Black August (3 page)

‘There will be no election!' came a sudden harsh interruption from the far end of the carriage.

They turned to stare in amazement at the small, bony man. His pale eyes glittered strangely in his pink, hairless face as he glared at them.

‘The time is come,' he cried in accents of fierce denunciation. ‘The money changers shall be cast cut of the Temple—the wine bibbers shall be choked with their excess—the women shall die filthily in the chambers of their whoredom. Those who have read the wisdom of the Pyramid shall see the light. Praise be to the builder for he was the architect of the Universe; but few shall survive, for the third Era of Azekel is at hand. As the great middle Empire of the Egyptians went down into Chaos—as Rome fell before the hordes of the Barbarian—so shall the strength be sapped from the loins of the people in this day. The Moon of Evil cometh with the opening of the month—and that which is written in the stone must be accomplished in human blood. Man shall be chastened yet again for his ungodliness. Nation shall war against Nation—Brother against Brother—and the Strongest shall go down into the Pit.'

He ceased as abruptly as he had begun and, apparently oblivious of their startled stare, reverted to the contemplation of his little book.

Further conversation seemed impossible in such circumstances and after a quick exchange of significant glances, Ann and Kenyon fell silent until the great blocks of indro-steel dwellings, which had recently sprung up outside Ipswich, came into sight. Then he leaned towards her again:

‘Will there be anyone to meet you?'

‘Yes,' she replied softly. ‘Uncle Timothy, I expect, with the slug on wheels.'

‘With what?'

She smiled. ‘His ancient car I mean.'

‘I see, well can I help you with your luggage or anything?'

‘No, I've only got one suitcase—but it is nice of you to ask.'

‘Not a bit—but look here. There's one thing I would like to know.'

‘Yes?'

‘What is the number of the house in Gloucester Road?'

‘Why?' she hesitated for a moment, ‘do you mean that you want to see me again?'

‘Of course—may I?' His blue eyes were very friendly. ‘How soon will you be back in London?'

‘On the thirtieth.'

‘All right—if I drop you a line will you dine with me one night?'

‘I don't know,' she spoke doubtfully, and a little wistfully, he thought, ‘you see, in some way that I can't quite explain you are rather different to most of the young men that I know—so I might!'

‘Tell me the number then.'

‘Two seven two,' said Ann, but he only just caught her words for as the train pulled into the station the strange man closed his book and burst into speech once more.

‘By numbers did the Architect build, and by numbers he shall destroy. The third Era of Azekel is at hand, and with the coming of the New Moon his reign of destruction shall begin. That which is written in the stone must be accomplished, and man chastened yet again for his ungodliness.'

As Kenyon pulled Ann's suitcase from the rack some superstitious current in her mind compelled her realisation of the fact that the new moon was due two days after her return to London. Two days, in which she might have seen this tall, auburn-haired, blue-eyed man again…. Would life hold a new interest for her by the coming of the August moon?

They had hardly stepped down on to the platform when a newspaper placard caught their eyes:

With a little nod of farewell to Kenyon, Ann turned to wave a greeting to the scraggy-necked clergyman who was hurrying
through the crowd towards her. Yet even as they moved apart both caught the tones of a harsh voice in their rear—crying out from the depths of the carriage.

‘Nation shall war against Nation—Brother against Brother—and the Strongest shall go down into the Pit.'

Ann Croome lay back in the largest of the three arm-chairs which, with a dilapidated settee, constituted the principal furniture in the sitting-room of 272 Gloucester Road.

Opposite to her stood Mr. Rudd, the landlord of this strange caravanserai. His yellowish hair was close-cropped and bristling at the top of his head, but allowed to grow into a lock in front which he carefully trained in a well-greased curve across his forehead. A small, fair moustache graced his upper lip, but as he always kept it neatly trimmed it failed to hide the fact that his teeth badly needed the attention of a dentist. His eyes were blue, quick, humorous and friendly.

‘It's this way, Miss,' Mr. Rudd twirled a greasy cap in his hands—the only headgear he had been known to use during his twelve years' tenancy in Gloucester Road. ‘White's white, an' yeller's yeller—if you take my meanin'. It wouldn't be fair to you an' the others ter take a Chinese fella inter the ‘ouse—so Mrs. P. can say wot she likes abart 'is art an' all—but the second floor front remains empty.'

