How Dear Is Life (23 page)

Dinner was the usual skilly which had steamed away until the fresh vegetables added were nearly dissolved, and the meat threaded or fibrous. There were sometimes dumplings which had white unkneaded flour at their cores. Skilly was followed by treacle tart, the
spécialité
de
la
cookmaison
,
said Mortimore, who had a weekly hamper from Fortnum and Mason in Piccadilly. The thin pastry was invariably burnt, the treacle dried brittle and brown. Skilly was preferable to the hunks of leathery mutton or frizzled and blackened beef. They ate outside their tents, on or beside the neatly piled blankets. Morty dished out the skilly for the members of his tent, while making his usual sort of joke about the food, such as,

“Even Doctor Watson would not need to be told that the chef had not received his training at the Ritz. Maggot, dear boy, take away that horrible crock and return it,
clean,
to the so-called cookhouse, will you?”

Each man in the tent took his turn at what was called orderly dog, fetching the grub from the cookhouse, returning dixie and baking pan after cleaning in the heather.

“It’s not my turn, Morty, today. It’s Kirk’s.”

“Kirk is on headquarters guard at six o’clock tonight, and has to get his equipment smartened up, dear boy, as well as go on parade this afternoon, so don’t argue, but take those beastly things away. Whatever names they bear, they smell the same, as
the Bard certainly would have said, had he been here. Go on, be a sport, dear boy.”

Phillip sat still.

Morty raised his handsome eyebrows.

“Skedaddle laddy, skedaddle. It won’t take you a couple of minutes.”

“But I want to take my spare shoes to the snobs shop, to be re-soled, ready for all eventualities.”

“You can take them tonight. And don’t let the Quartermaster-sergeant charge you for them, the old robber. He tried it on me. The Army pays now. Come, show your elasticity, dear boy!”

When Phillip did not move, he said, “Come on, Phil, don’t muck about with discipline. You could have done it and been back by now. Don’t try and fight the army.”

Still Phillip did not move.

“Very well, since you ask for it.”

After early parade next morning for Swedish drill, an orderly came with a message that Captain Forbes wanted to see Maddison.

“But I haven’t shaved,” he cried, in panic. His face was lathered, his cut-throat razor was open in his hand. His looking-glass was fixed on the outside of the tent below.

“That baby fluff can wait,” said Church, appearing in the tent-opening. “Why ever they let you into the battalion, I can’t imagine.”

“You Leytonstone lout! Will you fight?” shouted Phillip, in sudden rage at the sight of Church’s rabbit teeth.

“Any time you like!”

“After parade tonight, then!”

Ironical cheers came from the lower tent. Collins’ face looked out, with Kerry’s “Yah boo, von Maggot!”

“Leytonstone louts!” cried Phillip.

“Choice of weapons rests with the challenged,” laughed Morty. “Entrenching tool handles, or do you prefer the razor? No offence, dear boys!”

Phillip wiped his face hurriedly, put on tunic and glengarry, and ran to the Officers’ Lines.

An angry Fiery Forbes cried, “If this sort of thing occurs again, I won’t take you overseas! I don’t want, and won’t have, any petty trouble-makers in my company! The discipline of my company is based, in every particular, on loyalty between all
ranks! Now if you waste more of my time, or Corporal Mortimore’s time, you’ll go back to the second battalion. Have I finally made that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then go and apologise to Corporal Mortimore.”

Phillip remotely hoped that he would not be taken overseas; yet it would be awful if he were sent away as a washout.

When he got back to the tent, he found Morty in a state of glee. An orderly had come with a chit from the Adjutant to say that his commission had come through. He was a second-lieutenant in the Roughriders. Already he was gazing at the new pair of fawn cavalry twill breeches he kept in his kitbag.

“I’m sorry about the dixie, Morty.”

“That’s all forgotten, dear boy.”

More excitement was to come a few minutes later. The Colour-sergeant came down the lines, and, looking into the open flap of each tent, spoke while holding a paper in hand. From each tent as he left it there arose cheering.

“Morning parade is cancelled. The order has just come that the London Highlanders will proceed overseas at forty-eight hours notice.”

