The Gale of the World (21 page)

He shook with silent laughter, while faint little snores came regularly from Laura. He punched her gently in the back. When she sat up he hauled some of the blankets to his side of the bed; but with a turning cocoon movement she managed to draw to herself even the strip of sheet and corner of eiderdown he had held on to before.

He got off the bed and looked out of the window. An owl, one feather upstanding over each eye, uttered a single note from a tree outside. It called again,
Who.

“Me,” said Phillip.

“Who're you talking to?”

“A long-eared owl, almost a rare bird. I thought you were asleep.”

“What, after you've rolled me into a Swiss roll?”

“You cocoon'd yourself.”

“You forced me to, otherwise I'd've lain here starko.”

“That wouldn't have been an entirely new experience.”

“You talk like one of your old tram-tickets.”

From below the window came the high triple bark-scream of a vixen. Life half-ripped across. At once Laura was beside him.

“Poor darling,” she whispered. “I hope he'll be kind to her.”

They got back into bed. He held her, and while stroking the back of her head, there came the remote clang of a dustbin. “That's the dog-fox,” he said. “The town foxes are a different lot from those on the moor. They live out of dustbins. He'll bring her bacon rind, or a mouldy chop bone.”

They remade the bed and snuggled up for warmth. “Go to sleep, you're tired. You need a long rest.”

Someone was blowing a hunting horn out of a window. “It's
the Brig, Phillip. He blows it sometimes when we're gliding. He's so happy in the air.”

They lay still, nearer to being real friends after the shared fun of the night. But lay not at peace. Shortly Laura left him to visit ‘Buster' down the passage, a night-light burning by the bedhead; little boy lost—to whom all tenderness—

On the bedroom wall hung a portrait in oils of his father, Major Manfred: a youth in the ‘maternity jacket' of the Royal Flying Corps, a khaki jacket fastened at the neck by invisible button, then diagonally to the waist. Across the left breast his ‘gongs'—including the Victoria Cross. On another wall, most dim in the little candle-gleam, a portrait of ‘Buster's' grandfather, the canvas torn where the lead pellets of a 12-bore gun, fired by Manfred, had passed through it.

“Laura,” said ‘Buster', “we really must start work on my
unhappy
father's biography. Come New Year's Day, which is in two months' time, he will have been drowned in the North Atlantic, on a Great Circle course, twenty three years ago. A strange man. While the history of the Peerage is full of odds and sods, I think he must be the only one who fired a twelve-bore Purdey gun at the portrait of his dead father.” He reflected, while she gently caressed his forehead with little kisses. “Indeed he was a strange man. After the Treaty of Versailles he took the sins of the British upon himself, particularly the lies of that upstart Mr. George, the Prime Minister who can be excused, in part perhaps, because he had no idea of manners. Be it as it may, my father returned his ‘gongs' to the War House, and later virtually committed suicide by attempting to fly from New York to Cornwall, where we lived then, in a monoplane with one engine. Years later a bottle was washed up on the Cornish coast, near Lyonesse, with his last letter to me. I've got both bottle and letter in the bookcase in my study. Remind me to show them to you, will you?”

From Laura came a little snore. Then others. Gently he took her in his arms, she turned over and settled to sleep; while he lay still and desolate as Phillip in another room.

The long journey eastwards across Exmoor in the Silver Eagle, Laura wearing Phillip’s black leather flying-coat, helmet, goggles, fur gloves, plaid rug around knees. Windscreen down against frost patterns on glass. Through Taunton and the winding road to Wincanton; on to Wiltshire and the Great Plain at a modest, a steady forty miles and hour … then the crisis, Laura, silent for miles, suddenly screaming, trying to throw herself out. Whimper of worn tyres, car slewing, sliding to standstill. Engine switched off. Silence. Flask of hot coffee refused. Likewise luncheon at Mere. Thence mute to London, drab traffic on Great West Road,
second-gear
crawl amidst fog-thickened diesel fumes. Fanless radiator boiling. At last Old Compton Street, the silent packing of
tinplate
perforated names and addresses of subscribers; card
indexes
; piles of Mss. and stamped, addressed envelopes. Returning down the stairs, Phillip to Barbarian Club.

