The Phoenix Generation (31 page)

*

With the help of Rippingall and a flash-lamp, rows of dusty bottles in the cellar under the dining-room floor, where the main rat tunnels were, were brought up. The bottles were not old; the dust came through cracks in the dining-room floor boards, which were of mixed wood and all hand-sawn some centuries before. So far as Phillip could determine there were lengths of oak, beech, ash, sycamore, and poplar. Ancient colonies of the death-watch and furniture beetles had long ago abandoned their mining in the sap wood of the planks.

The bottles varied in shape and colour, being bought as
oddments
from bins advertised in
The
Daily
Telegram,
which was the paper Rippingall took in order to add to his knowledge of racing form. And having few glasses in the pantry, Rippingall had suggested that the Backwoods party should be given in the
Norwegian
style. This style, he explained, was to partake of many kinds of wine to be drunk in rotation during one meal, with cries of
Skol!
glasses being raised to shoulder level, and all wine to be
renewed
after each toast in the same glasses. The meal would start with sherry, he declared, and followed by a dry white wine, then red wine, then white madeira or champagne according to whether the guest were lady or gentleman, after which, he declared, “
Anything
and everything would be quite all right. They do it just like that in Sweden, sir.”

“But Norway isn’t in Sweden, old soldier.”

“With respect, sir, I suggest that one bottle should go round all the company, followed by another kind of bottle. Of course, sir, there will be scarcely more than enough for each guest, in a manner of speaking, than to wet his whistle.”

“But don’t some wines mix ill with others?”

“Sir, with all those bottles in our cellar, there will be enough for the blithest singing bird, if you follow my meaning.”

Rippingall had a weak sort of grin on his face. His
moustachios
were waxed by
pomade
hongroise
to horizontal pieces of stiff string. A bluish tinge about his chaps might have come from methylated spirit.

“What can we feed them on, Rippingall?”

“For a real Backwoods party, I recommend a single game pie which would not disgrace Captain Runnymeade’s best at the old Castle, sir. Moreover, I have taken the liberty, as your butler and major domo, to make enquiries in Shakesbury as well as in Colham and Smotheford of the leading pastrycooks, and also took the
precaution
to see what dishes were available.”

Rippingall unfolded a crumpled piece of paper and gave it to Phillip. On it was written the word
Everything
underlined several times.

“That, sir, refers to the ingredients. Leave it to me, sir.”

Now a great oval china dish was sitting on the larder slate. Under the crust, moulded with a design of wheat-sheaves and a reaping hook, were two pheasants, a hare, a brace of partridges, a wild duck, two widgeon, two teal, all ordered to be set in aspic with the best chopped Aberdeen Angus beef, with onions and
hard-boiled
eggs, and sage and thyme and other herbs. Surely it was the pie of a life-time, an historic pie.

Unknown to Rippingall and Phillip, the pastrycook in
Smotheford
had spent many hours taking out all the bones and rendering the various meats into little shreds, all to be stewed or baked democratically together and combining to one taste and
appearance
. This Utopian dream of equality was indeed tasteless. The aspic had not set, it was watery. So was the underside of the crust. As for the wine service
au
Norge,
the mixed guests did not appreciate the mixed wines, and Rippingall became upset by the number of hands placed over glasses as he was about to pour from a bottle. And at this juncture there was a wambling of the front door-bell on its wire to the kitchen, which adjoined, and wondering who it was Phillip went to the door and there stood Cabton the writer and a young woman.

Before he could speak, Phillip was offered an outstretched hand while Cabton with a friendly grin said, “How are you? Surprised to see us, aren’t you?”

Phillip took the hand and received a knuckle-grinding grip which made him pull back his hand. He had never felt easy in the presence of A. B. Cabton.

“Hardly the way to welcome a guest, is it?” remarked Cabton. He was dressed in a black leather coat, like the girl.

“We went to Fawley, and were told you were here. Aren’t you going to ask us in?”

Phillip moved aside and the two moved in.

“I suppose you’re touring, Cabton? How goes the writing?”

“Oh, slowly as usual. We heard that you were having a party, so we came along. Quite an affair, isn’t it, to judge by the lot of people we saw through the window. If we’re intruding say so and be done with it. I’ve bought a dozen sheepskins from a fellmonger, so we can sleep anywhere.”

