Rule Britannia (26 page)

It was not until Bevil Summers had backed successfully out of the lane and turned into the road beyond that Emma realized the stench of dung filled the confined space of the doctor’s well-kept car. She felt slightly sick.

“You realize,” said Dr. Summers, “that I shall charge for this expedition.”

Mad leaned forward and brushed a blob of manure off the doctor’s neck. “Nonsense,” she replied, “it’s on National Health. If you attempt to charge me I shall report you to the B.M.C.”

“I know who is going to summons the doctor for assault,” said Terry, “and that’s Libby of the Sailor’s Rest. I saw you fling the last spadeful of muck at his feet.”

“I’m safe enough,” murmured the doctor. “He’s not one of my patients, and I’m not one of his customers.”

“A pity,” Mad remarked. “He might have sent you a case of Californian wine.”

They had driven almost full circle before they reached the turning to Trevalan and safety, and as the car came to a halt at the bottom of the drive they could hear, away behind them on the main road, the rumble of the farmers’ fleet on the journey home. Bevil Summers turned round in his seat.

“Well?” he said. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Not entirely,” Mad replied. “That bank of muck could have been a few feet higher. Still… the Commandant will have to give his Thanksgiving luncheon somewhere else. I don’t see Mrs. Hubbard exactly swimming through the natural barricade, do you? Come on, Bevil, you’d better have a bath before you go home. We’ll draw some water from the well and heat it up.”

She climbed out of the car. Her jerkin had muck on it, and so had her boots.

“Thanks very much,” said the doctor. “I’d rather not risk it. And whatever you do don’t drink the stuff, or I’ll be sending you all into isolation hospital with typhoid. You, my boy,” he added, addressing Terry, who was struggling to descend, “are supposed to have the plaster off your leg tomorrow. But don’t count on it. Anything may happen now.”

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” asked Mad, tilting her peaked cap and standing with a hand on either hip.

“You don’t imagine for one moment the commandos are going to take Operation Dung Cart lying down, do you?” he countered. “They’ll retaliate with sterner measures still, so watch out for it, and everybody stay indoors.”

“What about you?” Emma asked. She felt anxious suddenly for his safety. It was as though the curious events of the evening had shown the usually brusque and somewhat impatient medical practitioner she had known from childhood in a new light.

“Oh,” he said, “I shall take a leaf out of the farmers’ book and refuse my services to everyone but rebels. No milk or dairy produce from them. No pills or potions from me. I may even have a go at closing the hospital and getting all my colleagues in the region out on strike.” He winked at Mad and started up the car. “If they telephone from home, tell my family I’ve been a couple of hours trying to make you take a sedative for a tired heart,” he shouted, as he turned the car round and disappeared up the drive.

“He means it, you know,” said Mad seriously, as she opened the garden gate.

“Means what?” asked Terry.

“What he said about a strike. Farmers, doctors, nurses, teachers, grave diggers, sewage workers, if they all stayed away from work with a placard written on the door saying ‘Yankees go home,’ USUK might begin to fall apart.”

“That’s all very well,” Emma said, as they walked up the path, “but surely we’d end up in chaos.”

“Not necessarily.”

The gate through to the lookout slammed and Joe came in panting, soaked to the skin, hair falling over his face.

“I had to climb up over the cliffs,” he gasped. “Luckily I didn’t break my leg like you, Terry. There’s a fine old she-mozzle down there by the Sailor’s Rest, and I didn’t want to get caught up in it.”

“Did everyone get away?” asked Mad.

“I think so. The Trembaths did, I know that. By the way, as much milk as we want from them tomorrow, and Mr. Trembath is killing a pig which we can share in. They’re going to have a load of wood from me in exchange.” He stood by the porch smiling at Mad, then he turned to Emma. “You see, it does work, community living. Our neighbors support us, we support them. We don’t need any money, we can live without it. If everyone did this, throughout the country, there wouldn’t be any need for trade outside. We shouldn’t get rich but we’d be happy, we’d be free…”

He broke off as the sky overhead became suddenly bright, and as instinctively they raised their heads the sound of the explosion came, like the clashing of stars. The glass shattered in the dining room windows and in the porch beside them, and, shocked, the four of them crouched there on the steps, their hands over their faces for protection. The echo faded, the vibration stilled, the ground no longer seemed to rock under their feet. Terry was the first to move. He said nothing, but he pointed to the sky, seaward. It was yellow bright, like day. He seized his crutches, hobbled to the garden door and flung it wide. Through the bent branches of the ilex tree they could see the dark waters of the bay turned streaky red, and where the warship had lain proudly at anchor was a pall of smoke and a pool of fire.

