A Test to Destruction (52 page)

Phillip knew that the sergeant knew, and he answered simply, “Yes.” And liked the sergeant when he said, “Of course I knew that, the moment I set eyes on you, sir, but I didn’t like to seem too personal like. Oh yes, we all know Mr. Maddison down here at the station. A very highly respected gentleman. And I fancy I saw something about his son in the local paper?”

Phillip’s heart thumped. He was for it. After a moment to steady his voice to casualness he asked if he might be allowed to have pen and paper. “I must write a special letter.”

“It’s against regulations, but between ourselves, I’d like to be of help. The letter must be read by me, of course.”

“It would be regarded as a confidence, sergeant?”

“Well, sir, that’s the trouble. I’m a policeman, as you might say, as well as a man. And anything that might bear on the present situation, if you understand my meaning, is within my duty. Of course, sir, anything reely private-like, you can count on my discretion.”

Phillip knew that if he got a civil conviction his name would be removed immediately from the Register of the Order, so his letter addressed to
The
Secretary
and
Register,
Buckingham
Palace,
London,
begged that he be allowed to ‘relegate to obscurity from the Roll, for personal reasons which I beg permission not to disclose, and cease forthwith to be a Companion of the Order’. This was read by the sergeant, who made no comment before it was taken to the pillar-box round the corner. Soon afterwards the sergeant arrived back at the cell with a supper of fried steak and chip potatoes, fried onions, bread, and a large pot of strong tea.

The next morning at Greenwich Police Court Phillip saw his grandfather in a room with Mr. Bowles before the case was called. Mrs. Neville, her face powdered, sat at the back of the court, smiling when she saw him. The charge was read, to the effect that Phillip Sidney Thomas Maddison, of no fixed abode, describing himself as a racing motorcyclist, did, etc. Two witnesses, describing themselves in turn as watchmen, both employed by the same building contractors, told the same story. The foreman’s hut was burned out, the first witness got out in time to avoid injury. There was a second man with the accused,
but he was a cripple, and had had a fit. The accused had tried to bribe them, after trying to pin the job, beg pardon the fire, on his friend. They weren’t having none of that, but took him to the police station.

Phillip reserved his defence, as directed by Mr. Bowles. The case was remanded, bail being allowed of £100 on Phillip’s own recognisances and a further £100
surety provided by Thomas William Turney (who put up both sums). Phillip thanked his grandfather, and said that he would pay back the money one day.

“You’re not thinking of absconding, are ye, m’boy?”

“Certainly not, sir!”

“Then the money will be returned to me in due course.” He added, “In any case it would have come to you, after my and your dear mother’s deaths. Now tell me, what made you two do it? Your mother tells me you were out with an old school-fellow. Aren’t you going to name ’im?”

“At the moment, if you’ll forgive me saying it, everything is rather sub-judice, Gran’pa. Cheerio, I’m going to walk home. See you later, sir.”

In the evening he went round to Ching’s house. The door was opened by the elder sister, who did not invite him in, but behind the almost closed door said, “We’ve seen the evening paper. No, my brother is not at home, Phillip. In any case, he would not want to see you. Why did you try to lead him astray? You knew he was not well, didn’t you? He has a war pension, you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Who is it, Ellie?” said a tremulous voice behind her. He saw the wan face of Mrs. Ching in the flickering gas-light. “Don’t let anyone in, Ellie.”

“It’s Phillip Maddison, Mother. I’ve told him it’s no good trying to see Tom.”

“If I cannot see him here, where can I get in touch with him, please?”

“He’s staying elsewhere.”

“But I must see him!” The adjoining door had opened slightly, as though someone was listening.

“Do you mind if I come in? I can’t very well talk on the doorstep.”

“What good would it do, Phillip? You can’t drag Tom in, you know. I remember when you used to set fire to the dry
grass behind your house, again and again, when you were a boy. Why do you do such things? It must be a kink in you. You must go away, please, it’s no good your coming here any more. My Mother is very ill, you know, and must not be worried.” The door was shut.

Phillip went to call on Julian Warbeck, to be told by Julian’s aunt that he was out.

