A Solitary War (15 page)

They had now reached the edge of the Great Bustard Wood. He heard tapping on the boles of the trees of sycamore, oak, and ash. Teddy had now moved rather too near him, so Phillip moved up
the Cold Old Land, nearer the ragged thorn hedge, to keep seventy yards from Teddy. Then with alarmed screeches two cocks flew above the tall, ivy-dark trees. They rose in flight, coming his way. He fired at one and missed, but as it passed directly overhead he swung up his gun and leaned back with a feeling that he was throwing the shot up at the bird which he did not see because it was stroked out of sight by the barrels: and when the barrels had stroked over the bird he pulled the trigger and knew at the same moment that he had hit it.

Somehow he could usually hit a high bird in that difficult position, though when he took aim on more obvious and more direct shots he usually missed. He could hit teal flying fast
overhead
by stroking their visual images with the end of the barrels, but never when he turned and fired deliberately at or after them.

“Good shot!” cried Teddy as the cock pheasant crashed into the Meadows Wood.

More pheasants were corning out of the trees—singly, in twos and threes, in fours and fives. Fifty or more must have left already—birds that had run and crept out of the wet mustard of the Brock. More shots came from over the crest of the field. Shouts from the beaters were now almost continuous. Five cocks flew overhead and he shot two in the air at once.

“Good shot!” cried Teddy, again.

He moved to the top of the Cold Old Land, reloading. Teddy followed. A woodcock flapped out low, changed direction, and sped towards Teddy. Crack! It tumbled. Pigeons beat out of the wood, one being fired at by the gun over the ridge, then Phillip took a crack at it, and hit it, but the thick feathers resisted the No. 6 shot and it flew on, to receive a barrel from Teddy. It faltered, but flew on again, slowly. Phillip watched it fall nearly half a mile farther on, into the swedes at the other end of the field below the New Cut.

Later he sought and picked up the pigeon. Its crop was bulging with clover leaves which the bird had plucked from the layer of that field, which was to be hay the following summer. It was a rock dove, one of hundreds of thousands immigrating from Scandinavia. Each bird pecked about half a pound weight of green crops everyday.

This drive through the Great Bustard Wood was the best of the day. When they had collected the birds and laid them out for Billy and the improver to lay in the cart, the guns sauntered down to the Home Meadow, while the beaters went through the long and narrow wood that bounded it.

Pheasants ran before them. Many escaped. The wood was thin. There was little cover. They got seventeen at that stand, and thirteen more from the densely overgrown and tall willow of the Decoy. Water-hens, hard to hit unless one were used to their slowness, flew out. Five fell. Moorhens and dabchicks were numerous, doing damage among the young barley plants in spring. The moorhen was a clever bird, using its brains to escape being driven into the open. Phillip saw several perching in the willow branches. One bird refused to fly out. It squatted inside a mass of twigs in a thorn tree and sat there while the beater struck the tree a yard away from the bird.

“Shall we let it be?” Phillip felt the bird deserved its freedom.

A kestrel flew over. “Don’t shoot it!” Teddy’s gun was lowered.

Then to the Osier Carr at the end of the meadow, where cows had broken the wire-strands of the fence and the osiers were in places fractured and stripped. Another job to be done—fence repaired—for the half acre of osiers would be needed in war-time. However, it was not the time to think of such things. Eye must not tell Brain all it saw. Within Brain dwelt Mind, both angel and fiend, crucified and crucifying.

*

Mrs. Carfax stood in the workshop. A tablecloth covered the carpenter’s bench. Flowers filled the silver bowl of
Naval
Occasions.
There was a steak and kidney pudding in its basin enwrapped with table-napkin. A tureen of Majestic potatoes baked in their jackets. Half a Stilton cheese. Cold game. A ham. On a sidetable were bottles of beer and whisky. Jugs of coffee. A plum cake.

