A Test to Destruction (28 page)

Thank God, the night sister was coming down the ward. He could hear her slippers. She spoke in a whisper to the snorer, shook his shoulder. Brill sat up and said, “I wasn’t snoring, honestly!”

“Turn round,” she whispered, then her slippers were sweeping
away. Soon Brill was snoring again, bubbling thickly with the boiled blood of the black bison in the Park. He wondered if they ever ploughed with oxen, now that so many horses were in France. He forced himself to think of oxen teams slowly plodding o’er the lea; but they were snoring blood as they lumbered over the black rocks; bubbles of blood blew from their eyes, ears, and nostrils in a hot varnish of sweat. At last he could bear it no more and lifting the bandage over his eyes, peeped through clotted lids, and with a shock of joy saw a row of brilliant lights down both ends of the long table dividing the middle of the ward. At once the snoring diminished for him, and he stood up, repressing an impulse to shout, “I can see the lights, sister, I can see!” Then to enjoy his new freedom the more he sat on the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, or rather squeezed the lids into place with his facial muscles, and lapped in happiness, put back the bandage and got between the sheets, to lie with arms under head, and after a while to lift the bandage sufficiently to allow him to see the winking lights of the candles all along the promenade of the ward, between bowls of flowers which were like railed-in gardens, while the shadows on the walls were familiar and comforting for he was in England, he was free of the war, and of the disasters of the past. He began to cry with relief, he felt that ‘Spectre’ was with him, telling him that he was forgiven.

He thought back to the scene in the Bird Cage, on the calm sunny morning before the twenty-first of March, and heard ‘Spectre’s’ words again, saying that a father needed his son the more that his life was wasted away; and the beauty of the lights along the promenade of the ward, the wind in the trees of the park, murmurous through the open tops of the windows was like the sound of the sea first heard in childhood, when Father had found a gold watch on the shingle of Hayling Island, and taken it to the police, who had returned it to the owner, Father saying that he did not want his name to be mentioned, or to claim any reward. Father had always been an honourable man; he, his son, had been like Bill Kidd, but without Bill Kidd’s guts.

The lights were blurred, as he struggled for recovery, with the determination that he must not let his thoughts worry, like Shelley’s hounds, ‘their father and their prey’.

*

In the morning he was taken to the operation theatre to be X-rayed through chest and back. To his surprise the Duchess
worked the apparatus, which Major Henniker-Sudley, in the ward afterwards said was the first privately to be installed in the country before the war in her ‘pet’ cottage hospital. The Duchess had qualified both as radiologist and radiographer at the London Hospital in Whitechapel.

That afternoon he was taken out in a vehicle with four small wheels, judging by the noise on the gravel drive. It was drawn by a Welsh pony called Clunbach, led by his guide. He sat in the back seat, feeling the leather upholstery to be dry and cracked, needing saddle-soap. There was a small child in the ‘brougham’—as he thought of it. She was with her nurse, taking a picnic tea to one of the lakes.

“I’ve never ridden in a bro’ham before,” he said to the nurse.

“No, sir?”

Perhaps it wasn’t a brougham, but had another name.

He could feel the child’s presence beside him, and tried to picture her from the name used by the nurse—Melissa. Not knowing what to say to the child, he remained silent. When they stopped, he got out first, and stood still.

“I think this is about the best place, out of the wind, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

“I’ll get the hamper out of the broo’am.”

“Oh, let me——”

“No, you must rest. Nanny, will you spread the hammer cloth?”

He sat on one corner of the rug. When they were all sitting he said, as cheerfully as he could, “I’ve been trying to determine our position from the fixed point of that off-tune cuckoo’s voice, and what I imagine to be its echo glancing off the long southern front of the Abbey.”

When there was no reply, he said, trying to make a joke of it, “I suppose you must think me a terrible bore——”

“Oh lor’, no! I think it’s all most interesting. How you think of it, I simply
can’t
imagine!” Then, as though to reassure him, she said casually, in a voice partly wooden with
hauteur,
“Most of the family is inclined to prefer birds to people, y’know. Uncle Boo’n and Aunt May would spend their lives watchin’ them through glasses all day, if they could.”