“Would you like to wash?” for Cabton’s hands looked as though he had been changing a sparking plug in darkness.

“No thanks.”

“How about your friend?”

“You mean my wife?”

“I’ll fetch Lucy. Come into the sitting-room.”

“My God,” he said to her behind the larder door. “It’s Cabton, turned up, as usual, without notice.”

“Leave them to me, I’ll manage. You go back and eat your supper.”

Lucy found a place for them. Cabton looked with an amused air at Rippingall. The house-parlourman was dressed in tail-coat and boiled shirt, with Edwardian high collar and white tie, patent leather boots, and his cuffs—for the suit had belonged to his former master, ‘Boy’ Runnymeade—stuck out a good three inches from the sleeve ends. To fatten his moustachio spikes Rippingall had added tow from an old rope-end and rolled it in with wax.

Cabton made a note on a cigarette carton.
Butler
looks
like
a
dolled
up
old
rat.

As time went on Phillip noticed that Rippingall was filling glasses while the owners were busy talking to neighbours. Mrs. Scrimgeour, the vicar’s wife, observing her rising glassful, said, “I say, what are you doing?”

“Trying to make the party go, Ma’am,” said Rippingall wistfully.

Having swallowed several glasses of mixed wine in quick
succession
, Phillip tasted the pie and at once cried out for everyone to hurl their platefuls out of the window. Polite murmurs of how good the pie was. Twenty-two people were sitting at the refectory table when the four nearest the window, including the Cabtons and the vicar’s wife, suddenly subsided. Part of the floor-boards, reduced to frass by boring beetles, had given way under the pressure on the long oaken form. Rippingall got to work at once, and with the help of George Abeline, Piers and Phillip, soon reset the legs standing on planks laid cross-wise upon the broken places.

Other unexpected guests arrived. In the middle of the meal, which was illuminated by a row of candle flames blown and guttering in the necks of bottles base to base along the middle of the twelve-foot long oak table, the door half-opened and Billy peeped round. Invited to enter, the pyjama-clad figure instantly fled. There was giggling and whispering outside the door, and then Peter looked round. He came straight in, solemn-eyed, and sat on Piers’ lap. Meanwhile George Abeline had slipped away and was dressing up as a woman in the kitchen, to the fluster of Mrs. Rigg and two other women who were waiting there. Mrs. Rigg had come down from Rookhurst to help, and stay the night. “Oh my dear zoul, vancy that now! Here be Lordy like one of us in the back-house!”

The door opened and George Abeline reappeared rouged, bewigged, and simpering at the Vicar. Phillip saw the Vicar looking puzzled, as though he was thinking,
What
sort of party
is
this? Then the other door opened again, a coiled brass
cor-de-chasse
was thrust in, and shattering bass blasts came from the circular trumpet before it was withdrawn and the door slammed. That was Billy’s joke. Phillip, who had been drinking everything poured into his glass by Rippingall then decided to play the part of irritable host, and throwing down knife and fork he exclaimed to Becket Scrimgeour across the table, “I heard what you said I said. I did not say it! You’re a bloody liar!” and while faces were turned to regard this astonishing outburst Phillip seized one of the bottles and struck the guest on the head with it. The bottle was an Abeline joke; it was made of black cardboard. A pair of men’s braces fell out of it. During the laughter, Rippingall, turning his back momentarily on the guests, threw back his head and swigged a champagne glass filled with brandy.

Phillip had put Channerson, whose paintings of the war had won him a fugacious fame—in that, the war forgotten, Channerson was considered dated by the fugacious critics and art dealers—opposite Captain Runnymeade. Both men, after the introduction before dinner, had not said a word to one another since the conventional how d’you dos. ‘Boy’ sat at table next to Melissa, who knowing of the painter’s fine work from Phillip, had spoken across the table to him. When this had happened, ‘Boy’ had withdrawn his head a little, as though remotely in protest at her lapse of manners, but really because he felt he was out of his element. He drank only whisky-and-soda, and nibbled boiled bacon specially prepared by Lucy for him.

Channerson, attracted by Melissa, began to speak of his
reception
in New York on his second visit to that city, when he had found that he was already forgotten.