Nobody had much sleep that night. The children, awakened by the explosion, had run in to Dottie, crying. The middle boys, preparing for bed, had done the same, but white-faced, serious, without tears, Sam clutching the squirrel. Poor Folly, trembling, was trying to crawl under the settee in the hall when Mad and Emma and Joe and Terry opened the front door. Everyone gathered in the kitchen. Mercifully the windows had not shattered. Dottie, surprisingly one of the first to recover, stood by the stove in her dressing gown making cocoa. “We’ll all feel better if we have something hot inside us,” she said, and Ben, sucking his thumb with his face buried in Mad’s shoulder, lifted his head and watched her as she mixed the frothy brew. Colin, seated on Emma’s lap, stopped shaking. Terry, puffing nervously at a cigarette, kept tilting backwards and forwards astride a kitchen chair. Sam, kneeling beside his squirrel, stroked its twitching ears. Joe, the only member of the household missing, returned before anyone noticed he had not been there.

“I’ve been the rounds,” he said briefly. “Dining room windows blown, library O.K. except for a cracked pane. Two panes gone in Madam’s bedroom, nothing in the spare room, Emma’s O.K. I doubt if anything has blown in the basement but I’ll just nip down and see.”

He disappeared again. Andy, who had been standing silently deep in thought, jerked to activity.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. “I don’t want any cocoa.”

Nobody else spoke. Then the kettle hissed, the milk began to boil, and soon everyone was sipping the goodly mixture out of blue-and-white mugs. It was homely, it was natural, and yet a treat at the same time. If we could stay like this for always, Emma thought, and not go forward…

“Do you know what?” asked Colin suddenly, speaking to no one in particular. “When I woke up and heard that bang I thought it was the Judgement Day, and Jesus was coming in the clouds of heaven to divide the sheep from the goats.”

Sam looked up from stroking the squirrel. “That’s funny,” he said, “I thought it was Judgement Day too, but I don’t believe Jesus would divide the sheep from the goats, it would be too unfair. I think he would make the lions lie down with the lambs. That’s what I should do if I were Jesus.”

“I don’t know about Judgement Day,” said Dottie, “but little boys who run about without slippers on their feet are going to get cut by broken glass and that’s for sure. The sooner they are tucked up in bed again the safer they will be.”

Normality was returning to the household. Mugs were laid aside, Mad put a sleepy Ben into Dottie’s arms, then rose to her feet and stretched. Emma followed her grandmother up to her bedroom. A dustpan and brush soon disposed of the broken glass.

“The fresh air will do me good,” observed Mad. “Get rid of the smell of manure. Funny thing. No one said anything about it in the kitchen, or asked where we had been. Not even Dottie.”

“They were too frightened,” said Emma. “And I don’t mind admitting to you, so was I.”

Together they stood at the window, looking out upon the bay. There were lights everywhere, the lights of rescue craft searching the sea, and overhead the roar of helicopters, and searchlights too, sweeping the spot where the ship had lain.

“Judgement Day,” murmured Mad, “but for how many?”

“It’s horrible,” whispered Emma, “horrible…”

Yet she could not drag her eyes away. The darting lights seemed to bob and circle over a particular patch of oil caught in the searchlight beam, and the lights of the helicopters hovered like gigantic moths, now dipping, now rising again.

“Poor devils,” said Mad, turning away. “One thing, they must have gone instantaneously, whoever was on board,” and from force of habit she began turning down her bed, switching on the electric blanket.

Why devils, Emma wondered. Was it a term one used automatically when enemies were wounded or killed? Had it been normal times, the ship at anchor a British or a European vessel waiting for the tide before entering Poldrea harbor to load clay, and a sudden explosion had taken place, blowing the ship to pieces in this way, Mad, despite her age, would have been down there on the cliffs, on the beach, and Emma too, and the boys, in hopes of struggling seamen finding their way ashore. Not tonight. No aid from Trevalan tonight. Whoever clung to a burning spar, whoever tried to swim, maimed and helpless in the choking oil, was alien, did not belong. Them and us…

“Mad,” said Emma, “what do you suppose happened? Could it have been some fault in their engine room, something that went wrong, a terrible calamity?”

