Young Phillip Maddison (25 page)

The patrol lay silent in the open, leaky, dark tent. Phillip reached for his boots. He felt them to see if there was water inside, then put them on and laced them up. Water splashed on the back of his neck. He unrolled his thick dark grey cape, which came down to the elbows, and fastened it by the rusty chain at the throat. He put on his wide-awake with the strap under his chin, as the wind was now blowing. Then rummaging in the wooden box which had been taken off the chassis when the waggon had broken down, he selected the rations, which Mother had
given him. There was his loaf of bread, his half pound of streaky rashers, his blue paper bag of sugar mixed with tea, his pot of apricot jam, his quarter-of-a-pound of butter, his tin of condensed milk. He put these in a sack; twisted the hessian round the bundle to sling it over his shoulder; then whispered, “So long, men, see you another time,” and crawled out. He took his pole and started to trudge across the wet grass.

At the gate his flash-light revealed a huddled figure on guard under the pine tree. It was David Wallace. Silver streaks of water fell in the rays of the carbon-filament bulb. David was shivering.

“Are you relieving me, Phillip?”

“Old Purley-Prout has sent me home. How far is it? Nine miles?”

“Just about.”

“It’s cold, isn’t it?”

“It is, rather. Mr. Prout lent me his cycling cape.”

“Seen anything of the raiders?”

“No.”

“I don’t suppose they’ll come in the rain.”

“You never know. What’s the time?”

“About eleven, I should think. It will take me till three o’clock to get home.” He would wait in the porch when he got back. He would not dare to wake up Father.

“Where’s your black rubber cycling cape, Phillip?”

“I lent it to Cranmer. Well, so long, David. Goodbye for now,” said Phillip, trying to stop his voice quavering.

He started walking on the gritty, running surface. He began to whistle
Alice
,
Where Art Thou
?
, and had gone less than fifty yards when Cranmer’s shrieking whistle came through the black night.

Stopping, Phillip heard David Wallace calling out to him, “Phillip, come back!”

He went back, as slowly as he had set forth, whistling softly to himself, sack over shoulder. He returned to the patrol tent. Crouching down, among silent men, on the cold wet oilcloth, he took off his sodden cape and boots. There was more room in the tent now, for Mr. Purley-Prout had taken Lenny Low into his bivouac, said Desmond.

P
HILLIP
did not know when the rain stopped, although it must have been after dawn, for the cuckoos were calling while drops were still pattering on the canvas from the pine trees above. There was a mist over the paddock when he did leave the tent, on hands and knees, feeling cold and pale. A voice in the quarry below called to a cow, and pigs made shrill squealings, which suddenly stopped. Many birds soon were singing. One by one his men crawled out. They began to look about for firewood, but only sodden sticks lay on the ground. Mr. Purley-Prout crawled out of his bivouac, followed by Lenny Low.

Mr. Purley-Prout said another troop was coming from Croydon that day, so the troop must hurry up with breakfast, as they had to go and meet their guests and help carry their baggage. This would be reckoned a good turn for the day for everybody. There was no camp fire, each patrol was left to make its own as best it could.

Phillip had been lent a double-cooker for the patrol’s porridge, by his mother. After many matches, kneeling in the wet, blowing and coughing, he managed to start a hissing fire which, with damp sticks, was no flame and all smoke. The porridge pot had just been put on when Mr. Purley-Prout told them that in five minutes they must leave. As there was no time for oatmeal, attempts were made to fry eggs. The wet sticks picked up below the pines being rotten, were saturated with water; the fire required constant blowing to make the smallest flame appear in the steam. So the Bloodhounds, together with the others, had to leave without any breakfast. Mr. Purley-Prout had eaten some dates, nuts and figs, while Mr. Swinerd munched sandwiches left over from the night before.

“Fall in the North West Kents!”

Soon after they had set out, the sun appeared, and dried the puddles in the road. They took an unfamiliar route. On and on they marched. It became hot; dust arose as they straggled on, pallid with sleeplessness and no breakfast. Phillip felt thirsty, but the water in his wooden bottle tasted too
bad to drink. The others, too, wanted a drink, but Mr. Purley-Prout did not stop. After two hours they arrived outside a strange station, where stood a solitary waggonette.

Mr. Purley-Prout looked at his gold watch. “We’ve got two minutes to spare,” he said. “Bravo, the North Western! Never let it be said that we kept our guests waiting!”

Oh, for a drink! Would they all march back as soon as the train came in? A distant whistle and a chuff-chuffing told that it was coming. Mr. Purley-Prout called the Troop to attention. The Flag was held up by his personal Standard Bearer, Holdwich, patrol leader of the Lions.