“I’ll call for you in an hour’s time, Laura.”

Dinner at the Medicean: Laura running out half way through the meal. Having paid the bill, he followed. Driving in silence to Old Compton Street.

“Do tell me what’s the matter, Laura.”

“You know very well what’s the matter!”

“I do
not
know.”

“Good-night then—Buona Notte!”

Then she was running down the stairs, imploring him to come back and sleep in her room.

Both lying still in the single bed. Laura withdrawing, to lie on the floor. What a life! Alarm clock ticking like death-watch beetle, set for 7.30 a.m. Boat train leaving 9.30. The polar night’s huge boulder hath rolled this my heart, my Sisyphus, in the abyss … Edith Sitwell a great poet.

Breakfast. “You’re naturally upset by the change, Laura, but
you’ll settle down in Corfu. Shouldn’t you eat something? It’s a long journey to Brindisi …”

No reply.

“Laura, please do try and help me—and yourself.”

And then, “It’s time to leave, Laura.”

Victoria Station. Her silence maintained while waiting in queue. Shuffling movement, barrier open, tickets please, leaving her to show hers while he dashed, carrying suitcase, to platform-ticket machine. Buy fruit—Canadian apples, oranges, bananas, grapes. Then up and down the long train to find her. 9.25. Where was she? Ah! Behind that window, face turned away.

“Here’s your case. Sorry I forgot about the platform ticket. I’m always terribly nervous, too, before I start a book, Laura. When the first draft of my novel is finished, I’ll join you in Corfu, Laura. And we’ll walk, and swim, and live in the brilliant sunlight of an Ionian spring.”

“Charming!”

“At last the oracle! Have some fruit. Almost like pre-war!”

“That must cheer you up. What’re the new tram tickets like? The nineteen fourteen ones?”

“Yes! How did you guess?”

Blue leaden eyes upon him. “Why are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Now be fair. Corfu was
your
idea!”

The guard was standing on the platform, green flag under arm. Phillip went to the end of the coach to say at the open door, “How much longer before the train leaves?”

“Two minutes, sir.”

“Laura, I must say good-bye now. ‘All partings are a little death’. I wonder who said that.”

“You did!”

“Tactless of me.”

“Oh
no
. You
don’t
say!”

Reversion to the semi-peasant girl from ‘silly Suffolk’. Guard taking watch-on-chain from fob. “Well, au revoir. Let us part kindly, Laura.”

No reply. ‘Silly’ Suffolk or saintly Suffolk, this was Medusa he thought, leaving the coach.

Guard closing door behind him, whistle to mouth … door flung open, recoiling against strap-hinge, Laura leaping to platform, Medusa snake-arms round his neck, “Oh Phillip, why are you
sending
me away from you? I love, love you. Promise you’ll look after
yourself?”, unwinding arms to look into his face.

“Come on, miss! Take your seat, please!”

He almost said
Buona
Notte
but changed to “Au revoir”.

Guard blowing on-your-way whistle, Laura hanging out of window-space, “I am with you always!”, palms of hands pressed against his narrowed face. He had to break her hold, push her back into the coach as the train drew smoothly away.

A last cry—“Don’t forget me!”, and he was standing there waving, waving—the train smaller and smaller round the curve.

Station
Buffet
. 10 a.m. Phillip sat by a cup of weak coffee growing colder on the table beside him, as he wrote in his journal. Before going to the warm room he had stood for some time on the empty platform, imagining the long train on its way to Dover—Paris—Rome—Brindisi—the rusty ferryboat over the wine-dark sea to Corfu.

