The Phoenix Generation (14 page)

*

The small brown sail was being watched by telescope from the roof of the clubhouse. The owner of the motorboat which took the crews to their yachts and brought them back to the slip after the race was hailed by the Commodore.

“I’d never get through the white water of the Race, sir.”

The Commodore accepted the opinion, and telephoned to the Lifeboat station. He was told that the coastguard lookout on
Horsabury Head had already reported the sail, now approaching the five-fathom contour line a couple of miles offshore. The
Commodore
accepted responsibility for calling out the Lifeboat. A warning maroon was fired. The shell travelled up leaving a thin white thread, broke into a red ball, and slowly descended. The echoes of the explosion rebounded over the water. It was followed by a second maroon. The Lifeboat crew left their jobs and assembled at the slip.

*

An everlastingness of sliding, white-streaked slopes was passing in long roll and lip past the combing, each crest a yard or more above his eyes succeeded by a trough opening well below the combing of the gunwale. He was wet and cold. His mind forked; should he put about and make for the white water of the Race over the bar, or continue in this dreadful wallowing, with waves
sometimes
almost masthead-high above where he sat in the stern? Before he could decide he put the helm over and at once hung
fearfully
sideways on a crest, before slithering. The tiller swung idle as the sail flapped loose. Thank God he had tied the end of the
sheet-rope
to the ring beside him, so that the rope could be hauled in. The sail filled; bow responded to rudder, but he had shipped gallons of water. Thereafter
Scylla
was a toboggan, wallowing along a ridge, bumping into a crest, water showering past his eyes before the inevitable pitch downwards. He was going to be drowned. O God, why had he done it? He thought of Conrad’s admiration for Stephen Crane’s phrase in
The
Open
Boat
—‘the waves were barbarous and abrupt.’ These waves were monstrous and crashing. If only she would hold herself steady before the tip, stagger, and bump of the next wave.

Ahead of the bow lesser waves were hurtling down and spreading into a grinding bickering of white water. He pulled up the
centreboard
, remembering Piers’ words about the shifting shingle bank during the heavy spring tides. Should he tie himself to the
sheet-rope
? No: if the boat rolled over he would be entangled. He must keep the sail filled,
drave
into the white water—
drove——
Keep
you
a-goin’‚
he heard the voice of Ned the bailiff of Skirr farm saying,
keep the ploo-point a-draving on so far as the meat soil
—the thin
four-inch
top-soil turning over with the share or shear. The ship ploughs the ocean.
Keep
you
a-goin’
! Poor Ned, was he on the dole now?

They were lurching and sliding.
Scrash!
She was hanging in a massive shower of water and pebbles. She staggered. Christ,
pebbles were showing in the waves. We’ll go down. Billy—Peter—Roz——

Scylla
was riding, she was passing over the shingle tongue. Pebbles were rolling with the bilge over his feet. Bere Island was coming nearer. He was over the bar. The Lifeboat approached. A rope was flung. His hands were too cold and feeble to hold it. With detachment he saw the strake of
Scylla
held by a boathook. He was being pulled over the smooth side of the red and blue of the tubby white boat. Men in oilskins. Stiffness of wrapped tarpaulin. Brandy was gasp hard. Thank you. Feeble. Tears.

*

While he was being helped up the quay steps someone in the clubhouse poured away a quart bottle of Swan ink and filled the bottle with hot water, which was then wrapped in the cover of a cushion which had been ripped up. He felt ashamed and
stammered
an apology to the Commodore and thought with
anguish
that he had forgotten to thank the cox of the lifeboat.

He saw the girl who had crewed ‘Boy’ Runnymeade looking at him. When he had slept after being given hot milk and sugar and brandy, he got up and put on a tweed suit belonging to
Captain
Runnymeade, and went downstairs among the faces in the bar, feeling as foolish as the youth-masked old-man dancing in the Guy de Maupassant story.

In character, he insisted on driving himself home. Left the Silver Eagle with the front section of the tonneau cover unfastened against the rain. Walked with hands before him and stinging eyes half-closed—lids raw with salt—up the stairs and felt his way to his writing room.

When Lucy came in he was sitting on the couch.

“Hullo,” she said.

“The sleeves are too short for me. This suit belongs to ‘Boy’ Runnymeade.’’

Her hand sought his. “You are a poor one, aren’t you? Why did you do it?”

“You know, then?”

“Yes. Melissa told me on the telephone.”

“Melissa?”

“Melissa Watt-Wilby. She said she recognised you from when you were in hospital at Husborne during the war.”

