How Dear Is Life (15 page)

“Father, what are you going to write to the Admiralty? Tell us!”

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know!”

Richard wrote his letter, carefully with stylograph wire-point pen, sealed the envelope, stuck a penny stamp on it, and posted it at Fordesmill, as he passed on the Sunbeam. He had warned the First Lord of the Admiralty that the German Fleet might try a surprise dash down the Channel, with masked lights, under cover of darkness, in order to raid Atlantic shipping; and as a loyal citizen he felt that it was his humble duty to point this out, in case it had not occurred to the responsible authorities. He had the honour to be, their Lordships’ most obedient servant, Richard Maddison.

No reply or acknowledgment ever came; but Richard, who as a boy, a would-be cadet, had failed to get into the Navy, had done his duty.

*

Bank Holiday tennis on the Hill. A day of sun and wind, white cumulus clouds passing swiftly across the blue, dry elm leaves rustling above a sun-baked gravelly soil, kites flying, distant Crystal Palace glinting along its grey scales. The thud of tennis balls on strung catgut (one or two strings broken), how proud he was of Father’s swift service, coming down from the racquet held at the top of his extended right arm, whipping just over the net, flicking in low swift bounce upon him. Willie as Father’s partner was jolly good, too, and beat him and Desmond. Then Eugene played with Desmond, and they beat Father and Willie. Eugene had a crafty, slicing, underhand service, which made the ball break in all directions. Phillip thought that it wasn’t quite sporting, just like a foreigner. Still, Eugene wasn’t half bad.

Father looked almost distinguished. He was glad he had asked him to play. He had been nervous about it at first, in case Father became cross. His relief therefore was the greater. Father wore old-fashioned brown-striped white flannel trousers, but they looked quite nice. Then Mavis and Doris and Petal came up to play, with cousin Hubert and Maudie his sister, at the next court. It really was a wonderful Bank Holiday. It felt somehow to be the last of the old kind of Bank Holidays. A pity Mother had to miss it all, having to do the housework. The wind blew, warm and sunny, the atmosphere was very clear. When the play was over, the question came uppermost again, Would Great Britain stand by France?

*

Thomas Turney sat on his usual seat, Panama hat on head, his hands clasping his thick yellow lemon stick, his ginger cat as
usual squatting underneath the seat, watching feet passing on the gravel path. Mr. Bolton walked up the gully, in covert coat, gloves, and bowler hat, to stop, as usual, and speak with his acquaintances, while Bogey the pug-dog rested in the shade underneath the seat, snuffling beside the cat. On the seat with Thomas Turney sat Mr. Krebs, the pink-bald German. Phillip went to speak to them, while the others were playing. Mr. Krebs did not talk much. Mr. Bolton said that his son had gone off to the London Highlanders camp near Eastbourne, with Peter and David Wallace, and his cousin Hubert Cakebread. “Quite a local contingent.”

Phillip said he was going later. Thoughts of sea-bathing and fishing for the rest of the summer enlivened him. Perhaps he could take Timmy Rat!

“Well, whether England comes in or not, the war can’t possibly last long, as I was saying,” said Thomas Turney. “I give it three months at the outside. No country’s economy could stand the strain of a modern war longer. What do you say, Krebs?”

Mr. Krebs sorrowfully shook his big bald pink head. “It is beyond me, Mr. Turney, it is beyond me quite. I am South German, I do not like vaw.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bigge passed, the little woman bowing and smiling, the tall gentleman beaming. She said to Phillip, “Now you have your cousin, I expect you’re happy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, rather, Mrs. Bigge.”

Oh hell, the Pyes were approaching. It was too late to get away. He waited, inwardly squirming.

“Ah, Mr. Turney, I hope I find you well! Momentous news, is it not? A challenge which I trust we shall not refuse! I do not think I could properly hold up my head again if we stood by while——” Mr. Krebs looked at his watch, got up, raised his hat, bowed, and walked away.

“Well, goodbye, Gran’pa. I’ll see you at Phillipi!” and raising his hat to Mrs. Pye, he hurried back to the grass court, unsquirming as he cursed the image of Old Pye, sanctimonious old humbug, fondling Helena Rolls like that years ago, at his Magic Lantern Party! He felt lithe and vital in his new white flannels, white socks and shoes, Donegal tweed jacket, and Old Boys’ silk scarf round neck. If only Helena Rolls could see him! If only
Willie could sec what a wonderful girl she was. Alas, Helena was away with her people at Shanklin, in the Isle of Wight.

*

All day the sun burned bright in the blue spaces of the wind.

Richard lay back in his deck-chair, his eyes shut. He was alone in the garden, alone with the hot brilliance upon his face, alone with his newspaper on the lawn beside him. The nesting boxes in the elm above were forsaken, the young titmice hatched and flown. Flowers wilted in the dry beds. The peach espalier he had trained, years before, against the garden fence, was dead. It had never borne any fruit, in London yellow clay and acid smoke.

