A Fox Under My Cloak (16 page)

From Grandma Thacker’s room came regular soft snores. If Mother opened her door now, he would pretend to be walking in his sleep. He had done it once before, after scarlet fever, at Brighton. Thank God Polly’s door was ajar. He pushed it open enough to whisper:

“Are you asleep, Polly?”

“No.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, are you? You mustn’t catch cold.”

Why did she let him stand there, clenching teeth against chattering? A white ghost arose before him.

“You’re cold,” breathed the ghost, dark curls over neck and shoulders. “Come in to my room,” he whispered, shuddering. The ghost followed, the board creaked twice.

A ghost no more to lie beside him, but one strangely soft, grey eyes the colour of smoke in candlelight, while the eye of the woodpecker gleamed behind the dome of glass. There was softness, there was warmth, but it was not within Phillip; he remained cold within the spirit, and the more he tried to release the coldness with Polly’s help, freely offered, the more he felt he was like the spray of oak-apples he had taken from the brook, petrified.

*

Across the landing, Hetty lay unsleeping, worried by a succession of her own failures, foolish acts, humiliations, all of her own making, all of the past which now seemed to envelop the present with greater darkness, which was the war. Why had she drunk cocoa so late at night, when she knew it did not agree with her?

Behind the wall Jemima Thacker lay awake, after her first short doze, thinking of how she might have helped her husband Charley more when he was worried by business, had she but known; of her dead son, little Charley, who had died of lockjaw at the age of forty; and many other griefs arising from her own failings in so many ways in the past.

At the other end of the house Jim and his wife Liza slept back to back, in warm relaxation as one being, as they had slept ever since marriage two years before the Diamond Jubilee of the old Queen, whose oleograph portrait from a bygone
Pears
Annual
hung on the wall above them, with various texts from the Holy Bible worked in silk and wool.

*

Fifty miles south, across fields of gravel and heavy gault clay—the blue lias—beyond the dimmed lights of London and the gleaming serpentine coils of Thames, Richard lay in the iron bedstead with brass fittings which he had occupied alone for several years now, his knees drawn up like an embryo in the womb. His early-morning glass of water was on the bedhead table beside his nickel-plated revolver, his constable’s whistle, and the truncheon ready for duty at any moment in the night. He was alone in the house; his daughters, one working at Head Office, the other still at school, were sleeping next door: a matter for relief, since he was the less perturbed when alone, and always had been since the break-up of his old home in the West Country thirty-five years before, when his father had deserted his mother. For this ageing man, in the rushing black
spaces of the night, it was now harder to live with the dead than with the living.

*

“It’s no good,” groaned Phillip, finally, as the grandfather clock downstairs struck one. “The truth is, I keep thinking I am a chap called Church, a friend of mine out there, Polly, and I can’t do anything.”

So Polly went back to her room, the board creaking again as, pulling bedclothes round neck, Phillip drew up his knees for warmth and companionship, and clasping himself, tried not to think of “out there”, until he went to sleep.

R
ICHARD
had repaired the bird boxes in the elm at the bottom of the garden while Phillip was in hospital, and refastened them with brass gimp to the trunk; they had been nailed before, and the nails had rusted. Now, as April approached, he went every morning down to the sitting-room, to watch the pairs of blue and great titmice which had evidently decided to use them again this year. He hoped his son would approve of what he had done, and make some mention of it when he returned from Beau Brickhill; but when Phillip did come home with his mother before the week was up, he was so full of his commission—Richard had telegraphed immediately he had seen the
announcement
in the
London
Gazette,
in the Town Department copy of
The
Times
—that he had no desire apparently to hear about the birds.

“Well, Phillip, I have some further news for you, about your bird boxes which I repaired, as best as I could—I don’t say I am as expert in the matter as you are—but at any rate both boxes seem to have acquired tenants.”

“Oh, good. By the way, Father, might I have the money you are keeping for me? I have an account now, at Cox’s the Army Agents, and should like to pay it in.”