The effect on the members of the tent who were inside at the time was varied. Elliott threw himself on his back and waggled his legs in the air, cheering happily. Douglas, a dark, handsome rugger-playing Old Blue, looked thoughtful, then happy. Slade, a big, quietly genial fellow, always the same, red of face and country-looking although he had worked all his life in a bank, smiled contentedly. Little Blunden, who looked so sturdy and tough, said, “Well, anyone who wants to help himself to my food box is at liberty to do so.” Tommy Atkins, apple-cheeked gospeller, who read his Bible morning and evening, and prayed kneeling down, with hands clasped, said: “Well, that is what we all have trained for, boys, and it is God’s will.” Kirk, a delicate youth with pince-nez spectacles, sat with thin nostrils open wider than usual. Baldwin flushed as he smiled quietly. A chill struck into Phillip, which remained, although now he had a good excuse to get out of fighting Church.

Morty dug into his kitbag and produced a bottle of champagne. The whole camp was lively, cheering arose everywhere.

“A loving cup, dear boys! You’ll have to drink out of your tooth-mugs, I’m afraid.”

When the human effervescence had subsided, with that of the liquid in the tooth-mugs, the subject of leave became linked with speculation about the battalion’s destination. Gibraltar? Malta? Egypt? Perhaps India? Lines of communication in France? Possibly even South Africa, since some of the Boers were known to be openly on the side of the Germans.

Excitement settled when it became known that there would be no embarkation leave. Thinking of his mother, Phillip felt darkness filling him. Why had he asked her specially not to come and visit him? The other chaps had had their mothers and fathers down. But he could not very well have asked her without Fathe: and he did not want the others to see him. It was nothing to do with being half-German, that was all rot. It was—well, Father might say awkward things, or be cross with Mother. He had envied the others of the tent, Douglas, Kirk, Morty, Norman, who had been so friendly with their fathers.

Morty had already packed. “Help yourselves to the hamper, dear boys.” He said he intended to give himself a week’s leave in London, to be fitted for his uniform before reporting to the Roughriders depôt.

“Think of me with a bit of fluff dancing at the Grafton Galleries tonight, dear boys, after a dinner at the Trocadero and a revue. Seriously, I’m damned sorry I’m not coming with you.”

Before Morty left, Phillip asked him if he would send off a telegram for him at the station. “Oh course, my one and only Elastic Maggot! No offence, dear boy: you ought to know what a silly old ass I am, by now!”

Phillip wrote the telegram and gave Morty sixpence.

“My dear old top,” said Morty. “I won’t hear of it! I’ll send it off as soon as I get to Crowborough, count on that. Any more telegrams?” Putting them in his pocket-book, “So long, dear boys! We’ll all meet again in Berlin, and drink hock, and eat that sauerkraut! Come now, all together, the ‘Hymn in Praise of Camp Cooking’!”

Lance-corporal Mortimore led off with the words of his famous song.

Phillip shouted the last two words with the others. He joined in the cheering as handsome, gay Morty walked up the lines. They watched him so far as the top, where he blew them a kiss, and was gone.

“Y
OUR
parents have come, and are looking for you,” said Douglas; and Phillip, trying to fit his greatcoat into the new khaki valise which had been issued that morning, promptly went to find them. He greeted them with a salute, having observed an officer greeting his wife like that. The next thing was to get leave to go with them to Crowborough, to the Beacon Hotel, for lunch.

“Just a moment, Mother, I’ll see if I can find the Colour-sergeant. Things are a bit mucked up this morning. I won’t be long.”

Unable to find Colours, he ventured up to the Officers’ lines. Captain Forbes’ tent was empty. What should he do? Seeing the grey head and moustaches of the Earl of Findhorn for a moment in the opening of his tent, he went with some trepidation towards that distinctly awesome presence. Outside the tent he stood to attention, and saluted. The lean face with an irritable expression looked at him with distaste.

“Who are you?”

“If you please, Sir, my Father and Mother have come to see me, and may I have permission to——” He stopped, as sharp little teeth appeared under the moustache, with a snarl of anger.