Beyond the hot gaze of the sun upon closed eyelids, brow, and face, he felt the glow, the inner shining that still moved him in the face of the rare, the incomparable Jenny, who had died in her beauty, so young. She had entered his soul with the first glance of her tender brown eyes, a glance so loving, yet so self-possessed, as she took his hand and held it while he congratulated her and brother John at their wedding. All his young years floated before him in a golden dream—his mother’s death—his empty life until he met Hetty, so like Jenny, and yet——There was only one Jenny.
Ach
Isolde
,
Isolde
,
wie
schön
bist
du
——

Richard had never told Hetty; but she had divined his feelings the moment she had seen them together, during that beautiful, beautiful Lynmouth summer holiday. Poor Dickie, poor lonely bearded wheat, dreaming of the rose in the hedge!

When Richard awoke, a strange sight met his gaze: a young cuckoo, brown-barred, was perched on the fence dividing the gardens. It uttered a thin reeling cry, and a robin flew to feed it. It cried again, and a hedge-sparrow brought it food. Then it flew away, and sat in the oak tree at the bottom of the Rolls’ garden.

How could it find its way, alone, to Africa, he thought, and then, what a wonderful thing was instinct. He would tell the boys about it at supper. What a jolly little fellow Willie was—and what a difference he had made already to Phillip. Richard felt a sudden sense of freedom, the first he had ever felt in his own home.

R
ICHARD
was not the only one who felt that life was becoming clear at that time. Men who had been familiar strangers for years on the same suburban platform now exchanged the same newspaper opinions. Almost every one of a hundred thousand faces under straw-hats undulating on the pavements of London Bridge bore a look of new resolution, on the Tuesday following the August Bank Holiday.

Phillip and Willie, sharing a newspaper in the train, read that Germany had demanded free passage for her armies through Belgium, against France. “Necessity knows no law”, Bethmann-Hollweg, the German Chancellor, had declared in the Reichstag. Belgium had appealed to England for help. And yet Sir Edward Grey had spoken of taking action only if the Germans bombarded the Channel ports!

“I hope to God we declare war, Willie.”

“So do I!”

Feeling themselves to be marching, they crossed London Bridge. Phillip pointed out the Tower Bridge, the Monument, and then, his knowledge of guiding being exhausted, they stared at the spars and rigging of ships at wharf, the dingy barges moored in the Pool, the down-river funnels and high white superstructures of steamers.

“You go that way, Willie. Ask a policeman for the Mansion House. Then you can’t miss it.”

At No. 42 Wine Vaults Lane he dared to ring up Head Office, ask for the Country Department, and enquire of Willie how he was getting on. They agreed to meet for first luncheon.

The room at the top of the Moon Fire Office building in Hay-bundle Street was cool and airy. Waitresses in grey-and-white striped uniforms, starched white coifs on heads, with discreet smiles put before them ninepenny plates of tongue and green salad, followed by bread and cheese. There were large portions of Gruyère, Gorgonzola, Cheddar, Wensleydale, or Cheshire, of which they might cut as much as they liked.

Phillip ate Gruyère with mustard, having observed, when he had first used the luncheon room, that Costello, who had left
Heath School some years before himself, always had mustard with that holey cheese. Costello was a first-luncheon man; but they had seldom spoken. Costello flipped large pieces of Gruyère spread with mustard into his mouth from the point of his knife, as a gesture of superiority, or independence, thought Phillip, who considered it to be rather bad manners. He himself put his cheese, on broken bread, always unobtrusively into his mouth. Costello was in the London Highlanders. Today Costello was sitting beside Furrow, a hefty member of the London Rowing Club, who actually knew that he, Phillip, was in the same Company, as himself. Phillip was flattered when Furrow spoke to him.

“Well,” he said, on rising, “I expect you’ve heard that the Camp has been cancelled? This time next week we’ll be somewhere on the East Coast, with any luck.”

“Yes, rather!” agreed Phillip.

The cousins arranged to meet again at Head Office after the day’s work. The afternoon in Wine Vaults Lane passed strangely. Everybody seemed to be out of their offices, talking, looking at newspapers. The Government had sent an ultimatum to Berlin, requesting the German Army to evacuate Belgium by midnight. And the German Army was pouring on through Belgium! It meant war. Nobody could do any work. Even Mr. Hollis was absent. There was no paying-in at four o’clock, as all banks were closed, because of the Moratorium. Phillip went out and got a newspaper, returning with face tensed as he cried to Mr. Howlett, “Sir! The King has signed the order for General Mobilisation!” He felt a chill strike his spine.

“You’d better go, I think, Maddison. There’s nothing more to be done here. Goodness knows where Downham is——”

Phillip said goodbye to Mr. Howlett and to Edgar, and left.

