come with the rest of them to Poldrea beach and kept an eye on Terry. Usually, before going to bed, she and Joe would sit up to see one of the late programs, or they would go over the events of the day, laugh at the misdeeds of the younger boys, plan chores for the following morning. This was before the coming of the marines and the state
of emergency. Everything had changed since then, and now tonight…

  “Well, I’m off,” she said. “Turn out the lights.”

  As she went out of the kitchen she knew he was standing there still, staring after her, that baffled, wounded expression in his eyes. Anyone would think… anyone would think… what? It’s absurd, she thought, he’s just one of the boys, a makeshift for the brother I never had.

  Emma slept badly, her night a turmoil of stupid dreams. She was arm-in-arm, and then in a clinch, neither with Wally Sherman nor with Joe but with the guy in the tin hat, and, waking early, she went downstairs to make herself a cup of coffee. It couldn’t have been much after seven, it was barely starting to get light, and suddenly the telephone began ringing in the cloakroom. She rushed through to answer it, because it would be ringing also beside her grandmother’s bed upstairs, and Mad hated answering the telephone unless she knew who it was and before she was properly awake.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Is that Emma?” came the voice. “It’s Jack Trembath here. Look, my dear, I don’t want to make your grandmother anxious, but Terry never turned up last night. Myrtle was waiting for me down on the beach, and she said she hadn’t seen him all the evening, except when he and his friends put the guy on the bonfire. We all came back home, and we thought Terry would turn up—you know what the young people are, they have this understanding—but he never appeared. Is he with you?”