Old Filth (19 page)

“Nor will any of us,” said Loss.

All at once, high above the Fragrant Isle and to the South, there was a startling scatter of light. Several groups of tiny daylight stars, triangles of silver and scarlet that the sun caught for a moment before they were lost in the smoke. Aeroplanes.

“Like pen nibs,” said Eddie. “Dipped in red ink.”

“Japs,” said Loss.

The British Army was everywhere on the quays, top brass striding, the Governor with his little cane, the refugees being welcomed but too dazed to understand. A procession of stretchers. Eddie saw one old woman on a crutch asking courteously if anyone had seen her sister, Vera; then collapsing. Crowds hung over the rails of the Customs and Excise who were unhurriedly examining credentials even of the stretcher cases.

“What will happen to us?” said Eddie. “We'll vanish in all that. The bombing here will start any time.”

“We're to refuel and turn round,” said Loss—he had found the Chief Engineer. “It'll be quite a time before we're refuelled though, and we'll be taking on refugees.”

“Turn
back
?” said Eddie. “To Sierra Leone again?”

“No. Back to England. All the way. Probably via Cadiz.”

“I must get a message to my father.”

“If you send a message, it will have to be in Japanese.”

The ship somehow sidled into the madhouse harbour, the engines shuddered loudly, then stopped, and they were tied up and the first gangplank let down. Loss and Eddie stood above it, side by side, like lamp-post and bollard. Loss, now that Eddie looked down, had with him his suitcase and haversack.

“Feathers, I'm staying.”

“You're
what
?”

“I'm staying here. D'you want to come with me?”

“You can't stay. You've no money. You'll be on your own.”

“I've a bit of money and I won't be alone. I've a couple of uncles. Attorneys. Everyone's an attorney in Colombo. I shall be an attorney one day. So will you, I can tell. I'll be safe from the Japanese. I'm not British. Not white. Come with me. My relatives are resourceful.”

“What about the customs?”

“Oh, I am adept at slithering through.”

“Loss, you'll disappear. The Japs'll be here in a week. After they've bombed Colombo into the sea. If you don't get killed by a bomb, they'll dispose of you and no one will know.”

“I tell you, Feathers, I am lucky. I am The Albat Ross. I'll give you my pack of cards. An Albat Ross feather. A feather to Feathers. Here you are. Oh, could you give me your watch? For emergencies?”

“It's my father's.”

“I may need it.”

The masked face. The humourless, cunning, dwarf's eyes . . .

“Yes, of course.” Eddie took it off and put it in Loss's outstretched hand.

“See,” said Loss. “You'll be safe. Just look—,” and he pointed up behind Eddie at the mast-head “—an albatross. You don't often get them this far South.”

Eddie looked and saw nothing. He turned back and Loss had gone.

 

C
racks like shots and a roar followed by heavy black smoke emerged from the region of the bonfire, just off-stage from Filth's sun-lounge, and Garbutt, looking older now, went rebelliously by with yet another load of leaves.

I don't know what's the matter with the man. He knows how I feel. It's too soon to burn. The stuff hasn't died down. He's not normal.

Garbutt came back, past him again, a fork over the barrow for the next load. Each time he passed his jaw was thrust out further, his eyes more determinedly set full ahead.

He's a pyro—pyro. Pyro-technic? Pyrocanthus? Pyrowhatever (words keep leaving me). He's destructive as old Queen Mary. Pyro—pyro? How can I get on here?

And to whom could he complain now old Veneering was gone?

He was amazed at his regret for Veneering. It was genuine grief. Veneering the arch-enemy had become the familiar and close friend. The twice-a-week chess had become the comforting note in an empty diary. There had been visits to the White Hart for lunch, once even for dinner, in Salisbury. Once they had taken a car to Wilton to look at the Vari Dycks. Veneering turned out to be keen on painting and music and Old Filth, trying to hide his total ignorance of both, had accompanied him. Veneering read books. Filth had not been a reader. Veneering had introduced him to various writers. “Only of the higher journalism,” he'd said. “We won't tax our addled brains. Patrick O'Brian. You were a sea-faring man, Filth, weren't you? In the War?”

“I hate the sea,” said Filth, putting down O'Brian.

“I'd quite like a cruise,” said Veneering, but saw Filth look aghast. “I'd not have even thought of a cruise once,” said Veneering. “I was beyond cruising before you came round that Christmas Day.”

“Yes,” said Filth with some pride. “You were in dry dock.”

Muffled up, the two of them walked sometimes round the lanes, Filth instructing Veneering in ornithology.

“You are full of surprises,” said Veneering.

“My prep school Headmaster,” said Filth. “He went off to America in the War and I suppose he died there. He didn't keep up with any of us. He'd done his duty by us.”

“Very wise.”

“I tried to find him when I came back from my abortive attempt at being an evacuee. We had to turn for Home, you know. Took three months. Four months, going out. Singapore fell before we got there. My father was there. He died in Changi.”