“Lady Abeline’s daughter! Good Lord!”

“I’ll bring you a hot-water bottle, my man, then some hot milk.”

The water-meadows were in flood, there was nothing to do. It was quieter than ever in the house by the river now that Billy had gone to the village school, wearing so proudly his father’s cheap old leather satchel with its frayed and ink-stained leather.

Every morning he sat in his room, paper before him. Something was wrong with the trout story. He did not know enough about fish. He started a novel
The
Irritable
Man,
using his parents as characters, but the narrative was thin. He was not wholly in mind to portray his father as he had been; nor his mother; nor grandfather Thomas Turney and other faces of the past. What he had once thought of as satire, with the title of
Soot,
had become—tragic. His father had dreamed all his life of the downs and the hangers, the Longpond and the family home—and now the reality of being back was almost too much for him. The weather was partly to blame; it rained nearly every day; he could not work in the garden at Fawley. But the truth was that both he and Mother were lonely. Father missed the cinema. He was too nervous to ride in a motor-car. As for Mother, she was homesick for the old faces, she missed Doris and the two little boys, she missed Elizabeth, she even missed her occasional flutter on horses with Chamberlain the Randiswell butcher, who privately kept a book for a few of his customers.

His parents were not happy at Fawley. Hutments were being built near the spring-head which fed the Longpond. The enquiries from army officers about renting the upper and middle flats seemed to upset both his parents.

He sat at his desk, staring at the panes of glass in the casements before him. They were old and discoloured. Some were curved, flawed with bubbles and twists in the glass which distorted the trees outside. The view from the window was enclosed, for the house stood in a combe descending from a spur of the wooded Chase. Cancelled drafts of
The
Irritable
Man
followed scrapped pages of
The
Blind
Trout
into a drawer.

*

What could he do, where could he go? He knew every grain and crack and mark on the surface of the table; day after day and night after night he had heard the same lesser sounds about the house—the
crack-crack
of the hand-sawn oak floorboards when the hot water was turned on in the bathroom and the iron pipe along the joists expanded and tried to push up the boards; the rustling gallop of solitary rat down the interior of the wall just after half-past eight every night; the voices of small children crying ‘appul’ or ‘bikky’
or swear words which Lucy tried not to notice; the chirping of sparrows at the thatch; the dry flitter at the window of tortoiseshell butterfly regretting that it had missed some of the autumn sun; the varying notes of the van engines of newspaper man, baker, butcher, and fishmonger; the distant cawing of rooks at the October-sown corn; the voices of children coming home from school, Billy with them; the
tottle-tonk
of the African cattle-bell which called the members of the household to meals at the long oak table in the room below—the table which took five men to lift, and which Lucy kept polished by a ‘secret receipt’ given her by the vicar’s wife
.

How fortunate to be like Lucy: to accept all things as they came with an equal-mind. A mere writer saw the same walls and the same row of books every day, and the flawed grey window-panes with the dull and distorted trees on the combe-side. He saw these things as insubstantial surfaces. They were not of the real world, which for him was in his mind. He wrote, he saw, he lived in past scenes, which arose before and around him with an integrity to which he trusted. He must
trust
that other self, that scarcely-known visionary ghost which lived independently and often with torment within his being, if his work was to have any authentic life.

*

Billy knocked on the door. “Let me in, please, Father! Let me in!”

“Why, what’s the matter, Billy?”

Billy stood before him, then pushing a grubby hand into his leather satchel he pulled out an envelope marked
Special
Delivery.

“Where did you get this?”

“Mrs. Chowles gived it me up to shop, Dad.”

“Thank you, Billy. The telegraph boy usually has sixpence. Here you are.”

“Thanks, Dad. Goodbye.”

“You off?”

“Aye. There be some good conkers in the Lord’s park. Isn’t the sun lovely?”

“Yes, let’s go for a walk, shall we? I must read this letter first. Wait for me downstairs, Billy.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, Billy. You have another little brother.”

“As well as the bastard, Father?”

He looked sharply at Billy. “Where did you get that word from?”

“From my friend Chugg Boy, Dad, you know, the one at my school you call ‘Owl Eyes’.” Seeing Phillip’s face, Billy went on, “Have I said anything wrong, Father?”

“No, but never say that word again, will you? I’ll take you in to see Mum and David now, with Peter and Roz.”

