Rule Britannia

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Mad did not say anything for a moment. Then, “What exactly do you mean by trouble?” she asked finally.

  “Just that. They’re over here in force, you know. They won’t stand for any protest marches, demos, armchair critics getting up and shouting the odds at town hall meetings or on radio and television. This business is an enormous exercise in propaganda to impress a world audience, quite apart from its benefits to this country and to themselves. They lost face once, in southeast Asia, and they’re going to take damned care they don’t lose it again.”

  Emma glanced at her grandmother, then back to Pa. The expression on both faces was identical. Eyes narrowed, chins thrust forward. Together, she thought, they’d make a formidable pair to thwart, but apart, and on opposing sides…?

  “What’s our population?” Mad murmured. “Fifty, sixty million? You can’t keep a nation of sixty million people down.”

  “No,” replied her son, “because at least forty-five million, probably more, will welcome what’s happening. The tiny minority won’t count. If they try anything…” he snapped his fingers and pointed his thumb to the ground… “Finish. Out… So, my loved ones, keep cows and grow vines if you like, but don’t say stupid things in public or burn any more guys togged up as marines. By the way, when I switched on the car radio and heard your regional news, I gathered a commando stationed on Poldrea beach has been reported missing. Now, that’s the sort of thing I mean. If one of their chaps has come to harm, had a row, say, with a local after a couple of drinks in a pub, well, that local will be for it. And no kid glove method either. The Yanks are a tough lot when they’re roused.”

  Emma stared at her empty plate, then raised her eyes furtively to look at her grandmother. She was handing Folly the last morsel of Stilton cheese, which the Dalmatian rejected and spat out upon the carpet.

  “So were the Celts, when the Saxons invaded Cornwall,” said Mad. “Let’s go into the music room and listen to Tristan.”

  She led the way out of the dining room, while her son grimaced and shook his head. Emma went round the table, snuffing the candles. The pungent aftermath of smoking wick tainted the air.

  13

  It started blowing hard during the night, and by the time it was light a force seven gale was in progress. Slates clattered down from the roof, a tree fell in the shrubbery, the rain seeped in at the spare room window, and when Emma went to take her father an early cup of tea she found him sitting up in the four-poster bed, shielding himself from the draft with an open umbrella.

  “The appalling discomforts of this house,” he complained. “I haven’t slept a wink since six, I don’t know how you endure it. Why don’t you come back with me to London? I could take you on as secretary in my office, or as a P.A. I could do with a P.A., with all the pressure. We could fly together to Zurich…” He sipped his tea thirstily, like somebody deprived of sustenance for more than twenty-four hours. “Sit on my bed, I don’t see enough of you.”

  Emma perched cross-legged at the end of the bed that in days long past had been the central feature of one of her grandfather’s most successful comedies, in which Mad, naturally enough, had played the lead. The long run over, she had bought it for sentimental reasons.

  “You know I can’t leave Mad,” she said, “especially now, since all this hullabaloo. I do exercise a little restraint, though I admit not much.”

  “Then both of you come,” he urged. “Plenty of room at the flat, I’m out all day, she can do just as she likes, walk in Kensington Gardens, feed the ducks, go to the Zoo…”

  “Pa, darling,” Emma protested, “Mad isn’t Ben. Honestly… Far from walking in Kensington Gardens she would be more likely to stage a one-woman demo in front of the American Embassy or the Houses of Parliament. Chain herself to railings, or whatever suffragettes did at the beginning of the century.”

  “No problem,” said Pa, filling up his cup, “no problem. Certify her as being irresponsible, a menace to society. There’s a wonderful place in Surrey, food out of this world, color TV in every bedroom. Bobby Wilborough’s old mother is there, gives no trouble…”

  “Pa, you know you wouldn’t!” Emma hit her father’s leg under the bedclothes, making him spill his tea on the eiderdown.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” he exclaimed. “Dottie will think I have a shaky hand. What’s the matter with her, incidentally? Not the usual welcome. I suppose Mad gives her slave wages and expects to be waited on hand and foot. Her cooking’s gone off too, the fish last night was only fit for the cat.”

