The Power of the Dead (39 page)

The next morning Hilary went back to Wales; and when Phillip rang up Felicity’s hotel, he learned that she had gone back to London.

*

Cabton had apparently decided to remain, as a sort of detached member of the family. He did no work on the farm, nor any writing as far as Phillip could see.

He had the odd ideas of the urban amateur in the country. He collected horsehair from the gate-posts, made a plait of dark hair and tied it to the back of the chair where he sat at the dining room table. A row of old nests, taken from hedge and apple tree, adorned his bedroom window ledge. Mrs. Rigg complained of fleas. One day he brought back a trout which he had shot with his walking stick gun as it basked in the shallows by the cattle drinking place, and showed it to Phillip.

“Well, we don’t usually shoot trout, you know.”

“What’s the difference between shooting a poor bloody fish and lugging it in on a line? Anyway, it’s quicker my way. I thought you liked efficiency, you’re always talking about it.” He said this with a lazy, self-pleased air as he picked his teeth with a burnt match.

“I suppose it’s rather strange being in the country after a town?”

“People are the same anywhere.”

“You’ve got a fairly good idea of the country, I must admit, judging from your short stories. Where did you get your
knowledge
of birds?”

“From cigarette cards.”

“Well, everything comes from somewhere, I’ll admit.”

“Have you only just discovered that?”

“It sounds pretty obvious, I agree. How do you get on with the chaps in the pub? Any ideas for a book?”

“They’re all right, when I can understand what they’re saying. Among other things, they laugh at you as a farmer.”

“I’m glad they can laugh, there’s been a lot of unemployment since the war.”

“They all think your uncle is going to sell up.”

“I never listen to village talk, so I can’t say.”

“Why not mix with the village people? It’s the stuff of living, isn’t it? That’s your trouble, that’s why you can’t write. You’re only interested in making money. Well, I’m going for a walk.”

Phillip said, with an effort to be easy, “Don’t you find it hot with those breeches and leggings?”

“There are snakes about, I’m told. Besides, I like the heat.”

“Well, please don’t shoot with your gun.”

Cabton had something about him of the Levantine. He had the ease, almost the laziness, of the dark-skinned. One morning he showed Billy how to load the walking stick gun. It was done by twisting the handle to open the breech, and slipping in a cartridge. There was no trigger, only a small button just above the breech. Billy was standing in front of Cabton, looking up, when Cabton closed the breech by a reverse twist. The button was depressed under the grip of Cabton’s right hand as he did this. There was a report with a kick of dust beside Billy’s feet as the shot rebounded. Phillip saw it from his upper window and shouted out, “You bloody fool, Cabton. Give me that gun!”

Cabton merely grinned and held the gun behind him.

“A miss is as good as a mile, remember,” as he walked away. Later in the day he said to Phillip, “Can you lend me some
four-ten
cartridges? I’ve run out.”

“You’ve got a bloody nerve, haven’t you? I’ve told you that I can’t have you shooting indiscriminately, Cabton.”

“Oh well, if you want to talk like that I’m off.”

“Bug off, Stick Gun,” said Billy.

“Huh, chip off the old block, I see,” replied Cabton over his shoulder as he walked towards Colham.

The following morning the keeper came to see Phillip. “That man staying here is shooting at anything he sees with that
collector’s
gun, sir.”

“I’ve asked him to stop shooting, Haylock.”

“Well, I won’t have it, Mr. Phillip. I’m responsible to Sir Hilary, and I can’t have my birds disturbed.”

Phillip explained to Cabton that the keeper had to show a good head of game for the autumn shooting.

“Game is an anachronism these days, surely?”

“That’s not the point. All birds have young at this time of year. And they’re hardly an anachronism. Anyway, we don’t shoot song birds in this country, whatever they do in France or Italy or the Middle East.”

“You believe in convention, don’t you?”

“All conventions are based on common experience.”

“I believe in uncommon experience. Doesn’t Shelley mean anything to you any more?”

“Shelley didn’t go round shooting robins, larks, and blackbirds.”

“It’s not worth arguing about.”

When Phillip went with some agitation to report this miserable encounter to Lucy she said, “Oh well, I don’t suppose he can hit anything! Anyway, he’ll be gone soon, I expect.”