On his return he sat at his table, and took the pile of
unanswered
letters. He must reply to them. Heavens, he hadn’t even replied to the perceptive Brother Laurence. Now there was a possible friendship in the feeling of this letter. Why not send these fan letters to Felicity to reply to on his behalf? He made notes on each one, giving a suggestion of what line to take, as an editor of a newspaper proposes a particular idea for one of his leader-writers. “Phillip Maddison asks me to send his apologies for not replying personally, but he is at the moment deep in a new book——”

Then making a parcel of the letters, he put them in a drawer to post them to her when she was out and about again.

In the New Year Lucy and Phillip were invited to join the Abbey dinner party for the Hunt Ball before going on to Captain Runnymeade, who had lent the Castle.

“Do you think I should accept, Lucy? I suppose they know about Felicity——”

“Why not? After all, it isn’t as though you’ve behaved badly towards her.”

‘Boy’ Runnymeade had written to Phillip asking him and his wife to stay the night, and saying that he would be happy to provide them both with mounts for the meet the following day. So Rippingall put Phillip’s top boots, boned and polished in their trees, into the back of the car, with his ratcatcher coat and breeches, before they drove to what locally was known as the big house.

There they were the first guests to arrive. The Abelines were still dressing, so while the housekeeper took Lucy upstairs, Phillip was left in the smoking room. There Abeline joined him, appearing round the door suddenly in a grotesque mask. Phillip hardly knew his landlord. The usual cards had been left by Julia. Later, after a return call, they had been invited to luncheon. And once again with the two boys to tea, with other neighbours and their children, on Christmas afternoon.

Lord Abeline was the second baron. His father, an industrialist, had represented his Liberal constituency for a score of years under Gladstone before being raised to the peerage. His son had inherited the foundries and shops on forty acres in the Black Country, and kept away from them ever since, preferring to live as a country gentleman with his own pack of hounds. Since the war and increased taxation the Hunt had been taken over by a Committee which allowed him, as Master, two thousand pounds a year to hunt the country.

To Phillip, he did not look like a Master of Foxhounds, he lacked the healthy, lean brown face; the spare frame, the keen eye. He had a big, rather pale face, and was going bald; his body seemed soft.

“Help yourself to a drink, Maddison.”

While Phillip poured a tot of whisky the host was opening a drawer in a desk, his back to him. When he turned round his face was covered by another leering mask, from which came sounds of self-scoffing, which made Phillip think that he was not
altogether
sure of himself.

“You quite startled me, sir. It was so realistic.”

“What about this one?”

A fat jolly face peered at him. It was succeeded by others, all more or less macabre.

“Look out of the window, will you, until I tell you to turn round? Don’t draw the curtains, just open them a bit.” Phillip looked at the leaded casement. Nothing beyond the black diamond panes was visible. He heard rustling behind him, and when told he could look, saw a simpering face with protruding teeth and yellow curls above a black Victorian bombazine dress. The figure pirouetted around the room in the manner of a stage Charley’s Aunt. A memory of a picture in an illustrated weekly, years before, made Phillip remark on the likeness to the actor Brandon-Thomas.

“You like it, what?”

“Very much.”

“Will you take me into dinner, if I put on a bodice and skirt?”

Phillip pretended to laugh, embarrassed by the feeling behind the foolery.

His host got out of the costume, and having pulled his nose as if to narrow the nostrils, rubbed his hands together.

The butler entered to say guests were arriving. Among them were Piers and his wife. Julia was already there to greet them; and beside her, standing back a little, was a young girl whose face and carriage of head upon a long neck rising from a small white wrap, or shawl, upon the shoulders, was immediately arresting. She seemed more grown-up than the girl who had passed in ‘Boy’ Runnymeade’s yacht when he went over the bar and had to be rescued. So this was the child who had sat beside him in the brougham during a drive in the park at Husborne Abbey, before he had removed the bandages around his eyes after the mustard gas at Byron Farm below Wytschaete ridge in 1918. Yes, it was the same honey-coloured hair, the same large, china-blue eyes, curve of mouth, strong chin. She was smiling, her eyes lowered
as he went to Lady Abeline, who having given him a smile of what looked like candid pleasure, said, “You remember Melissa?”

Having shaken his hostess’s hand, he turned to the young girl to feel the calm gaze of her eyes going into him and taking his secret self into the air about her smiling lips.

At dinner he sat beside her, refusing all but one glass of wine. He felt calm and poised beyond himself. Was she going to dance? he dared to ask. Oh yes, she replied, for a little while, until twelve o’clock.

Neglecting Lucy, he had the first dance with her. Afterwards she led him up the stairs. The moon in its second quarter seen through glass above the Castle battlements was serene. Clouds moved in from the Channel.