“Is that your black open motorcar on the taxi waiting-place, sir?”

“Oh yes, I think it must be.”

“If you could take it away, sir.”

“Of course, officer! At once!”

London. Emptiness, pain; but—one must hold on.

*

The
grass
grows
green
upon
the
battlefields.

“Well, how very nice to see you!” said Lucy, blushing.

“Yes, by Jove, Phil, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you!”

“Things going well, Tim?”

“Oh, one mustn’t grumble.”

“How’s Brenda and the boy?”

“Oh, well, quite happy, I’m glad to say.”

“It’s half-term for Peter,” said Lucy. “He
will
be pleased! Rosamund’s due home tonight for three days, too.”

“Is this the baby? Heavens, how she’s grown. May I take her?”

“Of course, my dear! Do you know, Sarah is just like you! Same eyes, same nose, very energetic, and sees everything! I
am
so pleased. There now, isn’t she a darling?”

“What long narrow feet.”

“Just like yours, Pip. She’ll make a good horsewoman, too, with those long legs.”

“Another throw-back in the family—what bad luck for you.”

“Not at all, my dear, not
one
little
bit
at all!”

Lucy flushed again, conscious of her boldness in thus
contra
dicting
Phillip. “Have you had any food? Well then, how about a cup of tea?”

“By Jove yes, Lulu, just the thing before I go to the station to collect Rosamund!”

Tim had an old Morris car, for which he had paid £30 at the end of the war. Now it was worth £130, a thought that constantly gave him pleasure.

“Would you like me to put the Eagle in the garage, Phil? And if you’re not going to use it, I suggest you let me drain the water from the lowest point. There’s a sharp wind-frost most nights now.”

“Thanks, Tim. I must be getting back to Exmoor fairly soon—”

The open hearth burned well. His deep leather saddlebag-chair. Heavy, split oak logs from the farm. Upstairs room with the lattice casements and polished corn-merchant’s double desk—why not edit the magazine from there? And write his own stuff at Shep Cot? All his books in the two tall cases. No trouble about food. £22 in bank; he could write his monthly article for the
Even
ing
Telegram
, arranged that morning at 25 guineas a time. Then, in March, to Corfu: novel finished, magazine established—

“I’ve promised to stay at Molly’s during her children’s half-term, Lucy.”

Miranda had written,
Mummie
asks
me
to
say
come
over
and
stay
as
long
as
you
like,
dearest
coz.
We
do
so
want
to
help
with
New
Horizon.
I
can
sort
out
the
articles,
and
send
the
others
back
with
a
letter
of
thanks
‚
to
soften
the
blow
of
rejection.
Please
do
not
lose
my
address:
the
school’s
back
at
Cheltenham.
Please
write
soon.
Always
your
loving
Miranda.

P.S.
Bodger
is
happy,
Mummie
says,
but
he
seems
to
be
wait
ing
all
the
time
for
you
and
listening
to
motor
engines.

*

“Well, stay a day or two if you feel like it, Pip. I’m sure Cousin Molly will understand. Why not telephone?”

“You mean from the public call-box down the street?”

“Oh no! We’ve had the telephone connected. It’s useful for Tim, about orders for his trinket boxes. You see, it saves him going to London to ask the little man in the Bond Street shop.”

Lucy and Tim’s ‘little men’ of that Dorset backwater of twenty years ago—

“Yes, I might be able to work up quite a good connexion, Phil. For a year or two, anyway, while the sellers’ market lasts. It all depends on that, and Lucy, of course, how long I stay here.”

You might include me in the list of credits, thought Phillip. After all, I’ve made it all possible.

“You see, Phil, it’s very hard to get a cottage now, all the Service people being demobbed, and I could get one of course, but that would mean working as a labourer on the land, and I certainly don’t intend to do that.”

“Ah.”

