A Fox Under My Cloak (11 page)

“Thank God for the Navy, O’Casey.”

“Don’t let me hear you take That Name in vain, my friend,” replied O’Casey, grimly. “Me mother was a religious woman, and taught me at her knee.”

Phillip noticed that O’Casey now had a walking-stick, and appeared to be, as he declared to Dr. Shufflebotham, a proper cripple from rheumatism. He had a rosary, and was telling his beads while he awaited his turn for the medical board. He went into the room for this before Phillip, his face all twisted up, like his walk; and came out scowling a minute or two later, saying with a hoarse laugh as he threw the stick on a table, “Anyone want this ould shillelagh? Only don’t let anyone, for love of the Blessed Mother of God, take it in there wid him before that lot of ould sods! Bad ’cess to it, it brought me no luck at all, at all!”

He cackled with laughter as he held up a little paper bag. “Blime, the ould counthry’s sound at heart, boys! An old geyser in there gimme this bag o’ suckers, to keep me little tootsies warm all the way to Frisby Dyke!” Then with his old swagger O’Casey picked up his bundle of possessions, clapped his shapeless service cap on his head, and walked out, puffing a Woodbine.

Phillip was given three weeks’ leave, a little bag of bull’s-eye sweets (“This is from the Lancashire Methodists’ Fund for Soldier Comforts”) and a railway voucher to Randiswell. For some reason, after all the prolonged anticipation and hope, the sight of this name made his heart sink. Rather tremulously he wrote out a telegram in the sooty station:
ARRIVING TONIGHT PHILLIP
.

I
T
felt strange to be wearing a tunic again, kilt and hose of hodden grey under the bullet-ripped greatcoat with nearly two feet of its length missing, and the old glengarry. He had been given a ten-shilling note on production of his pay-book, but no food; and since there was no dining-car on the London train, he sat in his corner seat in the empty carriage until the arrival at St. Pancras. Then, in what seemed to be a very lonely and uncaring London, by Underground to Charing Cross and the train home. How drab and empty everything looked. At Randiswell he got out, and crossed over the wooden bridge. A new porter took his voucher without a word as he walked through the door into the waiting-room where the newspapers were still displayed on trestle tables by the coal fire in the grate. Ah, there sitting on the edge of the trestle table was the same old tom cat with the sulky bee-face and torn ears that he
remembered
when, for a change, he had caught the train to the office on the S.E. and C.R. line from Randiswell. The cat was a great dog-fighter, waiting on the corner of the trestle table to spring on the back of any dog, no matter how big, which dared to enter the waiting-room. Paws round dog’s neck, the cat clung and bit and ripped with its hind claws as the dog rushed away
with its unwanted jockey. Then, dog seen off, the cat dismounted and walked slowly back to its perch on the newspaper table.

“Hullo, Moggy, how are you? Remember me?”

The hunched-up object did not move so much as a flip of its ear. Phillip continued to rub its neck until his persistence drew a tiny, rusty purr. Ha, the cat remembered him after all! “Puss-puss, good old puss-puss!”

Randiswell looked dull. There was the flashy Railway Tavern at the corner of the High Road; Longstaff’s the grocer’s opposite, next to the sweet-stuff shop; then Hawkins the barber’s, beside the boot shop; Soal the green grocer’s, then a length of
advertisement
hoarding, stretching to the newsvendor’s shop;
Chamberlain’s
the butcher; Hern’s the grocer’s. All looking so much smaller than he had remembered them. He walked past them all, hoping not to be recognised; and saw no familiar faces. Then more hoardings—ah, there it was still, the great dark stare of Kitchener, black moustache much wider than the face, finger pointing. Your Country needs YOU. He hurried on, his gaze on the pavement. At the corner, the baker’s; then the curve of Charlotte Road, with its chestnut trees, and houses leading up from steps, all nearly hidden behind unclipped privet hedges.

Charlotte Road seemed much shorter, somehow. Past Mr. Bolton’s house; past Aunt Dorrie’s; past, with furtive glances, the blind-drawn front of the Wallaces’ house opposite. A glance, half uncertain, a little unsure, at the upper window of Mrs. Neville’s flat. No-one sitting at the window; no large white face, no wave, no smile. With controlled agitation he turned the corner into Hillside Road. How short it was. The great mass of the red brick Modern School that had enclosed the poor little West Kent Grammar School looked very square and near and brick-heavy on the Hill. And how small, really, was the grassy slope below the sheep-fold, where once the toboggan runs had seemed so long in the snow-light of winter. With a start he thought that the School might be a larger Hospice on the Wytschaete Ridge. Soon the flares would be rising, twilight was coming, braziers would be showing red along the line of bunkers in the wood. O, why had he come back? something cried inside him, as he walked slowly past house after house. He was about to go by No. 6, when he saw Mrs. Todd was beckoning at the window. He waited reluctantly, then the door opened.