“They drop you as completely as they take you up when the newspaper reporters push past you at Ellis Island, seeking the latest ‘celebrity’” he said, ironically. “But then the Americans are the only nation in history to have achieved decadence
without
civilisation”, and his hearty hollow laughter broke out as his eyes roved around the table.

“My Mother,” said ‘Boy’ Runnymeade, heavily, “happened to be an American.”

“Young American women are the most beautiful in the world,” replied Channerson.

“Apparently not when they grow up, Mr. Channerson?”

“Some remain beautiful, I dare say. But those who grow into what Arnold Bennett called
le
bloc
, no. What do you think?” he asked Phillip.

“I think that your war pictures are already classics, ‘Channers’.”

“I’ve never seen them,” said Runnymeade, and took no further interest in the party. He withdrew from the conversation and left soon after supper. Channerson went to bed. His wife stayed down for awhile, then quietly said goodnight to Lucy.

“I don’t want to disturb the party, so I’ll go up now. ‘Channers’ has only recently recovered from an operation, you know.”

Becket Scrimgeour, who was a composer of music, and a
journalist
, said to Phillip, “Channers didn’t like your praising him at supper to the company. He said to me, ‘Nobody’s heard of me’.” He drew Phillip to a corner. “I say, what a little tick Cabton is.” He glanced around. “I like that girl Felicity. Who is she? Do you sleep with her?”

“No.”

“Where’s her bedroom? She’s too good to waste.”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Who’s that friar?”

“He’s her guardian.”

Ernest had not spoken more than a few words during supper, or afterwards. When he had disappeared to his bed in the disused loose-box, George Abeline said to Phillip, “What’s the matter with Ernest? He’s not all there. That branch of Julia’s family was always a bit odd. Is Ernest half-witted, or what?”

“He’s very unhappy. He’s in hopeless love with someone.”

“Like you, then, my boy!” George poked him in the ribs. “Groping for trout in strange waters, what?”

“Speak for yourself,” Phillip retorted. “You and your bathing belles.”

After the Vicar and his wife had left, and the Cabtons had taken themselves off to bed, the party became intimate. Kippers were grilled on the trivet over the embers, a heavy cast-iron pan sizzled with eggs and bacon. Billy was the toast boy. Felicity, Melissa, Brother Laurence and Phillip sat together, talking. Becket Scrimgeour joined them, with George Abeline, who said,

“Tell us what it was Phillip was supposed to say to you,
Scrimgeour
, that he denied? For a moment I thought he was really going to knock you on the head with a bottle.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Becket, snorting. “I told old Phillip that my brother was once chaplain at Strangeways gaol, and that he’d been present at many hangings. Phillip asked him if the men were frightened, or upset before the drop. My brother said that, on the contrary, all of them had been calm and even joyous at the idea of going to Heaven. Phillip thought a bit, then he said, looking my brother in the eye, ‘With all due respect, Vicar, you are not only a bloody old liar, you are also a bloody old fool!’ Ha-ha, that was a bit of wit, wasn’t it? Dear old Phillip, you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, wouldn’t you?”

“Did you say it?” asked Melissa.

“Well, not exactly in those words.”

“It’s too good a story to be denied, anyway.”

Rippingall came in with a bowl of punch. He stood above them, a figure spirituous and euphoric, and enquired, “Everything all reet?”

The glasses having been topped up, he raised an arm in a Roman salute, saying, “Up Birkin!” and with a grin of amiability turned and put the bowl on the sideboard. Then lifting the bowl to his mouth, he drained the contents.

“Needs a lemon,” he announced, and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned at once to say, “My lords, ladies, and
gentlemen
—the wireless says—the Crystal Palace is on fire!”

*

Richard was walking up to the crest of the Hill, feeling that now he was old he was lost and had no purpose at all in living, when he saw a glow in the southern sky. Reaching the summit he saw what appeared to be a Zeppelin fallen and on fire. As he stared, the urgent notes of a fire-engine arose from the darkness below. A
succession of headlights was moving along Charlotte Road. Then from behind, in the direction of Deptford and Blackheath came other urgent bells, and he realised that the Crystal Palace was burning.