“If he doesn’t go, I shall.”

A chance to get rid of Cabton came the next day, when the thunder of
Otazelle
sounded in the lane. Bill Kidd was on his way home, and had come, he said, to pay his respects to the Mis’ess before returning to the Smoke. He told them a story of how he had met his old Divisional Commander who had given him a couple of days on his water. From a damp sack on the floor of his car he drew four trout, each about twenty inches in length. Cabton looked at them in silence.

“Not easy to take fish after the mayfly gorge, old boy. I got ’em on a red cock’s-hackle put over them again and again until they slashed at it through irritation. That surprises you, doesn’t it? Fact though.”

“They committed suicide, in other words. I suppose you can’t give us a lift to London, Bill?”

“Jump in, you bastards. Hullo, Billy boy, what are you, a stowaway?”

“Me come too, please, Daddy,” the child pleaded. An awkward period followed. Billy had to be detached from the wheel, sobbing. Phillip tried to console him, while Lucy held him in her arms. Billy hid his face until the engine started, then with a last
despairing
effort he yelled, “Bug off!”

*

On the way to Stonehenge Phillip said, “Do you realise that at this time, exactly eleven years ago today, we had kicked off at Third Ypres? The Pilckem ridge was taken, and the
counter-attack
of the Pomeranian Grenadiers, the ‘Cockchafers’, smashed by the Machine Gun Corps. Then the blasted rain came down.”

“I was in Oppy Wood then, old boy, gassed with green-cross—phosgene.” Bill Kidd coughed violently, then lit another
cigarette
from the stub of his old one.

At Andover Phillip mentioned that he was thinking of getting a second-hand small car.

“I know the very ’bus for you, if it hasn’t been sold. I’ll take ’ee there, midear.”

“I see you’re already talking West Country, Bill.”

“Sure thing, my dear. What’s more, Bill Kidd and his missus are coming to live in these yurr parts.”

“Yes, you told me. How about you, Cabton? Are you proposing to move in, too?”

“I’m going to Cornwall.”

In spite of being squeezed next to the smells of Cabton, Phillip enjoyed the ride along the familiar route to Basingstoke and Staines. They drove to a place in Westminster, a yard with a
number
of coach-houses made into a garage, where many cars were lined up awaiting the weekly auction. Among them was a long, fairly narrow small French car, with a brown fabric body; a
four-seater
.

“There she is. Let me do the talking, my Mad Son. Now, not a word, mind,” as a salesman approached.

“Good morning, Major,” the salesman said brightly. “How did your conversion run? Nice little job, I thought.”

“No soft soap, my lad. I’ve come to talk brass tacks. My pal here wants a small nippy car, with a roomy body, and a decent hood on it. But not that brown fabric Peugeot, no dam’ fear. That crock was here the week before last. What’s wrong with it, come on now, don’t give me the old patter. What’s it worth? Sixty pounds? Don’t be silly. Sixty quid for that body, looking
like a cockchafer on wheels? Don’t tell me it didn’t sell because they all want a saloon during the finest summer since nineteen twenty-one. Don’t give me that line about saloons. Anyway”—with a wink at Phillip, “let’s hear the engine.”

The salesman pulled out the choke and charged the cylinders; then with a jerk got the engine firing.

“Four cylinders, six horse power, sir. Two years old, and only one owner.” He smiled. “To be honest, the owner was a lady.”

Bill Kidd pushed up the hand throttle. Blue smoke came from the exhaust.

“Any pistons left, old boy?”

“Like to try her?”

“Any saw-dust in the gear-box?”

“I’ll have the lid off if you like.”

“What’s the compression like?” asked Phillip.

“Fairly good, sir. The scraper-rings may be a bit worn, but it’s a simple matter to replace them. The engine doesn’t smoke after she’s warmed up.”

“No bloody oil left, you mean.” Bill Kidd drew Phillip aside. “Let me do the buying, I know these car copers. They’re all bastards.”

Phillip took the wheel with some trepidation. It was years since he had driven a motorcar. He started off slowly, and went the first hundred yards in bottom gear, then changed to second gear, driving on with more confidence. Seeing before him the Houses of Parliament, he turned in by one gate, meaning to try the reverse gear in the wide space beyond, but was stopped by a policeman.