“I see. Well, good night, Miss Warbeck.”

“Won’t you come in, Maddison?”

“I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“Good heavens,” said the voice of Mr. Warbeck, coming forward, spectacles in hand. “Good heavens, nobody could ever do that, I do assure you, my dear Maddison, after what we have had to put up with from Julian! I am only amazed that he is not about to go to gaol himself! So come in, and have some beer—my beer I may add, that is if there is any left after Julian has been to my own private cupboard—and you are prepared to take the risk of a row of empty bottles. There’s at least a fire in the grate, so you will not need to make your own, at least I hope not!”

From the house in Foxfield Road Phillip went to call on his grandfather. “If you promise not to tell anyone, sir, I’ll tell you what happened. Only you will promise not to say a word, won’t you?”

“I hope you are going to make a clean breast to Mr. Bowles, Phillip. He can’t very well help you unless you do that, you know.”

“Gran’pa, I think there’s only one course open to me. Otherwise it will be three against one. Those two men said they saw me set fire to the hut, and they will be too scared not to stick to their story. Will you give me your word, sir?”

Phillip told him what happened. “So you see, Gran’pa, in all the circumstances, I think it would be best to plead guilty.”

“Will you let your mother know what you have told me, Phillip? She is not well, you know, and the strain might be very bad for her health. Do what I ask you, my boy, I beg of you!”

“Yes, I will, Gran’pa.”

The old man was moved so that he could not speak; his breathing choked him, he began to cough, long contorted raspings from an inflamed bronchial tube. “I’m—better—alone,” he managed to say, in shame that he was old, no longer hale, and suffering.

Hetty went in to talk to her father with a light heart after Phillip had confided in her. It would not do to tell Dickie, she agreed; his rigid sense of what was right and proper would prompt him to say that in the circumstances there could be no two ways about it: Phillip’s first duty was to his own family, as it was to his country.

“Dickie says he will not have Phillip in the house, Papa. I wonder if you would mind if he has Hughie’s old room for the time being? It is quite safe by now, I feel sure.”

The garden room, of tragic memory, had remained unoccupied since her brother Hugh had used it nearly ten years before—almost like last summer to Hetty. After his death sulphur candles had been burned in the room for a week, while all doors and windows were sealed, and the chimney blocked, to make sure that no germs remained; after which the floor had been scrubbed, disinfected with Dodder’s Fluid, and scrubbed once more in preparation for repapering and painting. So now Hetty thought that it was fairly safe for Phillip to have a bed there, with writing table and chair, and his own books and gramophone.

It was the best dug-out he had ever had, he declared, and put a notice above the door

He decided to conduct his own case, after much confliction of mind. He did not want anyone to testify on his behalf, but could not bring himself to tell anyone the reason: that a defence, with possible testimony as to his service during the war, might lead to the dreaded exposure of O’Gorman ordered to remove his cork-belt, which led to the death of Brigadier-General West. If he offered no defence, it would also ensure the smallest mention in the paper. If asked about his war-service, he would say that he had served as a private in the London Regiment.

At the last moment Mr. Bowles advised him to plead not guilty. For the man in the lavatory had come forward—“Oi”—prepared to say that he had heard Phillip reproving the second man for behaving like a hooligan in throwing an old pail into his garden. But no: Phillip’s mind was made up. He pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to a month’s imprisonment in the second division—porridge among the screws of the scrubs.

Hetty was at times almost light-hearted, sharing a sense of innocence with her father while Phillip was away. Richard enjoyed another kind of freedom. He was the more settled in his mind because his former feelings about Phillip’s contrary character were justified. It was the boy’s mixed blood, inherited from that old Jew, Thomas Turney, who, he thought, had had no Irish mother at all: she must have been a Jewess! Hetty, her sister Dorothy, and Hugh Turney—all had the black hair and brown eyes of that accursed race!

Richard sat alone in his sitting-room at night with the
Strand
Magazine
—which he had decided to take now instead of
Nash
’
s
—reading about Jeeves and Bertie Wooster, P. G. Wodehouse’s delightful heroes, although they could never fill the place left vacant by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!