Everywhere in the City streets, as he hurried to Head Office, were groups of men standing about, talking. He hurried through the shaded, nearly empty Leadenhall Market, with its high glass roof and pet-shop at one corner, where Father had bought Timmy Rat; through Leadenhall Street, down Cornhill, and so to the Royal Exchange. There a strange sight met his eyes. People were waving hats and cheering. Soldiers with fixed bayonets were marching to the Bank of England. People were crowding. It was terribly exciting. Tramp, tramp, tramp, moving as one man. The Guards! They were no longer in the familiar red jackets and black bearskins, but wore flat service caps and khaki trousers
with puttees. Good lord, there was Cranmer! Looking straight ahead, Cranmer with the others wheeled up the narrow street under the high black stone walls of what Gran’pa called the “Old Lady of Threadneedle Street”

“Crikey, my old pal Cranmer, whom I told you about, my corporal of the Bloodhound Patrol, must have joined the army! I haven’t seen him since he played footer for the Old Boys’ team, so that’s where he got to! Fancy Horace a soldier! I vote we don’t go home. Let’s stay up and see the sights!”

“Rather!”

They climbed on top of a bus going past St. Paul’s to the Strand. The Strand was a place he knew to be rather wicked, ever since Father had forbidden Doris to sing the popular song,
Let
’
s
all
go
down
the
Strand
(
and
have
a
banana
). Marie Lloyd had sung it at the Hippo, and added as a leering aside
Have
a
banana?
,
while the trombones went pom-pom-pom-pom-pom, and her blue eyes had glittered with a slow wink, her top teeth sticking out. She was, in Mother’s phrase, vulgar without being funny. It wasn’t very nice, really. But Doris had been quite innocent of the double meaning; and when she had repeated the words at home, afterwards, and Father had chided her, her face had gone blank, as usual. In the kitchen Doris had said, “I didn’t mean any harm, Mum! I don’t think it’s fair! But Father has always hated me, I know.”

They got off at the end of the penny ticket and went to have tea in an A.B.C. shop. “Boiled
egg
,
portion of cottage loaf, with butter and jam, twice please, pot of tea for two.” This
twice
business was the correct way to order for two. And when Willie offered to pay, “No, no! It’s my treat! I wonder what your friend Jack Temperley is doing now?”

“Helping with the corn harvest, Phil. I say, do you think your regiment will want volunteers? I’d like to join, if I can.”

“We’re not up to strength in ‘B’ Company, anyway.”

“Do you think they would have Jack?”

“Well, you’re supposed to have some Scottish blood, you know. They are fairly hot about not calling it Scotch, by the way. Scotch is used only for whiskey, you know. I say, where are all the people going to? Let’s go and see.”

They found themselves below Nelson’s column in Trafalgar Square. The agitation seemed to be around an old man with a white beard and cloth cap who was speaking with a Scottish
accent that the world could yet be saved from the cataclysm if only the wor-r-rkers in all countries maintained their solidarity against the capitalists’ greed for expansion! If the wor-r-rkers of all countries held out against the capitalists’ greed to seize the markets of their rivals! If the wor-r-rkers united themselves against the capitalists’ lust for greater profits! Against their urge to get greater power to suppress the living standards of the wor-r-rking classes!

“He’s got a red tie on!” said Phillip. “He’s like one of the Socialists on the Hill on Sunday afternoons in winter.”

“That’s Keir Hardie,” a man said, overhearing the remark.

Good lord! Aunt Dora and Sylvia knew him, then! Phillip looked at the old man with new interest. He was stirred by his way of speaking. He was startled when some men near him began to shout against him, “Little Englander!”

There was a scuffle. Men were trying to pull the old man off the plinth by the lions. His cloth cap, amid jeers and boos, was thrown into the air.

“Are they going to hurt him?” Phillip asked a policeman near him. The policeman did not reply.

“Boo! Boo! Boo! Filthy blackguard!”

A man with angry snarling face said savagely to Phillip, “That creature, to our country’s everlasting disgrace, is a Member of Parliament! Why, he’s illegitimate!”

“Move along there! Get a move on!” shouted the policeman. A terrific agitation of jeers and boos was drowning what Keir Hardie was saying.

“Lock him up! Why don’t you go to Germany? Yah! Boo!” Fists were held up, the crowd pressed, Phillip was shifted off his feet. Willie looked very startled, he thought.