“Certainly, Phillip. There is a sum of thirty-four pounds odd due to you.”

“Oh, thank you, Father.”

Phillip calculated.
£
50 kit allowance, plus
£
34, plus about
£
8 back-pay as a ranker totalled over
£
90! He was flush. His pay from the Moon Fire Office was now
£
70 a year, since the annual Lady Day rise jumped from
£
10 to
£
20 at the
commencement
of the third year. He, Second-lieutenant P. S. T.
Maddison
, 10th Battalion the Gaultshire Regiment, with a private income! How suddenly life could change!

“And while I remember, Phillip—I saw your Uncle Hilary
the other day, and he asked me to tell you that he and Aunt Beatrice would be delighted if you cared to pay them a visit. Just send a telegram, he said, to announce your coming. They live in Hampshire, as you may remember, and Uncle says he can offer you some salmon fishing. Perhaps you will write to your Aunt? I’ll give you the address.”

“Oh, thank you, Father.”

But fishing, like watching birds, was a thing of the past now. Full of visions of himself in officer’s uniform, he went up to Town in a first-class carriage, as befitted his rank. He had decided to get his uniform made at the Stores (which was, apart from his old tailors in Fenchurch Street, the only place he knew of. Father dealt there). So to Queen Victoria Street went Phillip, where he was duly measured. The tunic cost
£
3
10s.
; the khaki breeches were
£
1
7
s.
6
d.
; Sam Brown belt,
£
2
2
s
.; cap, 15
s.
6
d.
; Fox’s puttees, 15
s
. 6
d.
; two khaki shirts,
£
1
1
s
.; a silk tie, 3
s
. 10
d.
He saw for the first time a gilt button of his new regiment; it seemed to glow in his hand, a star of many rays embossed with a wild ox with big horns in the centre. Buttons were included in the tunic price, said the shop-assistant, but the bronze lapel badges were extra, at 6
s.
6
d.
the pair. Phillip scarcely heard the figures; prices were nothing to him; all that mattered was, would the uniform be ready by Saturday, so that on Sunday morning, after church on the Hill, Helena Rolls and her parents could see him in it. When would it be ready?

“In five or six days, we hope, sir.”

It was then Tuesday.

“Can’t you possibly let me have it by Saturday?”

“Well, I’ll try, sir, but cannot promise. Our stitchers are going day and night. But I’ll do my best. Now, how about a valise, sir? You will find it an absolute necessity; it can be turned into a sleeping-bag by night, and accommodation can be on the rough-and-ready side, so I hear, in the new encampments. You will need a canvas wash-basin at 27
s.
6
d.
, but perhaps you would like to see the list for yourself, sir?”

Phillip’s eye moved down the list, scarcely seeing the items: green canvas mattress 7
s.
6
d.,
pillow 3
s
., camp-bed 15
s
., water bottle 8
s.
9
d
.,
haversack 10
s.
6
d.
, holdall for sponge, soap, and toothbrush 2
s
., whistle 1
s.
7
d.
including lanyard.

“Are the straps for the holdall extra?”

“Yes, sir, six shillings and sixpence.”

“Oh, I want a British warm, instead of a greatcoat. How much is that?”

“Three pounds five shillings, sir. Shall I order them to be sent to your residence, sir?”

The shop-assistant, who was forty years old, with a wife and two children, was paid commission on his sales, in addition to his weekly wage of thirty shillings; so the war was, as he often told his wife, a God-send to him. Nowadays he made as much as seventy shillings a week.

“There is likely to be a shortage, sir, you know. The new armies are expanding very fast, almost faster than the
equipment
makers can cope with. You are the fifth gentleman since we opened this morning, sir.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll need the camp-bed. I’m used to sleeping on any old floor, in fact a bed is too soft.”

“You’ll find this camp-bed redolent of the rigours of the campaign, sir. It’s the standard bed for the officers of the Army in France. And a sword, sir, for ceremonial drill, best Wilkinson, two guineas, engraving with regimental crest or coat-armour and name, extra of course. Prices are liable to rise, too, that is a consideration. I would suggest that you acquire your kit and equipment while you can, sir.”