The beaters in the hovel had bread and cheese, beer and cake; and when Phillip had seen they were all comfortably eating, he returned to the workshop and joined the others. The Cabtons did not appear.

They went out to shoot again after lunch, ‘Yipps’ carrying her 20-bore, but it rained, and was dull, so they gave up, and went back to the workshop at 3.30 p.m. and got ready to depart.

The bag was 82 pheasants, 4 woodcock, 2 teal, 3 snipe, 5 pigeons, 7 rabbits, 10 moorhen, 4½brace of partridges—a comparatively poor day, for many birds had been missed owing to the rain. The guests left with a cock and hen pheasant each, and the uniformed Fusiliers, as they saluted Phillip before getting into their
camouflaged
car, said it was the best day they had had since the war.

He kept a cock and hen for the Cabtons, meaning to give them as a present when they departed. But where were they? He went down twice to the Corn Barn during the next three or four days, but each time they were away somewhere. This was a relief, for as he became deeper in his book, he dreaded more and more to be in the presence of those who by nature were antipathetic. But his feelings of regret were unnecessary; for A. B. Cabton was quite able to make up for what he doubtless considered to be a deficiency on Phillip’s part, as was apparent on the following Tuesday morning.

Two days before this, on the Sunday, Luke said to Phillip, “Did you give that man staying in yar caravan leave to shoot over your land? Father see them both this mornin’ comin’ down the Home Hills with guns under their arms. And Father see them the other evenin’ shooting at roosting bards.”

“Aye, they did an’ all. They shut a cock standing on the grass of the Home Hills.”

On the Tuesday morning Cabton appeared at Phillip’s cottage door, saying he was leaving. After enquiring if the caravan had been comfortable, Phillip asked him if he had been shooting.

“Yes, I have.”

“What have you shot?”

“A pheasant here and there.”

“Sitting birds, too, weren’t they? I think you might at least have asked leave before you did so.”

“Asking doesn’t get me very far with you, does it?”

From his tone of voice it seemed that Cabton felt he had been treated rather badly. Cabton went on, a rough edge on his voice, “The trouble with you is money. You’ve been going wrong for years. Money, money, money, that’s what rules your life.”

The face of Cabton’s wife appeared over her husband’s shoulder.

“Come on, Cabton. Don’t talk to him! He isn’t worth it. Come on, leave him.”

“You’re obviously finished,” went on Cabton, with
contemptuous
superiority. “Everyone knew it when you joined up with Birkin, but you haven’t realised it. I could see it happening years ago. No wonder Lucy left you. And Felicity. You’re in the mess you’re in entirely due to your own fault, only you’re too blind to see it.”

“Have you got any friends left anywhere?” added Mrs. Cabton, still peering over his shoulder.

For a moment the world dissolved about Phillip, he could feel
only his own oblivion. But the feeling passed, and he went out of the door, to where thick blue smoke was issuing from behind the old saloon car with its soggy tyres, brown cracked safety glass in windows and screen, lichen-like tufts and curls of warped fabric body. Through the unclear glass he could see several long tails of pheasants flung on the back seat. The smoke of the engine thickened, the vehicle moved with a grating of gears down the street, it turned the corner, and was gone.

He went back to his cottage, possessed by a searing impulse to end his life then and there; but when he had overcome this mood he seated himself at the table, and went on with his book about the early days of the farm. Suddenly he thought what he should have done: loaded his gun and blown the back tyres of Cabton’s hideous rusting wreck to tatters! He laughed at the idea, and found he was writing easily.

Teddy had found some old bricks, and with these he heightened the hearth by nine inches and after that it was possible to sit round a small wood fire in the parlour. There was some life in the room, listening on the wireless to a concert of Wagner's music from Berlin. Billy and ‘Pinwheel' (the nickname given to the quick, bright improver by Luke) had gone on bicycles to the pictures at Crabbe.