Another part of the crowd was now singing
God
Save
the
King
. The singing spread, the ugly look on faces was gone. Phillip did not feel like joining in. Now that war was to start at midnight, he felt only slight chill and fear. Oh God, what would happen? Then he saw that a cordon of police was pushing itself around Keir Hardie and the people with him, who had such anxious, serious faces, with the look of Aunt Dora’s in them. The pressure of the crowd bore them away. Looking back, he saw mounted police, with them an inspector in blue pill-box hat and tight tunic with silver buttons, walking their horses into the crowd. It was awfully exciting, and it was also terrible. Where were the
people all going? He followed, with Willie. The crowd went under a heavy-looking grey arch, and along a straight wide road, with trees lining it, tall cream-painted mansions on one side rising above it. And on the other a park, with trees and grass. It was fun to follow the crowd—suddenly, far away in front was a familiar newspaper-view—good lord, it was Buckingham Palace!

*

The two boys returned home at twilight, the half-moon hanging in a sky flushed with calm hues of sunset, eager to tell how they had seen the King and Queen come out on the balcony of the Palace, with the Prince of Wales, to the tremendous cheers of hundreds of thousands of people, waving hats and yelling themselves hoarse long after the Royal party had gone in again. But when Doris opened the front door, she put her finger to her lips, and whispered, “Father is playing the gramophone.
Please
don’t make a sound, or he’ll stop it!”

They went quietly into the sitting-room, where, in the warm twilight of the french windows wide open to the garden, Father’s and Mother’s faces could just be seen. Most beautiful music, that he had not heard before, filled the room. It made him think of the sun, which was dying, and saying goodbye to the earth, a golden god slain in the darkness. He crept slowly, and very quietly, to be alone on the steps leading into the garden. After the music Father lit a candle by the gramophone in the corner of the room, to see the labels of the records.

“What was that one, Father? Could we have it again, please?”

Strangely, Father actually consented to play it again. He said it was the
Liebestod
from
Tristan
and
Isolde
. Once again the dying sun was saying goodbye to the earth it loved, since it had made all things on the earth. The strings rose in crescendo, waves of the dying sun-god sinking into the sea; and when it was ended he tip-toed through the room to the front of the house, and from the open window watched the moon of broken silver lying low in the dusk of the calm evening. Voices came from the dark grass, laughter and far-off yodelling cries of happy boys, a star shone very small. He thought of Uncle Hugh, and what he had told him about the South African War.

A low double whistle came from the bottom of the road. He knew that whistle. He jumped over the sill and went down to
meet Gerry, who was walking up, just visible in the darkening night that was so warm, so alive.

“Hullo, Gerry! Heard the news?”

“Have I not! I’m going to join your little lot tomorrow, with Bertie.”

“Oh, topping!”

He saw the big hanging cloth-shaded light in Mrs. Neville’s flat. Desmond’s new friend Eugene was staying for a month at the flat. He felt a little unwanted. Were not he and Des all in all to one another? Had Gene, with his queer brownish-yellow face and little brown eyes, taken his place as Desmond’s great friend? How quickly life was changing. Even with Willie come to live with them, it was rather sad, when you thought of the old days. It was rather like the new music Father had played.

When he returned with Gerry, the gas was lit in the sitting-room and the music over. That was rather sad, too. The solitary candle-light was gone. It would never be the same moment ever again. Did a candle-flame sometimes dream of the sun?

He dared to ask Father if he would play the record again; but Father said, as the keys on his bunch jingled at the gramophone lock, “No more now, old chap. Doris, it is past your bedtime, please!”

Doris got up abruptly, said “Good night all,” and left the room.

“Well, Gerry, how are you? I suppose you will find yourself in the Navy before very long, things being what they are?” He took out his watch. “In two and a half hours, this country will be at war. The ultimatum expires at midnight.”

Phillip felt the cold chill strike him again, as though the sun was really dying. Darkness! He reassured himself by thinking of guarding the East Coast. Gerry was saying, “We shall be at war in one and a half hours, Uncle Dick, surely? Berlin time is an hour before ours.”

Father looked serious, Phillip thought.

“Our ship left Hamburg yesterday morning, got away in time, I guess, too. The Deutchers are an hour earlier over there. They wanted to know if we had had special orders to leave, but we weren’t telling!”

“And you had better not tell us, Gerry, old chap! Official secrets, you know.” Father waggled his finger in warning.

When Father had gone out of the room, Phillip said, “Come on, tell us! Did you have special orders, Gerry?”

“You bet your life we did!”

“Tell us, come on, be a sport!”

“No flies on Winston Churchill, my boy. Well, the squareheads mean business, all right. You should have heard them cheering in Hamburg. Bands playing, and everything.”

“What were the special orders?”

“To vamoos like hell, all lights doused except navigation!”

That night, when the others were in bed, Richard went quietly to the front gate, and with a screw-driver removed the ten brass letters of
Lindenheim
from the top bar. Returning into the house, he took out his rifle and inspected it; then his special constable’s arm-band, which he had kept in his desk for a quarter of a century. If the Germans made a sudden raid on London in the night, like the Japanese at Port Arthur eight years before, he would be ready to do his duty, if called upon.