The train came in and stopped. Eight old people alighted, led by a clergyman. Mr. Purley-Prout spoke to them. They were Ramblers, they said. They were going in the waggonette to visit Caesar’s well, which fed the Fish Ponds, the source of the Randisbourne, and look for relics of Roman pottery on the common. No, they had seen no Boy Scouts in the train.

“The blighters have obviously missed it,” Mr. Purley-Prout said to Mr. Swinerd. “Well, we’ve done our part. We shall have to hang on for the next train, that’s all.”

Mr. Swinerd told them that meant two hours to wait. There was a shop near the station, and Phillip bought some oranges and a loaf of white bread, with fourpence of the sixpence Mother had given him for emergencies. He gave an orange to each of his men, and kept two for himself. He hacked slices of the bread with his knife, and they ate it. An old woman in a cottage gave them a jug of water; two jugs of water; three, four jugs. Mr. Purley-Prout thanked her on behalf of the Troop.

To employ time usefully, said Mr. Purley-Prout, they would have an abbreviated field exercise in the lanes. The Greyhounds were sent out to get through a line held by the rest. While waiting, Phillip went into the shop and bought four more oranges, he was so thirsty. He ate these, sitting behind a tree by himself, and then some more bread.

“You want to be careful,” said Mr. Swinerd, coming suddenly round the tree. “Orange juice might very well work on the dough inside you, and cause gas to press upon the heart, and suddenly stop its action.
Six
oranges? Well, look out, my boy! The bread you’ve eaten may suddenly swell bigger than your stomach. Any moment you may blow up!”

He said this in a serious voice, and Phillip believed him.

Listening to his heart, he felt it beating loudly in his ears. Was he going to die? He might never see Mother again! Any moment his inside might swell up, and choke out his life. He waited for something to happen, trying not to utter his terror. His heart thumped in his ears.

When they marched back to the station, it was hotter than ever. He felt thirsty once more; but dared not drink any of the water brought out by the old woman.

The guest Troop arrived in the intense heat, which caused a watery waver on distant trees. Mr. Purley-Prout insisted that the hand-cart, containing all their gear, including four belltents, should be pushed by his own Troop.

“We, as gentlemen, have that privilege towards our guests. The Bloodhounds, for having been so noisy during the night, will push it the first leg, up the hill to the Common. That will sweat the vice out of them, and enable others to have a proper sleep during the coming night.”

The Bloodhound Patrol managed, somehow, to get the cart to the top, after several rests for thudding hearts and wet red faces on the way. Mr. Purley-Prout was waiting for them at the edge of the common.

“The others have marched on, but I have remained to give a hand.”

He pushed the cart by himself, his wide calf muscles bulging, Phillip noticed with envy. His own calves were very thin, with scarcely noticeable muscles, as he had observed many times in Mother’s dress-cupboard glass in her bedroom.

The rest of the Troop were resting further on, lying on the grass by the road. When they got there, Phillip and his patrol flung themselves down, faces red and prickling, being tired out. Mr. Purley-Prout, lying on his back, did some exercises to strengthen his stomach muscles.

“How are you feeling?” said Mr. Swinerd, with apparent concern, coming to where Phillip lay. “Heat adds to the chances of blowing up, you know.”

“Are you serious, Mr. Swinerd?” asked Phillip, faintly, as he felt himself suddenly far away from them all. Was he dying?

“Well, what do
you
think?” replied Mr. Swinerd, over his shoulder as he went away.

Phillip thought Mr. Swinerd was offended by the question. If only God would spare him, he would never again eat more
than one orange at a time, and always wait a long time afterwards before adding bread. He would say his prayers every night, too, and be very kind always to his sisters.

It was only when they had got back to camp, dusty and fearfully hot, that Mr. Swinerd told Phillip he had been ragging him in a friendly spirit.

“You ought to know me by now, my boy, that I am a joker.”

So relieved was Phillip that he decided to play a joke on Mr. Swinerd later on.

Desmond Neville, who as one of the youngest had been left behind with others to guard the camp, came to Phillip, his face tear-stained, with a sad story of having felt for a nest in the hedge, and all the eggs had rolled out and broken. He had only meant to feel in the nest, he said, not to tip it up.

Phillip went with him to look at the remains of the shells. The eggs were unfamiliar; they were a yellowish grey, with browny spots and blotches on them. The nest was about the size of a thrush’s, but taller and built of twigs and grasses. While Phillip was wondering what it could be a bird flew to a branch in the thorn hedge and looked down at them. It was a browny sort of bird, with a large eye, blackish whiskers, and a strong bent beak.