Her grandmother was putting out her dressing gown and slippers, turning on the bedside lamp, pouring some water into a glass.

“I’d like to think so, but I doubt it,” she said. “More likely someone managed to put explosives aboard. And if they can prove it, then they’ll believe our little Operation Dung Cart was nothing but a diversion to distract their attention. Part of a joint plan.”

“Oh, my God…” Emma turned from the window, gesturing helplessly.

“Yes, I know, but we can’t do anything about it, can we? So run along, darling, and try and get some sleep. It’s not going to be easy for any of us.”

Emma wished she could have stayed. Sat on the end of the bed and gone into everything, her dread of the future, of what tomorrow might bring. She knew it was no use. Mad was not like that. Enough was enough. She preferred to be alone. Emma kissed her goodnight, and when she paused at the head of the stairs, before turning off the light and going to her own room, she saw a small figure standing in the hall, staring up at her. It was Andy.

“What is it?” she asked. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Em…” Andy hesitated, one foot on the stairs, “can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“It’s the ship that’s blown up, Joe told me. They may have lost a great many men.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, here’s the thing. If a lot of men get killed like that all in one go, together, does it make the killing of one man by himself less of a crime?”

Emma looked down at him. He was still rather white from shock; the explosion that had frightened the little boys must have frightened him too. He’s been thinking about it, she had not realized this during the past days, he’s been thinking about it, at school, at play, and he hasn’t asked anyone or told anyone, and now he’s asking me. And I don’t know what to say, because I don’t know the answer.

“Yes,” she said slowly, “yes, I think it does.”

Andy smiled. “I’m glad,” he said. “I hoped you’d say that.”

“Goodnight, then. Hurry up and get to bed.”

It isn’t true, though, she thought as she went along to her room, it isn’t true…

Thursday morning, Thanksgiving Day, which was to herald a new era for the English-speaking peoples and be celebrated all over the country with toasts to USUK and a public holiday, got off to an uneasy start in Cornwall. It would be fairer to say that it never got going at all. Operation Dung Cart might have been treated as a local breach of manners, something to be mentioned as an aside or even ignored, but an explosion on board a U.S. ship, lying peacefully at her anchorage in a Cornish bay, with terrible loss of life, this was another matter, and took prior place on radio and television and in the newspapers. The celebrations went ahead as scheduled, but they were muted, and the Prime Minister, speaking after a televised Ministerial USUK luncheon, said, “We do not yet know how this disaster came about. Should there be definite proof of sabotage, should it be found that the destruction of this fine vessel, and the loss of so many loyal and valuable lives, has been brought about deliberately, by unknown agents hostile to USUK, then let there be no mistake about it. Those responsible will be hunted down and punished—they will not escape justice. I wish, too, to address myself particularly to some of our countrymen who live in the west country and who, because of their place of birth, imagine themselves to be different from the rest of us—and this applies also to the inhabitants of Scotland and Wales, where there have been reports of minor explosions. I warn such people, do not be misled by evil men, by false propaganda, into thinking you can divert the course of history, block the union of progressive, peace-loving nations, and revert to a narrow tribalism. You cannot.”

Roars of applause greeted his remarks, and the Prime Minister of the Coalition Government looked about him, eyes gleaming yet narrowed, the arrogant tilt of the head suggesting triumph. Mad and Emma and the two elder boys, grouped around the television set, stared in silence.

“I feel like Wellington,” said Mad when the oration had finished. “He may not frighten the enemy, but by God he frightens me.”

“It depends,” replied Terry, “on the enemy. Does the P.M. mean a handful of Cornish farmers?”

“He surely hasn’t heard about that,” protested Emma. “He talked about unknown agents. It sounds like people creeping about in cloaks and masks. I don’t understand how a spy could have crept onto the American ship without being seen.”

“I don’t know,” said Joe thoughtfully. “They can’t have been entirely self-sufficient on board, they had to take in a certain amount of stores. And we know a lot of the dockers at Poldrea disliked the Yanks. Some of them have lost their jobs and they don’t any of them know what the future is to be. Someone could have planted something.”

“Tom Bate,” suggested Terry. “Sticks of gely stuffed inside some of his local plaice.”