Ann knew that Rudd's slender income was the shadowy balance between what he received from his tenants and the rent he paid for the house; and that he found it necessary in order to make both ends meet to act as storekeeper, loader, and occasional vanman to Mr. Gibbon—the grocer whose shop occupied the ground floor.

‘It means a serious loss to you,' she said.

‘Maybe, Miss—but my old lady sez to me afore she died: “Ted,” she sez, “seing' this ain't egsactly a posh ‘otel, it's
recommendations
wot counts—so, if you're ever in any quandairy, think of the comfort of the lodgers wot ye've got, an' you'll be orlright.”' She's married wiv an ‘usban' an' all, but I sez there's Miss Croome and Miss Girlie ter be thought of. But I'm scared now she may take the needle an' 'op it to another ‘ouse.'

‘Mr. and Mrs. Pomfret won't move just because you've turned their yellow friend down,' Ann assured him; ‘they're far too hard up.'

‘That's so, Miss—seven week 'e owes me for, an' not that I likes to discuss one person's business with another, but I don't get no credit with me rates. Still, 'is new book's comin' out on Friday 'e tells me—so we'll soon be touching the spondulicks now.'

‘It's a rotten time to bring out a new book.'

‘Yes, business is that bad everywhere, it's a poser ter me 'ow any of 'em carries on at all. Did you ‘ear about poor old Mr. Watney darn the street?'

‘No—do you mean at the dairy?'

‘Yes—put 'is ‘ead in the gas oven 'e did—'im an' 'is missus as well!'

‘How terrible!'

‘Crool, wern't it?—but as I said ter Mr. Gibbon—“wot can you expec'?—an old chap 'oo's conscientious like, an' owin' all them bills!”—'e owed Mr. Gibbon close on forty pound. An' when you bin livin' respectable all yer life it aint nice to owe people money—it ‘urts—but wot's a man to do if people won't pay 'im?'

‘But you wouldn't take that way out yourself, would you?' Ann inquired. Rudd's views on life amused her, so she always encouraged him to talk.

‘Wot, me?—no fear, Miss!' his broad grin displayed the ill-kept teeth. ‘I'm an old soldier I am—an' you know wot they say—‘
Old Soldiers Never Die—They Only Fades Away
,' but that ‘ud be a bit before your time I reckon. Lumme! come ter think of it, you couldn't ‘ave bin born when we went an' put the Kibosh on the Kaiser—yet it seems like only yesterday ter me.'

‘Was it really so terrible as the war books make out?'

‘Well,' he scratched his head thoughtfully, ‘I don't know about no war books—not bein' a great reader meself, but I used ter get the wind up proper when Jerry 'ad one of 'is special 'ates on, an'
the little visiters used ter make yer itch somethin' crool. Still, the War 'ad its compensations as yer might say. The grub was a treat—far better'n wot most people 'ad at ‘ome—an' if you could nobble a bottle or two of that vin rooge from an estaminay ter push around the Crown an' Anchor board in the billet of an evenin'—the War weren't none so dusty!'

Ann laughed. ‘It doesn't sound very romantic as you put it, but I expect you did all sorts of brave things as well.'

‘Brave?—me?—not likely!' Mr. Rudd's kind blue eyes twinkled. ‘I wouldn't never ‘ave seen a Jerry if it ‘adn't bin fer Mr. Sallust.'

‘Mr. Sallust?' Ann repeated with a puzzled note in her voice, as Rudd named the loose-limbed journalist with the perpetual stoop, who occupied the big back room on the first floor.

‘Why, yes, Miss—'e was my officer in the War, an' that's why 'e lives 'ere tho' 'e could well afford a better place. It's just 'is bein' a bit Bo'emian like, an' me knowin' all 'is little ways. Now 'e was a reel tiger—“Rudd,” 'e used ter say ter me when we was in the line—“what abart makin' some little h'addition to h'our collection ter-night?” “Very good, Mr. Sallust, sir,” I used ter say—since seein' I was 'is servant I couldn't say nothin' else, but I knew what that meant orlright—orlright. A couple of h'ours a-crawlin' round in No-Man's-Land till ‘e'd coshed an ‘Un wiv 'is loaded crop—an' took 'is pistol or binoculars orf 'im!'