“May I have the next dance?”

Again she was within the oval of his arm, hardly touching, feather-light on her feet and head held high, dancing to the
Saxophone
Rhapsody.
He thought of Felicity and her baby: that disaster would follow and an aching heart: but O glorious, glorious—dance on, dance on——

“Where shall we sit? Or would you like some fresh air? There’s a good view from the battlements, but perhaps you might catch cold?”

“Oh, I never catch cold. In fact I don’t feel the cold any more.”

“I don’t feel the cold either. I have a cold tub every morning at school and at home.”

“Are you still at school?”

“It will be my last term.”

They went on the roof, by the way of stone steps. The night lay in an unearthly silver stillness below them. She wanted to tell him that she had loved
The
Water
Wanderer,
and that sometimes when she was swimming she thought herself into the form of an otter, but it might sound pretentious.

They returned to the ballroom. The third dance had not begun.

“Have you seen the orchid house? I thought I saw Daddy taking Lucy there.”

How tactful she was. “I must dance with Lucy. But first with your mother.”

“Mummy would love it, you are so light on your feet.”

The band started. Lady Abeline was dancing with Captain Runnymeade. Lucy and Phillip fox-trotted together round the floor.

“Are you happy, Lulu?”

“Oh yes. But my legs are still inclined to ache a little, after David. It’s my silly veins.”

“Let’s sit out, it’s warm in the orchid house.”

Lucy said what he thought was rather a strange thing.

“Don’t you think Melissa is beautiful?”

“She reminds me of one of Rodin’s white marble figures come alive. How long have you known her?”

“Oh, I saw her first at a children’s party at Grannie’s house years ago. We’re sort of cousins once removed, something like that. Pa knows all about relations and connexions, it’s a hobby of his.” She could see that Phillip was still anxious when he said to her,

“Do you think the Abelines will have heard about Felicity?”

“Even if they had, I don’t suppose they’d bother one way or the other.”

Lucy had felt more about Felicity than she had admitted; but then, she told herself, the girl had not been at all happy when she came. Also, Phillip had had a lot of worry from Uncle Hilary. But in her heart she was sad, with a feeling of her own inadequacy; almost a sense of failure.

Supper at midnight, and Melissa must go to bed. She was not very strong, and went away to have a bowl of bread and milk with meat extract and glucose, in her room. Afterwards she lay in bed, on her back and breathing quietly, evenly, her eyes closed, hands folded over her bosom, ankles crossed in the posture of a figure carved in stone, but breathing slowly, calmly, feeling herself almost to be levitated by his image.

Phillip stood at the champagne buffet with Piers.

“You’ve made a hit with Melissa.”

“Oh no, surely not.”

“Watch out for George Abeline. He has a jealous eye.”

“I wonder why he puts on those masks?”

“He was the only boy among too many sisters. He likes bathing young girls, and photographing them naked. All the signs of an artist
manqué.
How’s Felicity?”

“I had a letter from her mother’s solicitors telling me to keep away.”

“That let’s you out, anyway.”

“I must go to Lucy.”

“May I come too? I’m very fond of Lucy.”

They found her sitting with their host in a room looking like a museum. There was a long buffet table displaying gold plate.

“Is this the museum, or the salon?” he asked.

“We’re not frenchified here, we call this the saloon,” Captain Runnymeade replied heavily. “Help yourself to some
salmon-trout
, ‘Farm Boy’.”

“That fish, ‘Horse Boy’,” retorted Phillip, “we call a sea-trout.”

“
Touché,
‘Farm Boy’. Jerry, give Mr. Maddison some wine.”

Towards one o’clock Lucy said she felt tired, and slipped away up the stairs, followed by Phillip, who wanted to remember where their room was, for when he should go up later. Seeing him going up, George Abeline called out in a semi-scoffing voice, “Don’t you let him go into Melissa’s bed by mistake, Lucy.”

“I won’t,” cried Lucy, as she waited to take Phillip’s arm. Along the landing she said, “George is like that to everyone, so don’t take any notice. Well, my man,” she said at the door, “I’ll see you later. Don’t let Runnymeade give you any more to drink, will you?”

Phillip went up as five o’clock was striking on the stable clock. He managed to find the throne, and after a long time upon his knees, crept back to Lucy’s bed.

“Did you bring any salts, Lucy? Thank God.”

