A Test to Destruction (47 page)

It was time to go.

Down the lane, past the beautiful village built entirely by the Duke, and his father, and so to Telford’s straight macadamised highway to St. Albans, past the winking gas lights of the streets, and on to the distant sky-stain that was London.

It was late to wake them up, so he lay under the bushes on the Hill and shivered all night on the edge of sleep, thinking that at least he was free, that nothing ever again would be as bad as the battlefields, because he could go home in the morning.

After breakfast he sped at between 50 and 55 m.p.h. to the Crystal Palace, was examined by a doctor, told where he must attend a medical board later, and after signing papers noticed that a plate with coins on it had been placed on the desk near him by the corporal, a weedy youth in spectacles.

“What’s this for?”

“Some officers like the staff to drink their health,” replied the corporal, dropping the ‘sir’ to the civilian before him.

Seeing an empty plate, Phillip put it beside the other. “What’s the idea?” asked the corporal.

“All contributions thankfully received, sir, to my Widow and Orphan Fund. My mother’s the widow, and I’m the orphan. Cheerio!”

Resting astride the Norton on the crest of the Sydenham ridge he looked north and saw the grammar school on the hill standing above a grey wilderness of roofs and church spires under the smoke of London. If only it were like Ypres, so that the rubble could be cleared away, and fields of grass and corn arise again; or even lie in ruins like the Cloth Hall, with grass growing on the ruined walls, and wild flowers, and willows, and strange birds returned to a wilderness sanctuary—then there might be hope.
Where could he go, what could he do, where find the bosom of
Eleänore
upon which he might rest, as in the song by Coleridge-Taylor that Desmond used to sing? Or was his longing to be forever like that of Edgar Allen Poe for Annabelle Lee in that lost kingdom by the sea?

“Can you tell me,” said Richard to his wife, while outside the last leaves from the elm at the bottom of the garden were being scattered by the October wind, “if, and when, Master Phillip is proposing to do any work?”

“I think he is looking round, Dickie. Papa would like him to go into the Firm, but Phillip wants time to make up his mind, I think.”

Phillip was away on a visit to his Aunt Victoria, now living in the neighbourhood of Hawkhurst. She lived in a cottage provided by her brother Hilary, who had retired from special service with the Navy with the rank of Captain (R.N.R.). Hilary was due to arrive at Hawkhurst two days after the arrival of Phillip.

Phillip came home unexpectedly on the evening of the third day. His father waited to hear about the results of his stay, but Phillip had nothing to say. Only later did Richard hear from Hilary that the visit was ‘not altogether a success.’

“Phillip, before my arrival, Dick, went off on his motor-bicycle, without telling his Aunt, and returned at all hours, without explanation or apology. He spent his evenings with the railway porters in the local pub, giving the excuse that they were old soldiers, and he wanted to hear about their experiences in the war. I tackled him about his future, but could get little out of him. Then abruptly, just before dinner, he said he must go, and that was that. We haven’t heard from him since.”

“He’s been behaving queerly since he has been home, Hilary. It’s my belief that there is something seriously the matter with him. I found a certain article hidden in the bathroom, some months ago, and it set me wondering.”

When Richard went on to say that it was a glass urethral syringe, Hilary replied, “At least it shows that he has some common sense. These young fellows, you know, can’t be held back; and as the saying is, If you can’t be good, be careful.”

“I do not look at it in that light, Hilary. There are others to be considered. I can’t sleep at night, with Phillip coming in at
all hours. He treats the place like an hotel. But what can one do? I have tried to talk to him, but have found him unresponsive.”

“He’s not fit, you know, Dick. He has a disability pension, in fact I cashed the money order for him, a little over £6 for the month.”

“He never told me that.”

“I shouldn’t worry, Dick. They wouldn’t give him that if he had had venereal disease. I wanted to talk to him about an idea I’ve had for some time now—of farming the family land I’ve bought back—under a manager of course—with my two nephews under him, to learn the job properly. I’m no longer interested in farming, but I’m prepared to put up some capital so that the land can be farmed properly by someone in the family. The two young fellows would live with John in the house—he’s agreeable—I saw him on my way back from Pembroke Docks. John is rather worried about his boy—told me he had nearly come a cropper with some married woman at Folkestone. That was last September, and I gather John hasn’t seen Willie since.”

Richard had not heard about Phillip’s escapade at the same place; Hetty’s anxiety lest her husband find out had been secondary only to her fears for her son.