They went down to the Embankment, and found a street leading off which was empty.

“How do you like the feel of her, sir?”

The blue smoke had now stopped. “Are we out of oil?”

“Ah, that little joke, sir. I’ll show you the dipstick when we get back. Apart from that, how does she strike you, sir?”

“I like her very much.”

The chief point was that the car would fit into the narrow space of the cart-shed; he had taken the measurements before starting out. After reversing in the empty street, they returned to the garage.

“She rides well, don’t you think, sir?”

“Most comfortable.”

“They know how to make springs in France. High clearance too—eight inches.”

The dipstick was examined.

“I’ll buy it.”

Bill Kidd did not seem to be put out that the deal had been made without him. Phillip gave the salesman a cheque, telling him that he would leave the ’bus—already called Cockchafer in his mind—until the cheque was cleared. Bill Kidd had a talk with the salesman in the office before joining him; and while they sat in
Otazelle
, Cabton said, “Getting his rake off, no doubt.”

“Well, why not?”

“Well, I’m much obliged to you, Bill,” he said as they drove away. “You must let me pay you for the petrol for the journey up.”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Well, I hope you got something out of the salesman.”

“I don’t make money out of my pals.”

They drove up Whitehall, the driver moving the throttle of
Otazelle
up and down to create the illusion of a powerful racing car. “Where do you want me to drop you?”

“Where do you want to go, Cabton?”

“Oh, I’m not particular.”

“Up the Strand and turn off at John Street, for Adelphi Terrace, Bill. I’d like you to meet my agent, Anders Norse. We’ll have lunch at Simpson’s. You’ll be my guests.”

Afterwards he said goodbye. “Anders and I have some business. Thanks for the lift, Bill. Good luck, Cabton.”

Kidd took him aside. “Who’s this dago who’s planted himself on you? You want to watch out, old boy. First Plugge and now this bloke—they’re nothing but bloody scroungers.” He looked almost affectionately at Phillip. “Bill Kidd knows what he’s talking about, you know. Well, so long, and thanks for the shackles. Remember our old quarterbloke, Moggers? See you at the regimental dinner in the autumn, no dodging the column this time, midear.”

*

Anders Norse had a new office, and a secretary, in a side street off the Adelphi. When the contract for the trout story had been signed he said, “I have a feeling that there’s going to be a revival of interest in the Great War. What about your own book?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Anders. I’d have to go away somewhere, and live by myself for some months to finish it.”

“What about your cottage in Devon? Have you still got it?”

“Oh yes.”

“It’s the only way to write, I think. But I suppose the farm takes up all your time?”

“Well—in a way. There are certain cross-currents——”

“Of course, writing is a whole-time job. D’you remember Anthony Cruft? He’s left London to bury himself somewhere in the country and write a book. I expect you know that Virginia, his wife, has left him?”

Phillip nodded as though to himself. “Oh, before I forget, Anders, I’ve given a cheque for sixty pounds to Mews Motors, of Westminster, and would like to take the car away today. Do you mind if I give your name as a guarantor that the cheque is all right?”

“Of course. Ring them up from here, why not.”

On the way to Westminster on foot Phillip called in at the Coal Hole, half hoping to find Felicity there. Instead, he saw Archie Plugge, pint pot in hand. He told him about the new ’bus,
adding
that he was going home by way of the South Coast to call on Martin Beausire; and left before he could be drawn into a round of drinks.

Arrived at Mews Motors, he saw that the body and windscreen of the Cockchafer had been polished.

“I’ve filled the tank and had the oil changed,” said the
salesman
. “There’s no charge, of course. By the way, you do
understand
, don’t you, that this motor is not subject to guarantee? We are, after all, motorcar auctioneers only, and have so many vehicles passing through that it’s not possible to do more than see that what comes to us is road-worthy. But the Baby Peugeot isn’t a bad little ’bus. The second gear of this particular car is liable to slip out sometimes, so it may be advisable to hold in the
gear-handle
when going up some of those steep hills of the West
Country
.”

It was a Friday, and being a fine day, there might be week-end traffic on the roads to the coast. He was advised to go by way of the Embankment to Chelsea, and over the river to Putney, then take the Dorking road through Leatherhead.