  “Oh, no…” His daughter hit him again.

  “Well, perhaps not the cat… The trouble is that standards become lower every mile you travel west, I’ve noticed it for years. Passable in Hampshire, shaky in Wiltshire, doubtful in Dorset, on the definite down-grade in Devon, and once you cross the Tamar you might as well be in Tibet—in fact, I would think conditions are superior in Tibet, especially with the Chinese in control.”

  Emma flounced off the bed. “I think you’re very unfair,” she said, “just because you’re always jetting it from capital to capital…”

  “I don’t jet it more than half a dozen times a year, my precious, I spend most of my life on a swivel chair at my office desk. But Tibet will change, Tibet will become civilized at last—by Tibet I am referring to Cornwall, of course. With the USUK Cultural-Get-Together movement we may even have our early morning tea piping hot instead of tepid.”

  She snatched the cup and saucer away from him.

  “No, no, no, give it back, give it back!”

  Reluctantly, she handed him the apparently despised brew, which had taken her down to the kitchen at an unearthly hour of the morning.

  “You don’t really take that Cultural business seriously, do you?” she asked.

  “Why not, why not? Oh, complete cock, of course, if you mean personally, between ourselves, but for the native, for the rural, the hoi polloi of your precious peninsula, it may well be their salvation. Industry is finished here, you see, no future, been declining for the past few years and totally dead under USUK. What you don’t understand is the fact that we are to become the playground of the Americas. They’re taking it very seriously indeed, in the States. The Americans won’t be encouraged to travel in Europe anymore—this is part of the USUK deal. Instead they’ll come here in search of the past. Canterbury Cathedral will take the place of St. Peter’s, York Minster will become Notre Dame, and every minor city in the country that can rustle up a fourteenth-century church and a few cobbled streets will be on the map, with the inhabitants tarted up in colored stockings and pointed shoes. We’ve had enormous fun working out the brochures. The Mid-Westerners will be here in droves.”

  Emma’s mind boggled. Would the shopkeepers in Poldrea be expected to put on doublet and hose and wear velvet tammies? She was sure Tom Bate would not cooperate.

  “But Pa,” she said doubtfully, “it would be rather degrading.”

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” replied Pa. “People will do anything for money. Competition will be enormous, one town vying against another—you wait and see. Mock battles, feudal customs, roast swan instead of roast beef, maids in mobcaps with warming pans, who will slip between the sheets to give the visitors extra warmth for extra pay. Oh yes, overtime will be recompensed in a big way, the Trades Unions will see to that.”

  A more vigorous blast than usual from the ill-fitting window caused him to crouch lower under the shelter of the umbrella. “You could do a good trade right here, for that matter,” he said. “Try out a Cornish gale at Trevanal. Honeymoon couples welcome. Umbrellas free.”

  A thumping on the wall between the spare room and the adjoining suite warned father and daughter that the doyenne was awake.

  “Don’t desert me, I might drown,” implored Pa.

  Emma hardened her heart and went to minister to her grandmother; after all, she was nearly eighty and her windows, facing seaward, might have blown in with the force of what appeared to be a near-typhoon. She foun
d Mad unperturbed, standing with folded arms looking out upon a storm-tossed bay whose white crests curved in a series of tidal waves.

  “Serve them right,” she announced with satisfaction, “they’ve had to shift. Can’t take it any longer. Chicken.” The warship had indeed weighed anchor and was proceeding in a southerly direction, decks awash, spume frothing from her bows.

  “It doesn’t mean,” replied Emma, “that we can also say good-bye to the marines. It will take more than a gale to drive them off Poldrea beach.”

  “I wonder.” Mad turned from the window. “What’s the betting they’re all sitting huddled over the calor-gas stoves in the caravans they’ve commandeered? I wish Terry were here to see this, he’d adore every moment. I shall ring up the hospital at nine o’clock and ask if he’s fit enough to come home.”