“I’m sorry to hear that about Willie,” said Richard. “He’s a decent little fellow, and from what I know of him, I would say that he has been ensnared by some siren. And now they are talking of giving women the vote! Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? I don’t know what the world is coming to, Hilary! There is that two-faced Lloyd George, only a few months ago promising to bring those responsible for the war to justice, including the Kaiser, and where are his promises now? The Kaiser enjoys his days cutting up wood and living like a country gentleman at Doorn in Holland, living on the fat of the land! As Castleton in the
Trident
keeps on trying to bring home to everyone, ‘They’ll cheat you yet, those Junkers!’”

Hilary found his elder brother’s emphasis a little trying, and made an excuse to take his leave. Part of Phillip’s trouble, he thought, was that he had a stick for a father; while the boy’s dual nature was due to Jewish blood, from that old reprobate, Thomas Turney.

*

When Hetty asked Phillip how he had got on with his uncle, he replied, “Oh, he was much the same as usual, asking a lot of personal questions.”

“He is interested in your future, Phillip, now that you have done so well in the Army.”

“Maybe. But the primary rule of good manners is surely that one does not ask personal questions.”

“He is your uncle, Phillip, remember.”

“I find it more interesting to talk about things, rather than people. By the way, will it be all right if I pay you thirty bob a week while I’m at home?”

“It’s far too much, dear. Are you sure you can afford it?”

“Oh easily, I’ve got a pension, you know. And Austin Harrison is considering one of my sketches of the Saschenfeste at Wytschaete for
The
English
Review.”

*

Walking down the High Street one morning, striding fast while breathing deep to expand his lungs, Phillip saw Julian Warbeck outside the Roebuck, talking to a poor man with a barrel organ in the gutter. He crossed the road to avoid him, but curiosity made him hide behind a vegetable van, and watch Warbeck, who wore khaki trousers and R.A.F. tunic, with wings and rank badges removed. Evidently some deal had been made, for the man touched his decayed bowler hat and set off to haul the wheeled box behind Warbeck.

Phillip followed them, past the Obelisk and over the Randiswell river bridge. They turned up Mill Lane, and stopped outside the Rat Trap. When Warbeck went inside, the man turned the handle, tinkling out the overture to
Cavalleria
Rusticana.
Phillip decided to follow Warbeck, and going into the tiny bar, was greeted by him like an old friend, instead of a rival, as he had feared.

“I met your cousin Willie in Folkestone,” Warbeck said, in a jovial yet mocking voice. “He was one of the pack after La Belle Amie. Quite an education knowing that woman. Let me see”—he began to count on fingers the more stubby with their bitten nails—“between the daffodil and the swallow there were, to my limited knowledge, ‘Naps’ Spreycombe; Jay Double-u—the nickname of my unrepentent self; your most respectable Self”—he bowed ironically—“that makes three of us in the Paragon pack. Patrick Colyer, the bogus knight-of-the-air, now doing a well-earned stretch in the glass house; your cousin Willie with the large soulful eyes—five; ‘Sandhurst’ White, six; Aubrey de la Hay, an actor with no talent whatsoever, seven; and finally Lord Spreycombe, who returned to take the pool after the
youngest puppy, Peter White, had given her the supreme satisfaction of shooting himself with her name on his—I won’t say bloodless—lips; for as a fact the bullet passed through the roof of his mouth. Quite an achievement, don’t you think, for La Belle Amie? You have gone pale, my friend. Why not have a drink?”

Phillip said, after a few moments to steady his voice, “Are you serious?”

“I am always serious. What are you drinking—the only question that really matters.”

“Did somebody really commit suicide?”

“He did indeed, Phillip. Your cousin, with the soulful eyes—‘Willie’—was not there when they asked for him at the inquest. He was there when Peter White shot himself, but had in the meantime crossed over to Boulogne, emulating Oscar Wilde in another connexion. A curious, indeed a remarkable chap, ‘Willie.’ He told me that his ambition was to write a Fifth Gospel, proving, among other things, that the Galilean meant something quite different when He said what he was supposed to have said. But at least ‘Willie’ believed in the dead burying the dead, for he skipped over to France on the next boat. What are you drinking? May I call you Phillip, by the way?”

“Please do.”

“I am Julian. My respected father, who has retained many of the ideas of his adolescence well into middle age, still had a high opinion of the works of Byron when the midwife presented me to him, my unhappy mother having died of puerperal fever meanwhile, chiefly owing, my father has repeatedly told me, to the size of my head, which may well have been a euphemism for a part of his own anatomy. Oh yes, Father has been quite a chap in his time. What are you drinking?

“Just a glass of mild, Julian, if you please.”

“Mild? My dear chap, you! Our local hard-shell hero drinks swipes! Perish the thought!”

“But not the stomach! Just half a pint, thank you, Julian.”