“Phillip, Phillip, welcome back! Here, give me a kiss, dear!” Mrs. Todd hugged him. He pushed slightly against the hug. “Now, Phillip, your mother will be waiting. She told us you were coming! We are all so proud of you! See the flag, dear? That’s for you!” The big, kindly woman kissed him again, he felt the tears on his cheek, but pretended not to notice them. A printed Union Jack, about three feet by two, hung from its stick tied on the balcony. “We’re all proud of you, Phillip.”

“Goodbye, Mrs. Todd.”

He saw a flag outside “Sailor” Jenkins’ house, but, thankfully, no round small red face of Mrs. Jenkins behind the lace curtains. Blank as usual, almost grim, was the front of No. 9, the Groats, above the hearth-stoned steps. Mr. Groat, taciturn headmaster of the Deptford Council School, who had coached him for his scholarship: his boyish tears, he couldn’t learn, while all Mr. Groat said, after long and ponderous silences, was “Think, boy! Think!” He passed by quickly; and saw two flags sticking out from under Mrs. Bigge’s bedroom windows. One was the Royal Standard, as on the Rolls-Royce bonnet of the King at the Hazebrouck inspection, the other a Union Jack. And there was dear old Mother Bigge gesticulating at her downstairs window. Up it went, the same old window-cord squeal.

“Welcome home, Phillip! We’re all so very very proud of you! Now mind you go straight in and give Mother a big hug! She’s so excited. Be patient, I told her, Phillip’ll come all in good time. You see, dear, I didn’t want Mother to get one of her bilious attacks! Now go on in with you!” and down squealed the window.

He stopped a moment at his gate, seeing the letter-marks of its old name painted over, and the brass number 11 in their place. He hesitated before pushing open the gate, and having done so, was most careful, even anxious, to close it quietly, restraining the coiled black spring. On tip-toe he walked under the glassed-in porch; more hesitation, struggling with a
destructive
wish to go away, to remain cold within himself, and alone, for ever and ever.

Feeling wan, he sat down on the brick wall above Mrs. Bigge’s alley-way. There was her dustbin down below, just the same. Why was it all so disappointing, so drab, so—colourless? Why had the neighbours put out those awful flags? Why, O why, had Mother told them that he was coming home?

Then, as with thud of a bullet, the idea struck him that he had no right to be home. Peter Wallace, and David, and Nimmo were the ones to be proud of. They were brave, they were heroes, they had stood by one another, by their friends; when the
Bavarians
had broken through they had died fighting, in that night of burning farm and windmill and cornstack at Messines.

As he sat there, he heard the gate bang, and stood up. It was Mother. She did not see him at first. When she did, she stopped, her mouth opened slightly, then she said, still standing still, “Is that Phillip? Is that you, dear?” as though for a moment she had seen a ghost.

“Hullo.”

“Phillip, Phillip, how long have you been there? Didn’t you ring the bell? Doris is in. You mustn’t catch cold.” She pressed the bell. “Well, dear, and how are you?”

“Oh, all right.”

“We were expecting you later on, dear. Your telegram said tonight. Well, you’re here now, that’s all that matters!” she said with forced cheerfulness. He looked so thin, so lonely, so lost.

Doris came to the door. Her eyes opened wide, she smiled, showing her canine teeth slightly overlapping, then pink spread up her cheeks. “Good old Phil! Bravo, well done, say I! Have you just come? We were expecting you to arrive about the same time as Father. Gramps tried to work out the trains from Manchester on his time-table, only it was a Bradshaw, printed before the war. Well, how are you, old boy? Still feeling a little dickey?”

“Don’t keep Phillip on the door-step, dear. He will be tired after his journey. Come in, dear, and sit by the fire.”

He followed her on to the mat. There was really no need to wipe his boots, but he did so; then hanging greatcoat and
glengarry
on his peg of the hatstand—first removing a special constable’s hat—he went down to the sitting-room. It seemed very small, somehow. The same old plush tablecloth, Father’s green-leather armchair, the cane-bottom rocking chair, the pictures, roll-top desk, bookcase, gramophone, mantelpiece that Father would call chimney-piece, the same green roll-blinds, the darkling silhouette of the elm tree seen through
french-windows
, horse-hair sofa still broken at one place, crackling coke fire—ah, crackling like the braziers in the frost, before the
floods. The same lilac-pink flames, like the charcoal Maconochie hand-braziers of the Lilywhites and the Bill Browns. Cranmer’s lucky fire-bucket …

“Sit down, dear, and rest. I expect you’re hungry. Have you had any tea?”

“I had a cup at London Bridge, thanks, and some bull’s-eyes.”

“Anything to eat?”

When he shook his head, Hetty said, “Doris dear, lay the cloth. I’ll soon have something for you, Phillip.” She went out to the kitchen.