Gely… Emma remembered the sticks that Terry had passed on to Mr. Willis. Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief. Evil men, diverting the course of history, reverting to a narrow tribalism…

“I’m rather surprised,” said Mad suddenly, “that Bevil didn’t telephone us last night to find out if we were all right. Or even this morning.”

“Don’t forget,” Emma reminded her, “the telephones are tapped.”

“Yes, I know. But that explosion must have been heard for miles around, everyone would have been telephoning neighbors, friends. Joe…” She looked towards him. “Bevil will have finished lunch. Get onto him, but be careful what you say.”

Joe obeyed, but reappeared almost at once. “No use,” he said, “the line’s dead. Like it was the morning of the first landings.”

“Thanksgiving?” Terry queried.

“Day of Atonement,” answered Mad.

They were indeed back to a fortnight ago. The only difference this time was the silence, the absence of troops in their immediate vicinity. Helicopters circled the bay and small craft nosed the disaster area, but from Trevalan itself no wreckage could be seen. Whether debris had drifted ashore, whether detachments of the marines were themselves searching the beach below, nobody from the house could tell, unless someone ventured out across the fields and down to the cliffs. And Mad was adamant. Nobody was to stir from the grounds, not even to the farm. If Jack Trembath considered it necessary to get in touch with them, doubtless he would do so. One thing must be very evident. Quite apart from the successful outcome of Operation Dung Cart, there would have been no Thanksgiving lunch at the Sailor’s Rest.

The other very necessary order that Mad laid upon Joe and Terry was the washing down of all boots, oilskins and other items of clothing that had been at all contaminated by the muck-laying of the preceding night. Minute particles of muck clung to socks and collars, underpants and vests. The well in the basement did a thorough job, and Folly’s old bath, discovered at the back of the garage, made a fine washing tub. The stone-flagged floor of the basement became awash, and the old one-time kitchen and scullery began to suggest an indoor swimming pool.

“Let’s get more water from the well and flood it properly,” shouted Colin. “Ben, fetch the model boat from the playroom and we’ll see if she sails. No, wait, we’ll both undress and pretend it’s summer.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” cried Emma. “Mad, for heaven’s sake…”

Her grandmother only smiled. “They can’t go out. Let them enjoy themselves. But whatever you do, darlings, don’t splash the beetroot or the apples. We shall have to live on them till Christmas.”

The fun continued fast and furious, and Mad, her genius for invention increasing as the afternoon wore on, suggested lighting a fire in the ancient grate with some of Joe’s dry logs and stringing the wet clothes around it.

“Do be careful,” Emma urged as clouds of smoke belched from the unused chimney. “You’re not only going to undo all the good of the wash by getting the clothes covered with smuts, you may set the house on fire as well.”

“I know,” said Andy, who with Sam had joined the fray, “let’s boil a kettle and have tea down here, like proper campers. There’s a kettle behind the dresser. The spout has broken, but that doesn’t matter.”

The fire in the rusty grate burned bravely after the first gush of smoke, the kettle boiled, and the tea, handed round in old yogurt cartons, was pronounced delicious even by Colin, who never touched it in Dottie’s kitchen. It was Dottie herself, not a spectator of the family wash or an assistant at the campfire, who came downstairs just as it was getting dark and reported that an army vehicle filled with marines was coming down the drive.

“Oh, really?” said Mad, her voice suspiciously calm. “I wonder why.”

“It may be something to do with the electricity,” replied Dottie. “It’s been cut, like the telephone, and Joe and Terry are out in the garage now, trying to trace the fault.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Colin, “the marines want to use the garage again, like they did before. If they do, I shall put nails in their tires.”

Ben nodded, applauding loudly, and to show fellow-feeling began splashing everyone within reach with soapy water.

“Better go upstairs and listen for them, Dottie,” said Mad. “If they ring the bell and ask for me, tell them they’ll find me here in the basement.”

Dottie looked shocked. “Oh, Madam, surely…” she began.

“Well, why not? With the electricity and water cut, we’re past the stage where we sit about in drawing rooms, and the sooner they understand it the better.”

The commandos didn’t ring. Some entered by the front door, others by the back. The boys, still sitting in a circle round the old kitchen grate, could hear the loud voices and the tramping of boots on the stairs. Andy leaped to his feet.