Phillip played with Sarah on the sofa. No staring in face, or making forced noises. He looked away, to give her leisure to assess him, while making between his front teeth a curlew’s bubbling call as it floats, wings downheld as though in sheltering position for its imagined young in the rushes of The Chains, five hundred feet below. The bird in joy imagining its young.

Sarah liked what she heard and saw, and worked her legs to jump, frog-like. He pressed a thumb under each big toe, so that she could grip them.

“
Homo
Sapiens
is a scandent mammal. The tree-grip is security. Isn’t it, little growing-up baby?”

She held up her arms, he held her on his shoulder, one hand for the grip of feet. She smiled and smiled; her face puckered when he put her down. He whistled, the hoarse-sweet cry of a male curlew. All was well again.

“How is my elder daughter?” Rosamund was now adolescent.

“She’s
such
a great help, Pip.”

“Mum, may I cook the supper?” asked Roz. “You have a rest by the fire. I’ve learned to cook at school.”

Peter came into the sitting room.

“Good evening, sir. I mean Father. Dad.”

“Good evening, young sir. I mean Peter. Son.”

Peter, a school prefect, with the assured gentleness of a good leader. His face had thin white scars where the dark and passionate Roz had, in fury of his slowness, clawed at his eyes because he had not understood what she, a small child, had failed to make clear to him. Now the budding girl had protective love for brother Peter.

“What do you want to do when you leave school?”

Faint colouring rising in cheeks. Hesitation. Then, “Oh, the Royal Air Force, I suppose, Dad.”

“David?”

“Royal Air Force, chooky.”

“Jonny?”

“Same, I suppose.”

Here was human warmth, a home; books in the library rising on shelves to the ceiling. A leather armchair, table, open fireplace; but it was not the wilderness. Wind rattled the leaded panes of the otherwise bare room in the south wing of the old house. Specks of sleet entered through the loose glass of one casement, with faint cries of wind, scarcely more than sighs. I must go before the snow comes, and snow-drifts lie beech-hedge high on roads of the moor. I must write; or perish. There might be a letter from Laura! No: I don’t want her to write to me—

The weather report on the B.B.C. that evening was alarming, if he was to get back to Shep Cot.

“The wireless says it’s beginning to freeze all over Europe, Tim. ‘A long sweep of Siberian air is beginning to move across the continent from the East’. That’s an entry I made this morning in my diary. I must leave first thing tomorrow, Lucy.”

“Well, if you must, my dear. But you’re perfectly welcome to stay here, you know.”

“By Jove, yes, Phil, do stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, both. But I should go. I really must begin my novel series.” He sighed. “Just fancy. I conceived the idea in nineteen nineteen, intended to start in nineteen twenty-nine, and now it is nearly nineteen forty seven. Almost thirty years—”

He was staring in a strange way at the floor, and Lucy knew it was no good trying to stop him going. Then she remembered to ask about the magazine.

“Oh, we printed five thousand copies, and subscribers number about three hundred. Molly is going to use the metal stencil cards to address the wrappers. I arranged in London with the railway bookstalls to take four thousand on sale or return. That leaves five hundred which I hope to get booksellers in Devon and Somerset to take, also on sale or return. Though they’ll want a whacking discount, I suppose, sixty per cent or more.”

“You haven’t any with you, I suppose?” asked Tim, modestly. “I could have a display in the wide window of my machine room, which looks on to the main road through the village.”

“I’ll send up a hundred copies by rail, Tim. Thanks for your co-operation.”

“Not at all, not at all” murmured Tim.

*

The grey north-east was blowing, day after day, over the moor; but there was warmth within Shep Cot. Phillip had raised the hearth by three courses of brick. Simply laid them there end to
end—no mortar—and this had limited the area by which gate-crashing cold air could pass over the floor and up the chimney. Also the diminished flame-space caused blue skeins of smoke to creep up close to the blackened back-wall; to slide, with
occasional
farewell hesitations and waverings, up into the hollow chimney square.