“What the devil——! Get out! Get out!”

Phillip turned and ran away, jumping over guide ropes and dodging round tents until he found himself in ‘F’ lines. Bending down, he hastened through ‘G’ and ‘H’; and walking briskly downhill, came to where his parents were waiting at the bottom of ‘B’ lines.

“Don’t look back! Follow me! It’s all a bit of a muck up today, anyway the Colonel said I could get out, so I take it he meant the camp. This way, please don’t look back, just follow me along the track. It’s about two miles to the hotel.”

The room adjoining the main dining-room of the Beacon Hotel was small, and crowded with tables. They entered, among officers and other ranks sitting quietly with their relations. Seated before his father and mother, and speaking scarcely above a whisper, he asked how things were at home.

“Oh, much the same, old chap,” said Richard. “Timmy Rat misses you, I think, but we are looking after him for you.”

“S-sh! Not so loud.”

After awhile Hetty said, “Zippy is very good with him, Phillip, he hardly ever gets on the copper. We see that he has plenty of water, too.”

“Oh good.”

He stared at the table. The meeting he had imagined so many, many times had been entirely different.

It was a slight relief when Baldwin appeared at the door, with his red-haired girl. Phillip had been introduced to her; but he did not greet them. He kept his eyes on the table. All the tables were filled. He did not think of asking them to share his table. In his father’s presence, mild as it had been for a year and more, he could never think. He sat there impotently uneasy. Baldwin and his girl went out again, silently as they had come in, as though also over-awed by the presence of officers there.

“Your sister Mavis is coming as a stop-gap, to work in the office after Christmas, you may be interested to hear, Phillip.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Yes, dear, she is learning to type now, at Clark’s College in Fordesmill.”

“Oh.” Then, “How is Timmy Rat? And Gran’pa?”

“Oh very well, dear, Gran’pa and Aunt Marian asked me to send their love.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“I think you may be interested to hear that Mr. Rolls has joined the Rifle Club, Phillip,” said Richard.

“Oh.” Phillip’s eyes were on his plate.

“When I saw Mrs. Rolls the other day, dear,” said Hetty, “she said that she is organising a Knitting Party connected with St. Simon’s Church, to knit socks for soldiers.”

His agony lest others overhear the name of Rolls was equalled by a momentary wild hope that Mrs. Rolls might have told Mother this as a hint that Helena was going to knit some socks
for him; but the hope died when she said, “How are your socks, dear? Both Mrs. Bigge and Mrs. Neville have asked for your measurements, so I expect you will have plenty before long.”

To this he could not reply.

“By the way, before I forget, Phillip. It was most kind of you, old chap, to offer us all the use of your salary while you are away; but at the moment it might be the best thing to have it paid half-quarterly into a deposit account at the bank, until such time as you may need it. The first payment, as you know, is due at the end of the month, at Michaelmas.”

“Thanks,” said Phillip hastily, hoping that Father would not mention the amount. Some of the fellows in the battalion were quite rich, and he did not want them to know that he had been earning only fifty pounds a year. Hastily he sought another subject.

“Mother, I did tell you we saw the King, on our march down here, didn’t I, in my letter?”

“Yes dear. I wish I could have seen him. What did he look like?”

“Oh, just like the photographs, only sort of browner, his beard you know. His eyes had heavy creases underneath them. There were three other officers with him, all in blues.”

“How very interesting, dear.”

Sipping soup scarcely tasted, or realized, Phillip saw Douglas’ face at the door. When Douglas had gone, Mother said, “What a very nice man, dear! He was so helpful when he saw us looking for you. He brought us to your company lines, and apologised for not being able to take us into the Officers’ Mess, explaining that he was not an officer.”

“He’s just got a stripe. He was at the Bluecoat School.”

“I could see there was something fine about him. Oh well, I did my best to get you a presentation for Christ’s Hospital, when you were small.”

“Douglas comes from Fordesmill, you know.”

“Ah! I thought I had seen his face before, dear.”

“Have you fired your Lee-Enfield rifle yet, Phillip?”