  “Oh, Mad…”

  “What?” Her grandmother, frowning, looked her most imperious.

  “Well, wouldn’t it be better if we waited until Pa goes back to London?”

  “Why on earth?”

  “Darling, you know how they are together, it’s worse than a cockfight.”

  “What utter nonsense! They do each other good.”

  A telephone call to Dr. Summers later in the morning unfortunately put the matter not to a vote but to a firm decision. Terry, his leg in plaster, supported by crutches which would make him a hero in the eyes of the younger boys, could very well return home. His bed was wanted at the hospital anyway.

  “But don’t let him outside the house,” warned the doctor. “Any damage he manages to think up must be done under your roof. Incidentally, we had an officer of marines at the hospital yesterday evening checking up on his movements the preceding day. I was able to satisfy him completely. As to the missing commando, neither Terry nor I had a clue what the fellow was talking about, but I take it you’re in the clear?”

  “Oh yes, absolutely,” replied Mad, making a signal to Emma, who was sharing the earpiece with her. “Extraordinary thing, the man seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Probably fallen off a cliff. By the way, tell Terry Vic is here for the weekend. He came all the way down from London yesterday, he was so concerned about my heart.”

  A sound something between a snort and a chuckle came down the line. “You can tell your son from me he can quite safely go straight back again, then. The quieter you keep, the swifter the improvement in your condition. And don’t, I repeat don’t, get into trouble between now and Monday. This happens to be my weekend off.”

  Emma replaced the receiver with a sigh. I wish it was ours, she thought, I wish it was ours…

  Mother and son departed together to bring back the wounded one from hospital. They had been gone about half an hour, and Emma had just swallowed a cup of coffee with Dottie in the kitchen, when looking out of the window she saw an army vehicle coming down the drive.

  “Here we go,” she said. “It’s probably Lieutenant Sherman again. Keep the coffee brewing, I’ll have to ask him in.”

  The officer who descended and walked up the path was not Wally, however, but a stranger, closely followed by two marines. Emma went to the porch and opened the sliding doors, almost blown backwards by the force of the wind.

  “Yes?” she said.

  The officer didn’t salute, he brushed past her and entered the hall. He looked sharply about him, saw the row of walking sticks on the stand, picked one of them up and examined it. Then he asked for Mad.

  “My grandmother isn’t here,” said Emma. “She’s gone out with my father in the car. I expect them back any time.”

  He stared at her a moment and then said, “Captain Cockran, U.S. Marines. I have orders to search your house and question members of the household. It’s a routine check, we’re doing it everywhere within a radius of five miles of Poldrea camp. Okay for my men to go upstairs?”

  “Can’t you wait until my grandmother and my father return?” exclaimed Emma. “It’s a most unusual request, surely you…”

  “Unusual maybe, but it has to be done,” he answered. “You know, probably, that one of our men is missing?”

  “Yes, it was on the radio, and anyway Lieutenant Sherman was here asking questions yesterday. He knows very well we haven’t seen the missing man.”

  “Lieutenant Sherman did not search your house,” was the reply, “and I happen to be in charge of this operation. O.K., go ahead.” He snapped the order to the two marines, who started to go upstairs.

  “Wait,” said Emma, “can’t I go with them? They won’t know where to go, and my father and grandmother are very particular about their things.”

  “Just as you like,” shrugged the officer. “They won’t do any damage.” He began lifting up the walking sticks one by one. Folly, who had limped into the hall from the library, sniffed at his legs. “Get out of it,” he said.

  “Be careful,” warned Emma, “she’s very old, and practically blind.”

  The officer didn’t answer. Emma picked up Folly and took her back to the library, closing the double doors. Her heart was beating fast, not with fear but from frustration and rage. She ran upstairs after the two marines. They had entered the spare room, and one of them threw open the wardrobe, the other the chest of drawers. Pa’s overnight bag was scrutinized, the bottom tapped. Then they stripped back the bed and turned up the mattress.