“I shan’t need a sword. Nor a washing-basin. We usually wash in a shell-hole. As for a whistle, we don’t use them at all out there. What I would like, is a patent collapsible
coke-bucket
——”

“Ha, ha, I see you have a sense of humour, sir. No doubt you’ve seen the new Bairnsfather pictures in
The
Bystander
? They depict, truly, I think, the essential humour of our Tommies in contrast to their humourless opponents. Let me see now, have we got all your requirements?”

Phillip said he would take the bed, mattress and pillow; but shook his head at wash-basin, sword and field-glasses.

“I had a fine pair of Zeiss glasses, but they were pinched in my billet by one of those skrimshanking Belgians.”

“Oh dear, dear, what a state of affairs, sir! You will want some boots, of course? And shoes, for wearing with slacks for mess dinner.”

The shop-assistant accompanied him to the boot department, where Phillip bought the first pair of shoes he saw, with rubber
stubs coming through the soles. “I see you play golf, sir. All right for clubs and balls?”

“I’ll need a tennis racket for No Man’s Land.”

“Quite a joker, I see, sir! Now may I interest you in a brooch, in gold, or gold and platinum, of your regimental badge, for a lady friend?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea!”

Phillip decided to take the haversack he had bought, with the holdall containing shaving kit, and towel; and his new pair of poplin pyjamas. Then he wrote his first cheque for the total, and was assured that the goods would be delivered by Carter Paterson as soon as the uniform was made; while the badge in nine-carat gold, costing three guineas, would be sent later on, by registered post, to Lindenheim, Wakenham, Kent. “It will have to be specially cast, sir, by our goldsmiths.”

“Oh, good!”

He would ask Helena Rolls to accept the brooch! Having shaken hands with the shop-assistant, he left the Stores in elation, and decided to call on his father in Haybundle Street. There the idea came to him that, to fill in the time until Saturday, and also to pique Helena—whom he had not yet met since his return—he would go down to Hampshire to visit Uncle Hilary.

When he told his father this, into Richard’s mind came the thought that his brother Hilary was on the way to becoming a wealthy man: that his wife Beatrice was turned forty, and it was unlikely that she would give Hilary any children of his own: moreover, Hilary had been buying back some of the family land at Rookhurst—— But of this he said nothing to Phillip: it was not his affair, anyway: but if Phillip did well in the Army, as he had begun, there was every likelihood—— “Well, be sure to give them both my kind regards, won’t you?”

After saying au revoir to his father, Phillip shook hands with several of the older men in the Town Department, including Mr. Journend, and then went on to Gracechurch Street, through Leadenhall Market, and so to Wine Vaults Lane. Mr. Howlett received him with smiling face; Mr. Hollis cried, “Bless my soul, we thought we’d got rid of you, you Pugilistic Scotsman, you!”; while Edgar grinned as he sat in his corner now adorned with high officers of the Allies, the Grand Duke Nicolas, Sir John French, “Papa” Joffre, the Kings of Belgium, Servia,
Montenegro
; and several V.C.s. Phillip pretended interest in them,
to please the messenger; and when Edgar asked him for a photograph, Mr. Hollis said, “But I thought you had
discontinued
your famous boxer series, my lad?” with a wink at Phillip, who gave a forcedly comic account of the supposed bout in No Man’s Land, to comply with what was evidently expected of him.

“You should have been a clown,” said Mr. Hollis, “for your gifts certainly do not run in the direction of accountancy! My word, your stamp book was in a mess when you left last August!”

This startled Phillip, for he did not remember ever having pinched any stamps. Ashtrays, yes, and a packet of Pear’s soap now and then; but no stamps.

“Don’t let it worry you, my boy,” said Mr. Howlett, seeing his face. “By the way, Downham is commissioned with the Surrey Sharpshooters, did you know?”