Only the fire-glow lit the room. The two men lay back in
armchairs
, feeling the contentment of rest. Mrs. Carfax sat in the little room adjoining, the fire of which burned well in frosty weather, but the door had to be kept closed to prevent a drag of smoke down the parlour chimney. Even the flues were in egotistical conflict, mused Phillip, thinking of Cabton's spoken criticisms of himself and of his unspoken criticism of Cabton: of Mrs. Carfax's of himself: of his, unspoken, of her. Teddy—no, he could not feel criticism of old Teddy. He had been a loyal comrade-in-arms, dismissed his command of 286 Machine Gun Company owing to his, Phillip's, error after the battle of Bourlon Wood. Both had been ‘stellenbosched'—sent home. He was a dear fellow. But the chronic lack of rendered and settled household accounts was more and more worrying. Phillip had given Mrs. Carfax two cheques each of ten pounds, on account of the share of ‘Pinwheel', Billy and himself; but he knew nothing of what the Combined House hold was costing. The overdraft was creeping up in red figures at the bank. The bank manager had written for a statement of his assets.

Then the music of the Flower Garden in
Parsifal
took him away to a world of dream in which beauty, nobility, loyalty, and truth were one. He lay back in his chair, feeling that one day this truth would be paramount in the world.

Mrs. Carfax sat within the miniature boudoir. Its walls were of pine-wood panelling painted white. On them were displayed
the knick-knacks and old family portrait miniatures and
silhouettes
of Lucy's forebears. At least there was a hot fire to sit by. Its own flames and smoke went up its own chimney. Even so, it was impossible to sit on the left side of the hearth, owing to the draughts that cut through the cracks of the staircase door like several scythes. On the other side of the room, where Mrs.
Carfax
sat, it was warm. And with both electric radiator and oil-stove going as well, Mrs. Carfax did not look so cold and distraught as usual. When Phillip had seen her, before the concert began, she was sitting at Lucy's Sheraton desk writing figures on a piece of paper.

“I prefer a room in firelight only,” said Teddy, feet stretched out before him. “How lucky to find those old bricks. I think a raised hearth is the cure, you know. I love this hearth. The music is marvellous. Listen to the horns!”

Legs stretched out to the hearth, eyes watching the play of flames. Mrs. Carfax's bitch lay upon Phillip's lap and chest: a unilateral friendship entirely, he told himself. Still, if it added to the gaiety of nations …

“I could watch a wood fire for hours,” said Teddy, during an interval. “It isn't the same with coal. I like the old black kettle hanging down like that, too.” The music was in flow. “That's the b-bit I love!” he exclaimed, stuttering slightly in his
excitement
. There was deep tenderness, deep hunger, in the music. Phillip felt at one with Teddy. If only Teddy and he were by themselves they would have got on well.

Pale flames arose from the hawthorn brands. The embers burned with a blue lambency. They sat there until the opera was finished, while a log fell and sparks shot up, wavered and swirled, some to go up the chimney, others to descend again.

“There's still a down-draught in that chimney,” said Teddy. “I've been thinking. I notice that smoke is forced out of the little baking oven damper in the wall beside the hearth. That denotes back-pressure. Yet the chimney seems wide enough at the top.”

“It's a fourteen inch square brick chimney on top. I had it built when the old pot was removed.”

“It would make a great difference if this hearth burned efficiently. The room is very damp, you know.”

“Want to hear the nine o'clock news?”

“No, I'm sick of the goddam phoney war. I'd like to hear Haw-Haw at nine-thirty, though. Some bloody sense in what he says. What do you think of him?”

“I met him in London a year ago. He had a razor-gash scar down one cheek. He seemed quite young to me. He had
composure
. There was a pale rose-pink look about him, yet no fragility, he seemed solid. I thought that he had both courage and single-mindedness. But sarcasm is no good.”

They stared at the play of potassium flames over the embers.

“You know,” said Teddy, presently, “I've been thinking over the partnership business, Phillip.” He fumbled for a cigarette, and lit it. “I've got a scheme which I'm sure would make us both good money.” He inhaled. He seemed to ponder. Quietly Phillip put on another log. Teddy watched it dulling the embers, but said nothing.