“Not yet, Father,” he said, in a low voice. Why did Father speak so loudly?

“I suppose you will, before you go?”

“I don’t know, Father.” How could he stop Father?

“But surely, my boy, before you go overseas you will fire at least once on the range?”

Fried slices of plaice were hurriedly swallowed.

“Perhaps Phillip will, dear, there’s no knowing. Anyway, you may be going to Egypt, may you not?”

“They haven’t issued us with sun-helmets,” he whispered. Thank God the officers were going out. “We’ve got our new valises. There’s a rumour we are going to have the short rifles, the ones with the wooden stock extended up to the muzzle, but I really don’t know. All I know is that our names, numbers, regiment, and religions are now being stamped on identity discs.”

Hetty tried not to think about it. Richard, too, was feeling worried. There had been an article in
The
Daily
Trident
about the need for the powers-that-be to think in terms of modern warfare, particularly the part that the machine gun was going to play in the battles to come when the main armies confronted one another. The Germans had a great many machine guns. While Phillip and his fellow territorials had not even learned to fire their rifles!

Hetty could see that Phillip was in agony about further questions. Richard took the hint, and chose what he thought was a subject of general interest.

“Well, tell us if you have seen anything of the Russians that came down from Scotland, old chap.”

“I don’t think it’s true. Also, it has been officially denied, as I wrote and told you.”

“Well, a lot of people appear to have seen them on their journey south, as they travelled down from Leith. Some porters were seen brushing snow out of the carriages afterwards—that at any rate was the tale, Phillip. If they did come from Archangel, and have crossed over to France, they may just turn the scale, you know. And it is hardly likely that any arrival of reinforcement troops would be mentioned in the papers, is it?”

Richard’s words did nothing to lessen his son’s taut fears of his father appearing dogmatic before the other fellows in the room. Phillip swallowed tasteless food; and after coffee, said he ought to be getting back to camp. Trying to make light of the gloomy situation, he said, “I hope the Colonel doesn’t recognise my beastly physogg!”

It was now Hetty’s turn to try and make light of what, after all, was only an aggravation of the usual awkwardness between
father and son, a condition that almost her entire spiritual life at home had been devoted to removing.

“Perhaps he won’t remember it, dear, with so much on his mind at present.”

“You don’t know him as I do,” muttered Phillip. “He’s a martinet.”

“Anyway, he must be used to your ways by now, dear!” she said, with a smile; which remark produced in him a scowling sigh, as he stared at the tablecloth. The waiter was sweeping up the crumbs, preparatory to laying fresh knives and forks.

“Well,” said Richard, “we had better be moving.”

Outside in the sunny air of a calm September afternoon fresh fears assailed Phillip. “I say, please don’t be offended, but do you mind if I don’t see you off at Jarvis Brook Station? I think I ought to be getting back now—I haven’t a pass, and the military police may report me. Well, give my love to everyone, including Mrs. Neville and Desmond, Gran’pa, Aunt Marian, and everyone you can think of. Don’t let Tommy go anywhere near my bedroom, will you? Or he’ll pinch the rest of my birds’ eggs.”

“No, dear, of course not.” She opened her purse. “Now, dear, I have brought this for you.” She took out a small silver and ebony crucifix. “It was mine as a girl at the convent at Thildonck, and and if you wear it round your neck, I am sure it will keep you from harm, wherever you are. And you won’t forget your prayers, will you?”

He took it hurriedly, and put it in his breast pocket. “I’ll put it on the leather bootlace which Baldwin said is best for our identification disks. Well, I think I ought to go back now. Goodbye Father, goodbye Mother.”

He saluted, and was about to turn away when Hetty said, “Give me a kiss, dear.” He flinched at this; but removing his glengarry, kissed her lightly on her cheek. He shook his father’s hand.

“Well, do your best, old chap! Good luck!”

“Yes, Father. Goodbye.”

He saluted, and turned away and without looking back strode along the road leading to Ashdown Forest. Hetty turned, and waved her handkerchief to the striding figure. Richard took her arm, to comfort her.