  “What the hell are you looking for?” she asked.

  They did not answer. One of them grinned. The bathroom was also inspected, and then they turned to Mad’s suite, dressing room, bathroom and bedroom. The same procedure followed. Cupboards and drawers were opened, clothes lifted out and put back again, but in disorder. Thank heaven she isn’t here, Emma thought, thank heaven… Her own bedroom was the next to be searched, then the second spare room, seldom used.

  “That the lot?” asked one of them.

  “On this floor, yes,” she said. “We’ve a houseful of children at the other end. You’re not going to frighten them, are you?”

  No answer. They proceeded once more downstairs to the hall. The officer came out of the music room.

  “All clear?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” was the reply.

  He pointed towards the closed door of the kitchen. “What’s through there?”

  “The kitchen,” Emma replied, “and the children’s quarters. We’ve four small boys, the youngest is only three.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said impatiently, and jerking his head at the open door of the cloakroom ordered one of the men to inspect the multitude of oilskins, raincoats, anoraks and boots that Mad hoarded against eventualities. They entered the kitchen. Dottie looked round in surprise at the invasion of her premises as the officer started opening the cupboard doors.

  “Now, hold on,” began Dottie, her cheeks flaming, but Emma intervened.

  “It’s no use,” she said. “He has a search warrant, at least I take it he has. They’ve already been upstairs.”

  “They’ve been to Madam’s room?” she cried, appalled.

  “Sure, lady,” one of the marines tapped her smilingly on the shoulder, “and we’re going to search your room too.”

  Dottie threw an appealing look at Emma, who shook her head. “It’s all right, Dottie,” she said, “it’s all right.” Then she turned to the captain. “Let me explain to the children,” she pleaded.

  He nodded briefly and she went ahead to the playroom.

  “Look, darlings,” she said quickly, “there are some marines here come to search the house. Not marines we know, another lot. So don’t be frightened when they come in here.”

  The little boys stared. Colin, who was brandishing a very long and very sharp bamboo, tilted his head.

  “Are they baddies?” he asked.

  “I think they probably are,” replied Emma, “so keep quiet.”

  The captain entered, followed by the marines. He threw a quick look round the room. A cupboard, bulging with broken and discarded toys, apparently offered no prospect of concealment, eith
er for a live man or a dead one.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s move on.”

  Colin did not care to be ignored. “Hi,” he said, “guess what we’ve got,” and jumping down from the window seat he rummaged in the toy cupboard, effectively blocking the departure of the captain and his force, and brought out a small square box that appeared to be a camera, which he held up to his eye in the fashion of a photographer on television.

  “Want your picture taken, honey?” he said in an American accent, and pressing a button let fly a wriggling snake on a spring that leaped into the air and hit the captain in the eye.

  “Fuck off,” said Ben, clapping his hands.

  The captain, to his credit, flung the missile aside and wiped his eye, then strode from the room without a word, Emma in close pursuit.

  “I’m terribly, terribly sorry,” she said. “Please understand that the children are a little out of hand.”

  He went straight along the passage to the small boys’ bedroom, not deigning to reply, looked at it, and passed onto the next room in the passage. Sam was feeding the squirrel. Andy wasn’t there. Emma knew instinctively that despite the gale he had climbed out onto the roof and had entered the forbidden chimney overhead. Sam looked up. The captain, perhaps unable to meet the cross-eyes, turned away. Before they left the room Emma looked at Sam and her lips framed the one word, Andy. Sam nodded.

  “You need some help with the squirrel,” she said aloud.

  Sam nodded again, he understood what she meant. Andy must be alerted as soon as it was safe to descend. The search party took rather longer over the third room along the passage, after Emma had explained that these were the quarters of the two older boys.

  “Terry is the one in hospital,” she said. “My grandmother and my father have gone to fetch him home.”