“I'd heard something of the sort.”

“I used to make a joke of it. Dinner parties. All the way to Singapore, and about turn, back again.”

“It can't have been a great joke.”

“No. The journey home was worse than going out. We were stacked with casualties. They kept dying. There was none of the Prayer Book and committal to the deep and
Abide with Me
and so forth. They were just shovelled over. I hung on. I kept imagining Sir—my Headmaster—would be waiting for me at Cadiz. Or my Auntie May.”

“I had not thought you the type for an Auntie May.”

“Missionary. Wonderful woman. There was another missionary on the boat. A Miss Robertson. She died of gangrene and they shovelled her off, too.”

“Have you written about all this?”

“Certainly not. Old Barrister's memoirs are all deadly. Don't you think?”

“Yes. But maybe you'd have surprised us.”

“I've grown my image, Veneering. Took some doing. I'm not going to upset it now.”

“You mean upset
yourself
?”

“Yes. Probably. Have some more hock.”

 

But Veneering gone—ridiculous to have taken a cruise at his age—Filth's loneliness for the old enemy was extraordinary, his mourning for him entirely different and sharper than his mourning for Betty. He'd told Veneering more than he'd ever told Betty—though never about Ma Didds. He'd even told Veneering about the buttermilk girl. Veneering had cackled. He'd told him about Loss. “Did you tell me about that before?” asked Veneering. “It rings a bell. Did I know him?”

“You're wandering,” said Filth. They were playing chess.

“Not far,” said Veneering, taking his queen.

 

I suppose Memoirs might be in the order of things, he thought, with Veneering dead and his house next door torn apart, windows flung wide, a family with children shouting, crying, laughing, breaking through his hedge; the parents growing vegetables and offering him lettuces. Once a child from Veneering's house had landed at his feet like a football as he sat in the garden reading the Minutes of a new Temple Benchtable. He wanted to throw the child back over the hedge. “Sorry,” the child said.

“I suppose you want your ball back.”

“I haven't got a ball.”

“Well, what's that in your hand?”

“Just some old beads.”

Giggles from the bushes.

“I found them in that flower-bed.”

He vanished.

Bloody self-confident, thought Filth. I don't understand children now. Sir would have flayed him. Then: What am I talking about? Acting the Blimp. Sir wouldn't have flayed him. He'd have lectured him on birds.

But, too late for that, he thought.

 

He sat to his desk and attempted a Memoir, but found it impossible. Opinions, judgements had made him famous, but how to write without opinion or judgement? Statement of facts—easy. But how to decide which were the facts? He shrank from the tremendous, essential burden of seeing himself through other people's eyes. Only God could do it. It seemed blasphemous even to try. Such a multitude of impressions, such a magnitude of emotion. Where was truth to be found?

“Why did you become an advocate, Filth?” Veneering used to ask. “Don't tell me you wanted to promote the truth.”

“Justice. It interested me.”

“And we know that justice is not the truth.”

“Certainly not.”

“But it's some sort of step towards it?”

“Not even that. Do you agree?”

“I agree,” Veneering had said, busy with his ghastly jigsaw. “The Law is nevertheless an instinct. A good instinct. A framework for behaviour. And a safeguard (good—bit of the church roof) in time of trouble.
Parlement of Foules—Chaucer
.”

“Rooks have a parliament,” said Filth, keeping his end up.

 

But though his Memoirs went on endlessly, and rather impressively as he thought them through in the small hours of the night, sometimes to the accompaniment of his beating heart and too much whiskey, when it came to getting them upon paper they would not come. They made him feel so foolish. He felt Betty looking over his shoulder and saying kindly, “jolly good.” He sat in the sun-lounge each morning, defeated, and Garbutt went tramping by. Oh, how could one concentrate? And, oh great heaven! Here came that Chloe in lacy mauve and a perm, round the back of the house and waving a cake. To think he had once . . .

He deliberately arose, holding his tartan blanket round him and shuffled to the other side of the table to sit with his back to her, facing the door to the sitting-room which immediately opened and in came the cleaning lady, Mrs.-er, with a cup of tea.

Decisions came fast to Filth, all decisions except what to include in his Memoirs. Mrs.-er put down the cup and saucer, talking the while, saying that that Chloe from the church was wanting to give him another sponge.

“Mrs.-er,” he said, “I've been meaning to tell you. I am going away.”

“Away? Oh, yes?”

“Yes. I am going to Malmesbury.”

“
Malmesbury
? Down Gloucester?”

“Yes. I was there in the Army during the War. Just for a look round.”

“If it's hotels, be careful. There'll be steps and stairs you don't know. Remember poor Judge Veneering.”

“It is not a ship. I'll leave my address.”

“I'll pack for you.”

“Thank you, I'm sure I can manage. And I'll be hiring a car.”

Two minutes later he saw her outside, furiously conferring with Garbutt, the mauve woman having disappeared. Their excitement maddened him.