“It's seasoned, Teddy.”

A small yellow flame moved from under the log. It started to creep sideways and upwards. Teddy watched it, and when it spread to a blaze he said, with an effort, “‘Yipps' and I have been talking. I don't like to rush into anything. I don't like to decide all in a hurry. Now here's my idea. On the day of the shoot, while you were reading from that old journal, I saw how you were being wasted, and how inevitably things were standing still. And I had an idea. Now Phillip, please listen to me—let me say what I have been thinking before you decide. You can't go on wasting yourself forever on a glorified labourer's job that gets you nowhere. Nor can I. I don't mind working with the next man, but where the hell does it lead to? That's what I say to ‘Yipps'. Do you follow me?”

“I'm listening, Teddy.”

“Well, old boy, my idea is this. Now don't laugh at it, will you? Take your time to think it over. In
The
Times
today is an
advertisement
, someone offering to take a pupil on a farm for three hundred quid. People are talking of investing money in land. At present our overseas trade interests are trying to keep their markets by buying up in Europe what we don't really want, so that Germany shan't have it.”

“Yes.”

“Well, that won't last, in my opinion. Hitler's not the
Ruhr-industrialists
' stooge that the papers make out. That's newspaper twaddle. Hitler's always a move ahead. He'll sterilise our trade with his barter system, and if he can't, he'll walk over Europe to get commercial travellers' territory.”

“Like Napoleon——”

“J-just a minute, Phillip. Just hear me a moment. Now you think Hitler will succeed bloodlessly—”

“Don't forget Churchill—”

“Let me speak—you think of Hitler as—what did you call him—a pacificist? Well, I don't forget Churchill. The Jews' war isn't started yet. Anyway, what I'm driving at is this. Through necessity, and all our gold leaving this country, most of it to the Yanks, and no foreign markets being open for investment and speculation, money will flow into the land. That is the basis of my scheme. You and I anticipate this trend. Now you have a name as a country writer, and parents with plenty of money who appreciate what you write would like their sons to be trained by you. What an advertisement Billy is, with his healthy glowing cheeks! The little beggar's full of life—I love that boy, you know—well, we could have a lot looking like Billy.”

“I can't take on any more jobs, Teddy. There's too much on my mind already. Also I'm the worst schoolmaster in the world. I've no patience.”

“That's because at present you're trying to function in your wrong element. You're being poisoned by all those details which shouldn't be your concern. You'll crack up if you go on like this. Your element is the one you revealed in your reading the day of the shoot. I watched the other's faces while you were reading, and believe me, they were absorbed in it. You put it over on all of us. That's your true line. Anyway, here's my idea—only please, Phillip, don't turn it down before you consider it. I can do all the organisation. I propose to put an advertisement in
The
Times
saying that you are ready to take pupils on your farm, at three hundred pounds a year each. Now hold your horse, old man. Don't say anything until I've finished. Hear me out first. I'll do all the work on it. First, we want a decent house.”

“I don't think there are any to be had in the neighbourhood, Teddy.”

“That's where you're behind the times, old boy. There's an old yeoman type of farmhouse to be vacant in the near future, not a quarter of a mile from here, in this village.”

“Where?”

“Penelope's.”

“Penelope leaving?”

“She told ‘Yipps' she's thinking of going somewhere quieter. I gather the camp, and the anti-aircraft range, which may be resumed any time now, anyway, they've spoiled the marshes for
her. The question of a house can come later. That's a mere detail. It hasn't got to be on the farm, necessarily. And you don't have to do any executive work. I'll get a couple of trained masters, one of them an agricultural expert. They'll be the staff. You will direct policy only, and lecture sometimes. We might form a company, I'll get the money. ‘Yipps' has some capital available, several thousands, she says, and she likes the idea. She'd run the place, as dame or matron. We'd do it properly—have a film projection room, among other things. Of course the farm must be modernised, a proper electric milking machine installed in the cow-house, et cetera. It would prove a very good thing, I'm convinced. If we started with only thirty pupils, say, we'd gross nine thousand quid a year. We could afford to pay for a decent manager, and better men on the farm than those old-fashioned duds you have now. People talk about the new world after this war is over, of efficiency and planning, well, let's have a start here, and make your ideas a reality!”