Ann had always been interested in Gregory Sallust, although his caustic wit and avowed cynicism sometimes repelled her. Now she was trying to absorb this new view of him. But it was difficult to reconcile the lazy self-indulgent man she knew with Rudd's picture.

‘I suppose that is how he got his scar,' she remarked, thinking of the short white weal that ran from the outer corner of Sallust's left eyebrow up into his forehead.

‘That's so, Miss, one of them little Gurkhas give 'im that, mistook 'im in the dark for an Un—an' 'is langwidge!—strewth!—I thought they'd ‘ear 'im in Berlin an' put Big Bertha on us before I got 'im 'ome.'

‘Berlin!' Ann touched the evening paper with her foot, bringing the conversation abruptly to the latest news. ‘Isn't it terrible about this fire. Nobody seems to know if it is organised by Poles or Jews but it seems to be breaking out in a fresh place every
hour or so, and they say it has gutted thousands of houses and shops in the last two days.'

Rudd shook his head. They've 'ad a shockin' time an' no mistake. But it's Glasgow as worries me! It ain't in the paper o' course but I 'ad it on the Q.T. from Mr. Sallust this mornin'. The troops was firin' on the crowd lars' night—an' when it comes to that in
this
country….'

‘If that is true it is utterly shameful!' Ann's eyes blazed with partisan indignation. The workers have every right to meet and voice their grievances when the Government is so hopelessly incompetent.'

‘Ah, yes—the workers, but if you'll pardon me, Miss—this riff-raff ain't the workers. It's all them youngsters wot never done an ‘and's turn in their lives.'

‘Well, is that their fault?'

‘Yus—why don't they volunteer for the National Army of Labour wot was started lars' year? I'd conscript the lot o' them if I 'ad my way. Not that I 'old with armies mind you, but a bit o' discipline is what them sort wants, an' one of those old walrus-faced sergeant-majors to tickle 'em up a bit.'

‘How could we keep an army of five or six million men?'

‘Well, ain't we feedin' 'em all at the present time—an' they still gets a dole that's bigger than the army pay—so why shouldn't they do a bit o' work?'

Ann was saved from the necessity of replying by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Pomfret—large-bosomed, untidy, breathless and agitated as usual.

‘My dear!—Hildebrand?—isn't he back?' she exclaimed, ignoring Rudd.

‘I haven't seen him,' Ann replied, ‘did you want him for something special?'

‘No, oh! no,' Mrs. Pomfret sank on to the settee, ‘but we promised to see Zumo Kriskovkin's drawings this evening, and dear Hildebrand—he has
no
sense of time!'

Rudd shuffled his heavy boots uncomfortably. ‘Well, if there's nothin' you're wantin' I'll be gettin' along, Miss?'

Mrs. Promfret turned on him quickly. ‘Mr. Rudd, I do hope you have reconsidered what I was saying about Mr. Choo-Se-Foo?'

‘No, Marm,' Rudd backed swiftly towards the door, ‘you won' take it ‘No, Marm,' Rudd backed—but it's a rule of the
‘ouse in a manner o' speakin','

‘Oh, dear, oh, dear—' the large lady settled her skirt over her ample thighs, ‘you are a most unreasonable man,' but a sharp click of the latch informed her that Rudd had made his escape and was now half-way down to the insalubrious gloom of the basement where he dwelt in mystery and disorder. She turned on Ann.

‘The prejudices of the working classes are too absurd—don't you agree? Mr. Choo-Se-Foo is the most charming man, and yet, just because he is Chinese, Rudd won't have him in the house. It would be a real distinction to have a genius like Choo-Se-Foo among us, but the masses have positively no appreciation of the arts. Sometimes it makes me wonder if it is worth while to go on.'

Ann had a quick mental picture of a small, smirking Oriental, cunning and insincere, deprecating his own presence with wearisome false modesty, and sneaking in and out like some large yellow cat. Living at such close quarters made one cautious of offending the other occupants of the house however, so with a show of interest she said:

‘You know I'm afraid I'm terribly ignorant—but just what does Mr. Choo-Se-Foo do?'

‘
Do
!—my child!—but there, once again we see the tragedy of souls pinned down to earth because they are compelled to earn their daily bread. How can you have time for the beauties of life, and for your work? Choo-Se-Foo is, perhaps, the greatest sculptor of our time.'