“Well, Phil, what was it like out there?”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

When Doris had laid the cloth and set a silver-plated spoon and fork, he sat at the table. Every dent and scratch of the spoon was familiar to him, as was the ivory-handled knife
part-blackened
where many hot soda-water washings had seeped after cracking the ivory, Father’s querulous complaining voice,
Very well then, if Mrs. Feeney doesn’t know any better after all these years, all I can say is that it is time she did know better.

“I say, Phil, you won’t forget to kiss Mother, will you? She has been so looking forward to your return, old boy.”

“Oh,
do
shut up.”

Hetty came in with a tray, on which was a loaf of white bread, a knife with wooden handle cut in the pattern of a
wheat-sheaf
, salt and pepper castors, and a plate with two slices of cold mutton lying in its centre. She put them down.

“Now dear, try and eat, a little food will do you good.”

He took up the knife with the cracked and blackened handle‚ the fork with the prongs straightened by himself after he had bent them using them as a harpoon on a stick. He looked at the cold mutton. Seeing with the eye’s retina the two faces regarding him, he got up and without a word went out of the room, and up the stairs to his bedroom.

Hetty looked at her younger daughter. “I expect everything seems a bit strange to him, dear. Did you say anything to upset him, when I was out of the room?”

“No, Mum. Of course not.”

“I expect he’ll be all right soon. Perhaps, after his illness, the sight of cold mutton has put him off. I’ll boil him an egg—put one on the gas, will you, dear, and make some toast—what a pity, I’d prepared some plaice for him, I expected your Father
with Phillip, I don’t know why, and imagined us all having dinner together, as Phillip likes it to be called. Anyway, you boil the egg, Doris, and make some toast. Phillip’s stomach agrees with a boiled egg. I meant it the other way. Hush, Doris, it is no laughing matter, we mustn’t laugh. Not just now, at any rate.”

Upstairs, Phillip had taken one look in his corner cupboard; felt nothing for the boyhood “treasures” within; closed it; and was sitting on the bed when Hetty looked round the door.

“Are you all right, Phillip?”

As he did not look at her, she put her arm round his shoulder. He moved away from her; and turning his face to the wall, wept.

She felt swollen with sympathy withheld, as she sat there. He went on crying when she took his hand; still his head was turned from her. It had always been like that, ever since he was three years old; her little boy had not wanted her. Even so, he was still her son. She made another attempt to bring him to her.

“It’s—it’s all so different, Mother. My room—this house—you know—out there—I used to think of it—and everything——”

Hetty reached up and kissed his brow. “There now, don’t you worry, Sonny. You
are
still my little son, you know——” and, her assumed cheerfulness gone, she broke into tears.

“Here, have my hanky, Mum.” He pulled it out of his pocket with a piece of string and a bull’s-eye sweet. “It’s the khaki one that came in the St. Simon’s Christmas packet. Not very clean, I’m afraid. And I saved you a bull’s-eye, it should be rinsed before you eat it.”

“How very kind and thoughtful of you, dear! Mrs. Feeney is coming tomorrow, and she can do all your washing. Now, come down with me, and warm yourself by the fire. You must not worry any more, now that you are home again. Father and I want you to be very happy. He is so proud of you, so are we all. Come along, Doris is very kindly boiling you an egg, and making some buttered toast.”

Having eaten this, and drunk several cups of sugary tea, Phillip felt better. He showed them the crucifix on its leather bootlace round his neck with the
papier-mâché
identity disc; the Prussian Guard leather-belt, with the brass clasp
Gott
Mit
Uns
; six pieces of 5·9 shell, three leaden shrapnel balls; a tiny pair of wooden
sabots
found in the Château; and best of all, Princess Mary’s Gift Box, with its contents and the cigar a German soldier had given him on Christmas Day.

*

“It’s an odd thing, but all you fellows are the same, in so far as I can make out,” said Richard, sitting in his armchair later that evening. “Not one of you wants to talk about the front. Why, bless my soul, each of you must have had enough
experiences
to fill a book. Yet you never speak about what goes on out there. Why is it, Phillip?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Father.”

“Well, tell me this, old chap, did you shoot any Germans?”

“I don’t know, Father.”

“Well, you beat the band!” laughed Richard. “Your cousin Gerry Cakebread was just the same when he came home. Hubert we have not seen yet, though I believe he went in to see his grandfather next door. A very soldierly figure Hubert is
nowadays
, what I believe is called a Guardee. A very decent fellow, he takes after his father, Sidney Cakebread.”

“Is he or Gerry at home, Mother?”

“I don’t think so, dear. Gerry is with the second battalion, and Bertie at Caterham still, so far as I know.”

“Before I forget it, Phillip, no doubt Mother has told you about Timmy Rat—we were sorry to have to put him down, Phillip, but he had croup very badly, and the skin disease was spreading, and with all my Special Constabulary work, and late hours at the office——”