“It’s a butcher bird, I do declare!” he cried, in a voice like that of his cousin Percy Pickering. “I saw one once at Beau Brickhill with Percy! Coo, I wish I had got an egg! The red-backed shrike is its real name. It’s a cruel bird, sticking bees and little birds’ nestlings on a thorn, like a skewer, for its larder.”

“I’m very sorry, Phillip, I tipped the nest. I slipped when my hand was just touching it.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s done now, anyway. This is a wonderful place for nests, isn’t it?”

Desmond looked happier. Behind his rather stolid-looking face he was a sensitive boy, anxious to do the right thing, the more so as he had no father living at home. Hetty had told Phillip that he must never ask questions about Mr. Neville, as it was not polite to be curious about other people’s affairs.

*

It was now the middle of a scorching afternoon, and Phillip’s turn to be sentry at the gate. The rest of the Troop were in the shade of the pines at the farther end of the paddock, where the smoke of fires arose, preparatory to cooking dinners.

Phillip was watching a spotted flycatcher flying off its perch on a post to take a fly, when, absolutely silently, a black carriage without a horse came round the corner of the road and stopped. It was not a motorcar, for it had no engine; its silent approach was most mysterious. What could it be? The driver held a black enamelled stick to steer by. He had a big face and moustache, and wore a bowler hat and black suit. An old lady sat beside him, wearing black silk widow’s weeds, which rustled as she moved. She had on a black hat, made of a sort of lace, which hung down over the frame, like a small short curtain all round.

Mr. Purley-Prout had seen the silent carriage, and came running over the paddock. He vaulted over the gate, and stood to attention to salute the people. He bowed over the lady’s hand as he shook it. After some words he saluted again, and the black-spider carriage turned round and glided off in the direction it had come, again without any sound, except for the slight slur of its thin rubber tyres on the white chalk and flinty dust, which was glaring in the heat.

Mr. Purley-Prout said to Phillip that the driver of the electric brougham was the Earl of Mersea, the owner of all the land round about, and one of the richest noblemen in England. With him was his Mother, the Dowager Countess. In their family, said Mr. Purley-Prout, there had never been a scandal throughout its long history.

“Lady Mersea has asked twelve of the Troop to tea tomorrow afternoon. I shall probably take three from each patrol, and leave you in charge during my absence, Phillip.”

Phillip was pleased to have this trust. Also, it would mean that he would get out of cleaning his boots and having to behave properly all the time, like on church parade. He might even raid one of the other camps all by himself, and pinch a flag! All sorts of things might happen!

After eating—the Bloodhounds finished cooking their belated breakfast of porridge and half-fried burnt eggs about 4 p.m.—Phillip told his men about two jokes he had thought out while on sentry-go. The first to be played on Mr. Swinerd. He would wrap a lump of chalk in grease-proof paper, pencil the word cheese on the package, and put it in Mr. Swinerd’s food-box just inside his bivouac. The second joke was intended to prove to Mr. Purley-Prout and the others that the Bloodhounds were not the tenderfeet he had declared them to be.

Two birds could be killed by one stone in this second joke, Phillip whispered. The patrol wanted some more bread, so if Ching sneaked off to Farthing Street and got some, and some buns as well, without anyone seeing him go, they could wait a bit, and then raise the alarm that he had been captured by some other Troop. This would lead to counter-raids, and a fine old schemozzle!

“‘Supper was at 9.0, followed by prayers. “Last Post” went at 9.30, and “Lights Out” at 10.0.

“‘Whitsun Day saw us early astir, Reveille being at 6.0. Everybody, except the guard, went off at 6.30 to the Fish Ponds to wash. Church Parade for Communicants was at 7.50, the service being at 8.0 in the church. Breakfast followed at 9.0. We marched off again to church at 9.55, the service having been arranged specially for the Kent Guides under Lieut. Oakfall (who were camping near by) and ourselves, at 10.0. The Rector, in his address, extended a hearty welcome to us, saying, amongst other things, that war had in the past brought out many excellent qualities in those taking part. The hymns were lustily sung, and we returned to camp feeling much elevated in spirits.

“‘A march to Farthing Street village in the blazing sun, and a visit to the Bereshill’s Camp followed. We found that the troops (1st Fordesmill and 2nd Bereshill) had just gone off to Farthing Street Church. On our way back we met Mr. Maddison, who had cycled out to see us. (We are always glad to see visitors.)’

*