Teddy threw away his cigarette, and with fingers slightly shaking, lit another.

“Now please, old boy, hear me out before you say anything. Remember, you will have none of the details to worry you. I will guarantee that. None of this worry about paint for priming and paint for the hard gloss finish, brushes not being cleaned after use, who left the lid off the tin of distemper and let the frost get in, or where can you get a half ton of cement, or rebuilding chimneys that smoke, or de-lousing old fat sows with disused engine oil and other ideas, all good I admit, but which now are making you negative, and which if you continue as you have been, will cause a crack up. I listened carefully to your reading, to the way you made vivid the ‘rosy-cheeked countryman's child becoming the pale ricketty creature of the slums', all the effects of the industrial revolution. It was absolutely obvious that you are a lecturer, a
savant
don't the French call it, first and last. You've got considerable knowledge to impart, and what's more, you can make it interesting to the ordinary man. Those are the lines on which you should expand, and I'd like to do it. I could do it, too. I—I'm keen on the idea, so don't say ‘no' until you've thought it all over, Phillip.”

Teddy flicked his cigarette into the fire, seized the two-pronged fire-pick as though to alter Phillip's arrangement of the lie of the logs, thought better of it, and laid the pick down.

“Well, I'm going to The Hero to have a game of darts. You
won't come, I suppose? Now let the idea simmer, old man. Cheerio.” He got up and opened the door of ‘Yipp's' room. “I'm just going down to The Hero, dear,” he said, in his soft and gentle voice. “I've told Phillip my scheme. He's promised to think it over. It was a wonderful dinner you gave us tonight. I'd like to thank you once again, dear. It was grand, wasn't it, Phillip?”

“Yes, it was first-class, ‘Yipps', rather! I did so enjoy it,” said Phillip, forcing himself. He thought it was extravagant; and Lucy and the children existing on three pounds a week which included lodging, food, clothes and education——

‘Yipps' said nothing. While the boudoir door remained open, the smoke in the parlour hearth hesitated, and vagged about; then it descended in grey skeins that began to move across the floor towards the boudoir.

“Close the door!” cried Phillip.

“All right, all right, I'm going now,” said Teddy, quietly. “I won't be long, dear, I'll bring something back for you. Cheerio.”

‘Yipp's' door was closed softly; then the outside door. Phillip sat in the unlit silence of the parlour, wondering what was coming next.

*

Teddy's cautious, fumbling footsteps on the frozen path outside had ceased about a couple of minutes when the between-room door opened. Smoke immediately vagged about in the parlour chimney. The electric light snapped on. He got up from his chair, holding the retriever bitch in his arms.

“Oh, am I disturbing you? Do you want the light off?”

“Oh no, no. Teddy and I only had it off for
Parsifal.
It was a beautiful performance. Do keep the light on if you want it.”

“I don't want it on. It's really for you to say if you'd like it off. I don't want to offend you more than I can help.”

Tired of holding the retriever, he put the agonised-eyed animal in his leather chair, where with a sigh of contentment it curled to sleep.

“Really, I like the light on now, thank you.”

“But you had it off just now.”

“Just too lazy to switch it on. I was relaxing before the fire.”

“Then of course you'd prefer it off. Why don't you say so?” She moved to switch off. “But there, all. genii are supposed
to be difficult, aren't they?” she went on, with forced cheerfulness. “Well, how's the ‘Little Ray? Angry with me for disturbing him in his meditation? Now,
please
sit down. A man ought to feel at ease in his own house.”