“Third battalion, home service, commands a company,” said Mr. Hollis. “A full-blown captain, paid twelve shillings and sixpence a day, plus allowances, while I have to stay here and earn his damned salary for him. I suppose I ought to include you in that remark, young fellow, for you never did any work while you were here, did you? But I don’t, all things considered, you ugly duckling. Seriously, Maddison, you’re a credit to the branch, apart from your taxidermatical—if that’s the right word—aberrations, young fellow-me-lad.”

Both Mr. Howlett and Mr. Hollis were beaming at him, so Phillip felt bold enough to say, “I suppose, gentlemen, you would not care to lunch with me at the London Tavern today? I have to catch a train to Hampshire at half-past two.”

“That’s very civil of you, Maddison,” replied Mr. Howlett. “But I shall have to go to Head Office, having some business there. However, thank you for the invitation.”

“And I have an appointment, young fellow, otherwise I would avail myself of your most kind invitation,” said Mr. Hollis, glancing at the clock. “By Jove, I must get on with this new clothing-factory survey. You remember Roy Cohen? His father, Moses Cohen, now has contracts to supply the new armies with uniforms, made up of old police uniforms, the value of which is about quadrupled. Through him we’ve got his wife’s people’s furniture factory, old Morris Hartmann, you know, running into fifty thousand pounds and more! Then there is the house the Moses Cohens have built in Hampstead. If this
war runs the three years that Kitchener forecasts, you’ll see a lot of the Jews will be out of the Whitechapel ghetto. Remember Rothschild in the Napoleonic wars? So you see, Maddison, young Roy Cohen looks like becoming one of our most valuable agents. I needn’t remind you whose initiative got him for Wine Vaults Lane!”

Phillip was just going, when Little Freddy Fanlight came into the office. He looked just as dapper and airy as before the war. In the old days, Little Freddy had not noticed him very much, if at all; now he said, “Hullo, aren’t you the chap who challenged Carpentier or somebody in the trenches?” Without waiting for a reply, Little Freddy went on to explain, as he flipped a violet cachou into his mouth, that he was not fit. “Otherwise I’d have gone long ago. Well, Hollis, I’ve got a proposal for you——”

Uneasy in the presence of Little Freddy, Phillip raised his bowler and departed, remembering just in time to give a wave of the hand to Edgar as he went through the glass door.

*

At Breamore Station a chauffeur in a long coat touched his cap, and having enquired his name, smilingly asked if there was a portmanteau to be collected. Phillip explained as he sat behind him in an open green Sunbeam motor-car, with an A.A. registration, that he did not need pyjamas or anything like that; a toothbrush was all he had brought with him. At which the driver grinned, showing irregular teeth.

“You haven’t been to us before, have you, sir?”

“No. What’s the fishing like?”

“Very good this season. Mr. Maddison killed two fish yesterday morning from Martin’s Pool, twenty-one pun’ and eighteen pun’. On a prawn, both on’m. He’s had to go to London this mornin’, and told me to take you down his beat. It’s fly water, except in Martin’s Pool, where he used them prawns. Don’t hold wi’ prawns misself.”

Phillip kept silent, guarding his ignorance. Then he asked when his uncle was coming back.

“No idea, sir. Somethin’ to do with ships, to the Mediterranean, he said. He’s with the Admiralty now, you know.”

“Who’s at home, then?”

“Only Mrs. Maddison, and her sister-in-law, Mrs. Lemon.”

“Oh lor’. Is she called Viccy?”

“That’s the one, sir. The children’s away at school, they’ll be home for Easter.”

“What children?”

“Master John and Miss Pamela, name of Murgatroyd, of Mrs. Maddison’s first marriage. Master John’s at Winchester, Miss Pam’s at Eastbourne. You’ve lived abroad, I take it, sir?”

“More or less, yes,” replied Phillip, hurriedly, dreading further questions. They turned into a drive, going what seemed a long way along a gravelly lane, with tarred railings on either side, and cattle standing near rows of straw and hay spread on thin grass under oaks. In the middle of the enclosed area was a circular plantation of tall blue firs.