*

He could eat no breakfast. The meet was at eleven. He hadn’t ridden a hunter for nearly ten years, and was nervous. The sight of Melissa, cool and upright, in bowler, breeches, and short dark West of England jacket like himself, made him further regret that he and Piers and ‘Boy’ Runnymeade had stayed up to play snooker, and drink, good fun as it was.

Hounds moved off; Master and field followed. A fox was found in the first covert. The
Gone
Away
seemed to panic brightly. Bits jingled as hunters threw up heads, eager to gallop but held back at a canter. Beyond the park and across ploughed work, clots of earth flung up from hooves. It was a bold fox, stole-bred, he heard someone say, and was away into the east towards the distant pines on the ridge, below which lay a sandy land of heath and scrub, scene of Hardy’s
Return
of
the
Native,
he had been told by Lord Abeline.

It was hard going; he sweated much; the gelding was used to a side-saddle, he thought, it had a screwy action, which shook him even when sitting down at the canter. Perhaps it was too much corned up? He galloped, and passed Melissa; bore back on the horse’s mouth, and felt a stab in his back, as though the spine had been pierced by a splinter of glass. He was forced to ride half standing in the irons while holding his breath. He dropped behind,
one of a long column of riders now extended across the heath. By the severity of the pain he thought he had torn a muscle.

He made his mount trot, then walk, as he watched Melissa disappear among the pines on the skyline. The horse was lathered; he cursed the image of Captain Runnymeade, who must have put him on this dud nag for one of his heavy-handed jokes. When the horse stopped he spurred it, but the rowels had been filed down, and the animal remained still. Then without warning it kicked its hindlegs into the air, and losing gas, broke into a lumbering trot, flinging out its forelegs as though it had been trained to draw a fast gig in a trotting race.

The fox had been killed when he arrived to see dismounted riders eating sandwiches and talking. Melissa was laughing with two young men, who looked as though they were more used to tanks than horses. He saw her looking his way out of the corner of an eye, and pretended to withdraw into himself.

He became suddenly happy, the crick in his back forgotten, when she walked to where he stood by his now patient mount.

“You look so cool,” he said.

“Do you play badminton? Do come along, we’ve got a room fitted up over the old stables. How’s your back?”

“How did you know I’d ricked it?”

“By the way you were holding your breath. I suppose I should add, ‘Jolly sporting of you to carry on like that, old boy.’ Did you sleep well?”

“Hardly at all.”

“Oh, bad luck.”

“I drank too much.”

“You weren’t the only one.”

The huntsman and whips were mounting. A groom approached leading her hunter.

“Don’t forget next Wednesday afternoon,” she said. “
Badminton
in the old stables,” and lifting a foot, allowed herself to be thrown into the saddle.

Lucy had already gone home, so after poached eggs on muffins he said goodbye and left, thinking to give up this pleasant social life, and really begin the trout book. Melissa’s image filled his mind with grace. After a cold bath, despite the pain in his back, he sat before the sitting-room hearth in dressing gown and slippers, while Lucy with needle and thread went over a pile of baby long-clothes, neatly folding them away after examination and repair.

“We’re asked to play badminton on Wednesday. I don’t think I’ll go.”

“Oh, won’t you? Melissa will be disappointed.”

“What makes you think that?”

“She likes you, I could see that at once. She’s your sort, I think.”

“I’ve never played badminton.”

“You’ll soon pick it up. It’s only a sort of tennis. Lots of local people go. They play in the old stables.”

He bought a racquet and went along, to see a number of elderly parsons with their wives.

One man present who introduced himself as Becket Scrimgeour, the younger brother of the rector, was as open and friendly as the vicar was closed and withdrawn. He and Phillip got on well, and Becket asked if he might come and see him.

“Yes, do, any time.”

They played as partners. Phillip soon got his eye in, after one game under the electric lights. On the side-board was a tea-urn, with plates of split scones daubed with cream and jam. He missed Melissa: but perhaps she would appear with her mother to preside over tea. But no; when the time came a parson’s wife took charge of the urn, filling it with water from two kettles heated over
oilstoves
. They took turns every week, it was explained to him. Then Julia Abeline came up the stairs, and joined them as they sat round the table. She said brightly that Melissa had caught a chill after the meet, and was in bed. He wondered if this was an excuse, and perhaps a hint; and her absence on the following Wednesday seemed to confirm what Piers had told him of her father’s jealous eye. But no; the daughter of the house had merely invited him as she would have asked anyone else who had mentioned the need for exercise. He wrote a letter to her, thanking her for the invitation to play badminton, and telling her about his perplexity over the trout book. How could it be cast? In what form?