How Dear Is Life (16 page)

*

“General Mobilisation has been proclaimed by mounted heralds in the City,” said Mr. Howlett, returning from luncheon, the next day. “Head Office will lose over eighty men, in all departments. Thank heavens it isn’t anywhere near quarter day! By the way, I’ve got your salary cheque, but I’m afraid the banks are still closed, owing to the moratorium. When they open, there will be no more gold sovereigns, I’m told. Instead, the banks are to issue new one-pound and ten-shilling notes. In the meantime, can I be of any assistance, Maddison?”

“Thank you sir, it is quite all right.”

“Well,” said Mr. Howlett, “I suppose you ought to report to your headquarters? By the way, at a special meeting today at Head Office, the Directors agreed to pay full salaries of men away in the Army, with all annual rises due to them, for the duration of hostilities. That is, of course, in so far as individual men are required to serve, of course, by the Government.”

“Lucky devils!” exclaimed Mr. Hollis, seeing delight in his junior’s face. “You’ll have three months holiday at the Government’s expense—if it lasts so long, that is. You’ll be sitting on your bottoms in some Martello tower, waiting for an invasion that never comes, thanking God for the Royal Navy, while Howlett and I sit here in this dark little hole and do the work you and Downham will be paid for, you blighters! Seriously, Maddison,” he added, with a smile, “I wish I were twenty years younger. I’d be off like a shot, I can tell you! Then you”—
turning to Mr. Howlett—“would have to do all the work of the Branch!”

“Well,” said Mr. Howlett, easily, “it takes all sorts to make a world, and when you get your own Branch, Hollis, you’ll be able to have things your own way.” And putting a pink cheque on Mr. Hollis’ desk, Mr. Howlett went slowly upstairs.

Outside a newsboy was yelling in Fenchurch Street. Without waiting to be told, Edgar nipped out to get
The
Pall
Mall
Gazette
.

Mr. Hollis spread the paper on the counter. Phillip looked over his shoulder.

FIRE AND SWORD IN BELGIUM

GREAT GERMAN ADVANCE

Battle Near Liège

Town Ablaze

Populations Cut Up

Phillip set out, with a curious feeling of being hollow, to Headquarters. In Fenchurch Street a newspaper boy was yelling. He bought a
Globe
,
and returned to show Mr. Hollis.

IS LORD HALDANE 
DELAYING WAR
PREPARATION?

What Is He Doing 
At The War Office?

The Nation Calls for
Lord Kitchener.

“Good God, you back again?” exclaimed Mr. Hollis.

“I thought you’d like to see this, Mr. Hollis.”

“That’s very civil of you, Maddison. Let’s see what it says, shall we, what?”

“H’m, Haldane’s pro-German, of course. I remember when he said that Germany was his spiritual home. Time he was kicked out. Time you got to your regimental Headquarters, too, or you’ll find you’re kicked out.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Hollis, once more.”

Mr. Hollis gazed at him.

“Goodbye once more, you natural history specimen!”

Just then Downham came in, sporran swinging, neat fawn-spats, glengarry ribands dangling. He pointed at Phillip. “Orders to report at Headquarters forthwith. Hullo, Hollis. I came round to collect my cheque, and to say goodbye. The news is that the German Fleet has come out, and there’s been a hell of a scrap in the North Sea! Some of our ships have gone down, and hundreds of transports are steaming for the East Coast and the Thames Estuary!”

“My God!” cried Hollis. “Port Arthur over again! It’s that idiot Churchill!”

Upstairs the door opened. “What’s that, what’s that? Hullo Downham! What did I hear you say?”

Phillip felt as he had felt when, having set the Backfield alight, he realised it was spreading too fast for him to beat it out.

“You’d better go, I think, Maddison,” said Mr. Howlett very quietly. “I think I’ll get confirmation from Head Office, all the same.”

They all stared while he was on the line. “Yes sir. Very well, sir. We shall just have to, that is all. Good day to you, sir.”

He hung up.

“Well, I spoke just now to Reed, the General Manager. There’s no official confirmation of a naval action, except that a heavy cannonade has been heard all the afternoon off Southend. One of our agents rang up, apparently. Territorials should not wait for mobilisation papers, Reed thinks: the postal arrangements are bound to be a bit late, with the extra work suddenly put upon them. Anyway, as war has been proclaimed, there seems to be no point in delaying. So I suppose this really is goodbye, Maddison!”

Mr. Howlett shook hands first with Downham, then with Phillip.

“Goodbye, gentlemen, for the fourth time,” said Phillip, clapping on his straw hat, and quickly leaving the office, not wanting to leave with Downham. He hurried, not to Headquarters, but home.

*

He was obsessed with an idea that he must get his pair of brogue walking shoes repaired. Those French soldiers, straggling along an open road, from nowhere, in broken boots! If he had extra thick soles, he would be all right.

Immediately after Mrs. Feeney had opened the door to him, he got his brogues and took them to Freeman, Hardy and Willis in the High Street, asking for the thickest possible clump to be put on each sole, and a heavy studding with nails.

This done, he hastened home to try on his uniform. So far he had done no more than take it out of the kit-bag since bringing it home the previous winter. He had been shy of the kilt. He must hurry, to try it on before Father came home. Then he must report at Headquarters.

“Mum, will you give me a hand?”

“Yes, dear, of course.” She was curious to know if anything in the way of knickers was worn under a kilt; but forebore to ask, as he took it out of his bottom drawer and laid it on the bed.

“I think I’ll have my cold tub first.”

Bath over, towel wrapped round middle, he hopped back into his bedroom. He tried on the kilt. It was pleated, pale pinkish grey, rather like the colour of the bells of the ling on Exmoor as they were fading. Wound round the waist, and fastened by two straps, it hung free, though he had a sort of naked feeling until he found the brooch pin which secured the skirt end. He put on the thick woollen hose, held up by garters with forked ends, that showed below the turned-down tops. Then his second-best pair of black calf shoes, and spats to be strapped under the soles and buttoned to just below the calf.

To view the effect he ran up to Mother’s bedroom, to look at himself in the long mirror of the wardrobe. Oh, he looked awful! Pigeon chest! Sparrow knees! Owl eyes! He would never dare to go outside like that!

“Well, dear, why not put on shirt and jacket first?” Hetty laughed; but seeing his face, became helpful. Had he not forgotten his pouch? Or did he call it a sporran? He said he did not know. It was used for a purse, anyway. It lay in the corner
of the drawer, underneath his old yellow-faded school cricketing trousers. Seeing these, Hetty went out of the room, not wanting him to see her tears.

He fastened on the empty purse; then buttoned up his khaki jacket. He tried the glengarry bonnet with the white-metal badge pinned to its side—the lion of Scotland, the Cross of St. Andrew, and the rather frightening motto.

“May I come in, dear?’

“Yes, Mum. Do I look awful?”

“You look very nice, dear. The kilt suits you. Do come downstairs, and let Mrs. Feeney see before she goes.”

Mrs. Feeney, bonnet on head, empty porter bottle and last of the mutton bone wrapped in
The
Daily
Trident
within her black American-cloth bag, was about to depart out of the kitchen.

“My, you look quite handsome, Master Phillip! Fancy you a sojer! Good luck, Master Phillip! Ah, well! Good-day, m’am! See you next Wednesday, all being well,” the old woman cried cheerfully, as she let herself out by the front door.

He went next door to show his new finery to Gran’pa. He found him reading
The
Evening
News
,
which contained a report of gun-fire heard off the coast of Kent, but “further reports of a naval action were unconfirmed.” He decided to report the following morning.