Another worry in Richard’s immediate life was Doris. She and her beau, the stuttering Willoughby, spent far too much time in the front room, often staying there until 11 p.m., when Richard wanted to go to bed. What they were doing all that time he did not propose to ask; but was it necessary to turn down the gas, as soon as Hetty had left them? What good could come of a courtship, if indeed it could be dignified by such a word, of two young people from whom, whenever he passed the shut door, in his slippers, perpetual argument seemed to be coming. What were they talking about? There was never any laughter; Doris never appeared to be glad when the young man arrived, as he did, night after night, staying there in half-darkness until he, the master of the house, invariably had to tap on the door and say, as amiably as he could, “It’s eleven o’clock, you know!” for all the world as though he were a night-watchman. What sort of manners was this? It was all part and parcel of the new so-called freedom the young were beginning to claim for themselves, pushing aside the older generation as though they had no right to exist.

As for Elizabeth, he had long given up any hope that she would be able to enter into the feelings of other people. She would not do so, of course, until she had her own house to provide for. The sooner she went to live with her friend, Nina, the better. Why Nina had put up with her demands, and tantrums on occasion, for so long, he was blessed if he knew!

And the same with Doris. Let her pass her exams—Willoughby or no Willoughby—and get a job as a school teacher, and make
her own life. Then, at long last, he might be able to call the house his own!

*

Doris and her beau sometimes went to the moving pictures, and Hetty sat alone in the front room, which was supposed to be her very own room, almost her boudoir. Why had she not thought of it before? But the need to economize in gas and coal had prevented her from using her room during the years, she told herself. Perhaps it was selfish of her to leave Dickie alone? He liked to have her near him, to read to her bits from his newspaper, and give to her his opinion on what was happening in the world.

The fact was that Hetty had seldom retired to ‘her’ room before because she had always cherished the hope that the family would come together again, perhaps playing games together, Dickie joining in as he had when the children were small, and he had offered prizes of butterscotch, usually arranging that each child had a prize.

And yet—Dickie was happy enough in his Sportsman armchair, given by Mamma for a wedding present; and the front room did provide a place for the girls and their friends. Now they were grown up, it was perhaps natural that they should want to wander farther afield, but—— Here she sighed, and fell into a reverie, accepting all things as sent by the dear Lord to try His children.

Hetty wondered about Doris. She had never asked questions, but to herself she thought that the girl could not forget Percy; while Robert Willoughby, his best friend in the army, pleaded with Doris to be allowed to make her happy, by yielding to his—— His what? Hetty became uneasy when her thoughts got so far about her younger daughter. What was it Robert had to offer—his love? Or his demands? Men, she knew, often had ideas which were exaggerated by loneliness, and in such cases they could change utterly after marriage.

Sitting in her room alone, when the two young people had gone out for a walk or to the Electric Palace, Hetty followed a ritual. She put the glass dome on the tablecloth, and polished it before taking out and doting upon the symbol of the true Phillip, who had led his men through such hardships, ‘in the face of outnumbering enemy forces’—the Phillip who had been so keen on his scout patrol, and taken such care of the smaller scouts—O,
it was the splendour of sacrifice on the battlefield that had led him now to suffer for another’s sin in Christian silence!

How beautiful it looked, the Badge of the Order! The royal blue almost purple velvet lining of the open case contrasted with the white satin into which cross, riband, and clasp fitted so exactly. And how the blue-purple velvet glowed in the light of the new Veritas mantle! Getting up from her chair, she held the Badge against the aspidistra, her very own fern which she had had before Phillip—‘little mouse’—was born; and she felt that the fern was a sentient being, capable of sharing some of her feelings for its beauty.

On one side of the white enamelled cross, edged with gold, was a green laurel wreath enclosing the Imperial crown, also in gold, upon a red enamelled ground. She turned it over; a second wreath encircled the Royal Cipher of King George the Fifth. Such a shapely, such a pure-looking Cross, the token of honour, which was the same thing as love for one’s fellows, which was true courage.