“Certainly, Phillip! Every man to his taste! I will join you in one moment.” He raised a pint of Burton and drained it in what appeared to be a gulpless pouring down the throat. Then turning to the landlord, in a voice of extreme courtesy he said, “One small glass of mild for this gentleman, and the same again for me. I have a musical friend outside, would you be so good as to send him out a pint of the same excellent liquor? He has a
long uphill future life before him.” To Phillip, “It is my respected parent’s birthday, and a little music will, I hope, lessen his chronic concern for my so-called working career—in other words, he wants me to find a job in order to save him from forking out the dough. Well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices——” And lifting up his fresh pint Warbeck poured it down his throat. “Ah, that’s better! Landlord, the same again, if you please!”

“Have this one with me, Julian!”

Warbeck gave him another slight bow. “I am glad to see some light returning to your eyes, even if it is only a pale ray from swipes.” He rubbed his hands together, and expelled a lungful of air. “Yes, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Now tell me, how does it feel to be a local hero? Do not mistake me, I am serious! Your fame has spread from the pages of
The
Kentish
Mercury,
‘the boy is father of the man.’ You were a Boy Scout, if I recall rightly? The patrol leader of the Bloodhounds? Your photograph, dimly reproduced among the leaves that strew the brooks of Vallambrosa, was next to an advertisement urging the constipated to Take Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Fame indeed! Seriously, Philip, your praises were sung in all the old
clichés
of mid-Victorian journalism! How about a pint of Burton, you look quite pale, my dear fellow!”

Phillip, to get away from the grindstone of the other’s manner, changed the subject. “Did you see that photograph of a masked ex-officer in
The
Daily
Trident
the other day? I thought at first that you had hired the barrel organ, for the same purpose.”

“Good God no! Still, it’s an idea!”

After another pint, Warbeck got the landlord’s wife to cut out a rough mask in black cloth, with a piece of elastic garter sewn on; and leading the way through the lane where Phillip had walked to and from school many times, they went up the street to the Hill, the barrel organ following until the man stopped, exhausted.

“Let’s give him a hand, Julian.”

They helped to push the thing up the steep slope to the crest.

There, behind the garden of the lavatory, Warbeck put on the mask, and with the borrowed broken bowler perched on the top of his large head, got between the shafts and hauled the outfit, head held low, towards the shelter where the old men were sitting. The man remained behind, according to instructions;
Phillip walked along the crest, to cross the allotments on the old tennis courts and so to approach the shelter from behind.

He saw Julian stop in front of the shelter, and slowly turn the handle, while
Won’t You
Come
Home,
Bill
Bailey
issued like a dirge from the faded green cheese-cloth covering the tired strings of the instrument. When the last
tremolo
had stopped, Julian, with a bow, went forward, bowler in hand.

“What foolery is this?” growled Mr. Warbeck.

“I’m trying to turn an honest penny, Father, as you have been urging me to do daily for some months. Come, Father, it’s been a long pull up, on this occasion of your seventieth birthday anniversary. Or is it your seventy-fifth? Don’t frown so, Father, it makes you look even older.”

“You’re drunk again, you scoundrel!”

“On the contrary, Father, I am sober, but it is a good idea, all the same.”

“Where did you steal that damned thing?”

“I hired it for the day, Father. You see, I have got a job.”

“You are a ne’er do well, a waster! Do you call this exhibition of arrant nonsense a job? You have never looked for a job, unless it was emptying beer down your gullet while leaning on a pub counter!”

“Looking for a job is a job in itself, and requires some thought, as I have explained to you on many occasions, Father.”

“What did you pay for this nonsensical object?”

“Five shillings for the day, Father. On credit. I hope you will advance that sum, on the principle that you cannot accumulate unless you speculate. Come, Father, do not let the lack of a mere five bob abort a good intention to add to the gaiety of nations.” He went back to the organ, and turned the handle rapidly; then seeing Thomas Turney feeling in his pocket, stopped to go forward.

“Here you are, m’boy. Ah, two of you, eh? Well, Phillip, what are you going to do with that thing?”

“A mere spectator, sir.”

Julian pocketed half-a-crown. “Choose your tune, sir. I can produce an approximation of
Cavalleria
Rusticana,
Out
Went
the
Gas,
The
Arab’s
Farewell
to
His
Steed,
The
War
March
of
the
Priests,
After
the
Ball
Was
Over,
Goodbye,
my
Bluebell,
or
Flor
adora.”

Thomas Turney chose
Floradora,
with its memories of Charley and his wife humming the gay, romantic airs when Sarah was
still alive, and the world had not changed. The remote, sad-sweet tinkle was followed by
The
Arab’s
Farewell
and a memory of Dickie’s voice on summer evenings coming through the open window next door, while Hetty sat at the piano.