 

The next day, she came in to tell him that if it was a hotel he ought to have new pyjamas.

He said, “Oh, and Mrs.-er, when I come back I intend to manage here alone.”

“
Alone
?”

“I think I am becoming too dependent on you all. I'm going to employ the Social Services. The Meals on Wheels. I'm sorry, Mrs.-er.”

“After all these years you still don't know my name,” she said. “That's it, then. I'll go now. Get yourself to Malmesbury.”

He saw her clacking at Garbutt on the lawn and marching away, and felt gleefully cruel. He opened the glass doors and waited till Garbutt went by.

“I know what you're going to say,” said Garbutt. “I'll just see the fire's out, then I'm off. You know where to find me if you change your mind. Her name's Katey, by the way. You've gutted her.”

 

In the hotel at Malmesbury, journey safely accomplished, splendid room looking across at the Abbey, smell of a good dinner floating up, his unrepentant euphoria remained. Their blank faces, ha! Their disbelief. They'd see he was his own master yet. And here in Malmesbury not a soul knew him. He stumbled on the stairs and limped into the dining-room, rather wishing he'd brought his walking-stick for his explorations tomorrow.

 

The ankle next morning was the size of a small balloon and he telephoned the Desk for assistance. They suggested bringing him breakfast in bed which outraged him. Staggering down a steep flight of stairs between two waiters, he somehow made the breakfast-room. Outside it was pouring with rain and people went by behind umbrellas at a forty-five degree angle against the wind. Unable to walk from the table, he enquired whether there was a doctor who could come and see him and was told the way to a surgery. It was not far, they said, but Old Filth couldn't even reach the hotel's front door and sank upon an oak bench. People passed by. A whole coachload of tourists streamed past, chattering about the disappointing weather. He asked if the Desk would ring for a doctor to call to examine him.

“You'd have to go to the hospital for that. For an X-ray.”

“I only need a GP's opinion.”

The Desk stared. “You'd have to go round to the surgery. They don't do home visits now unless it's serious.”

He asked the Desk to call a taxi.

The paving stones between the taxi and surgery door shone slippery and menacing. He hesitated. The umbrellas continued to go by. At last he was helped in, and found a room crowded and silent like a church and one girl at a screen with her back to the audience.

“I need to see a doctor.”

“Yes.” She handed him a disc saying “21.”

“Do I wait here?”

She looked surprised. “Where else?”

“This means that there are twenty people ahead of me?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of wait will that be?”

“A long one.”

“An hour?”

“Oh, nearer two.”

He rang the Desk and asked for his luggage to be collected and brought down to the hotel foyer. And would they kindly ring the car-hire company to come and take him from the surgery, then back to the hotel and then home to the Donheads.

 

“It wasn't even Malmesbury I really wanted to go to, it was Badminton. Just down the road,” he told this driver.

“It is. Just as it ever was. Down the road and down the hill.”

“I was there in the War. Wanted to have another look. I was in the Army.” (His ankle was hell.)

“There's a good hotel near there where you could keep your foot up. They might get you a doctor. Were you there with the Royals? They'll be pleased to see you if you were. Still the same sort of place.”

(Anything better than creeping home to shame and emptiness.)

“I might give it a try. Thank you.”

They swooped from the hill to the plain. Through the rain he saw the great house again, the broad quiet streets of the village, the stretch of woodland, the wide fields.

“Terrible weather for sight-seeing,” said the taxi man. “I'll take you right home when the time comes, if you like. I'll just look in here and see if there's a room. It'll cost you, mind.”

Exhausted, he sat in the foyer of the new hotel which was calm and gracious. Someone brought him a stool for his foot. Someone else said they were going to get a doctor. The rain eased and Filth was brought lunch on a tray alone in the lounge. He was tired, humiliated and—something else—what? Good God! frightened. I have been frightened! He sank into himself, dozed, was helped to a big ground-floor bedroom with a view across the parkland, and very cautiously, a snip at a time, allowed himself the past.

 

“Would you very kindly put my name and address in your address book, young man?” said the ragged skeleton beside him on the boat-deck as they left Cadiz. “I fully intend to reach Home, but, if not, I would like to be sure that Vera knows what happened to me. That's to say, of course, if she gets Home herself, which I doubt. She was always rather feeble without me to get her anywhere. I am Miss Robertson. Miss Meg. She is Miss Vera. We're daughters of the late Colonel Robertson. Teachers. This is our only address in England now. It belongs to some old chums from school who've always paid us a little rent. I hope we'll get on together now that I shall have to live with them. Well, school's a long time ago, you know.”

Her skin was pale and glazed with fever and her eyes far too bright. Her wooden crutches lay beside her and she tried all the time to clutch their handles. “Have you a pen, young man? Turn to ‘R' in your address book.” Eddie lay immobile. Someone crept up to Miss Robertson and wiped her face with a cloth. Other people muttered together that she should have been detained at Cadiz. She had been formidably against it, even in fever. She had to get Home.