He sat silent once more, struggling with feelings of insufficiency, which prompted him to go away at once; and after many
mentally-suppressed attempts to do so, he got on his feet, all control gone, and had walked a few steps over the grass when her voice said, “What wonderful hearing you have! Fancy hearing them all that distance off.” He stood there, and after a period of time heard voices. When they came near she said, “You’re just in time for tea! How awf’ly nice of you to come!” He recognised Brill, Garfield and others from the ward, but when a clear baritone slightly nasal voice cried, “Phillip! My dear old son!” he felt free at last.

“Denis!” He projected himself towards the voice, while distantly conscious of how-d’you-do’s, and the spoken name of Lady Abeline. “My dear old son!” repeated the clear, endearing voice, “Let me sit beside you, and hear all your news! You know that Tabor’s commanding now? He’s done very well, so I hear. Bad luck about ‘Spectre’, wasn’t it? But of course, you were in the same ship.”

“I—I—was in another part of it.”

“I heard about it from O’Gorman. He’s here, you know, at the command depot at the other end of the park.”

“O’Gorman is?” He felt faint.

“I expect you’ll be seeing him soon, when Lord Satchville comes on leave. The Duke, who, as you probably know, commands the depôt and wants to hold some sort of regimental Court of Inquiry, to try to get posthumous recognition for ‘Spectre’.”

Sisley looked at the bandaged face beside him, taut from prominent cheek-bones to thin line of jaw, at the fingers twirling and twisting a stem of grass; and changed the subject. The poor chap was still too shaken to talk about it, he told Major Henniker-Sudley afterwards.

*

When the bandages were taken off Phillip saw that he had no eyelashes, and that the lids were a thick bright pink like the new skin of his nose and face; while his beard that had felt to be so soft was black and ugly. The face staring at him with distaste looked as if it were suffering from some loathsome skin disease. Smoked glasses added to the complete villainy of the picture. “You swine!” he said to the face; no wonder that the child in the ‘broo’m’—not
bro’ham
!—had been too frightened to speak. At least he would not inflict his boring presence on them at any picnic parties in the future.

He discovered a friend in Major Henniker-Sudley, who had got a shrapnel ball in the shoulder within the first half-hour of going into action in the final German attack before Amiens. They went for walks together, and to his delight Phillip learned that Henniker-Sudley had a copy of
The
Oxford
Book
of
English
Verse.
‘Hen’ lent him a book by Conrad,
Victory,
which, he explained, was nothing to do with the war. One morning this new happiness was riven when ‘Hen’ said, “The Duke would like to have a word with you, about Harold West. Don’t be put off by his manner, he always was a bit of a recluse, you know. He’s wrapped up in country matters, especially birds and fish and that sort of thing. Rather in your own line, I gather. Odd about that cuckoo singin’ out of tune, isn’t it?”

Phillip started to make excuses. “I—I—what about my beard, ‘Hen’? I don’t think I—I—I mean, shaving——”

“My dear fellow, I don’t think it will matter in the least.”

*

When he was recalled to the operating theatre, enlarged photographs of what looked like shadows were being examined by two doctors. Questions were asked. Did he at times feel a restriction in his breathing? Were there, to his knowledge, any blue-cross shells falling that evening, with the mustard gas? Had he taken in gas before, at any time? He had? A touch of chlorine at Loos? Perhaps, as his medical history sheets were apparently mislaid, he could remember the particulars? That ‘touch of chlorine at Loos’, what did he mean by a touch? Any retching? No, only sickness. Did he feel puffy after walking, or taking exercise? When lying in bed? Possibility of emphysema, murmured one doctor to the other. Now, would he tell them if he had to
force
his breathing sometimes? He did? A developing emphysematous condition, the younger doctor murmured. Had he ever had broncho-pneumonia? No? They looked at the photographs again, pointing to one place with a pencil. They drew apart, and spoke together. He heard the younger doctor say, “There might possibly be an incipient emphysema, the over-distension of air-cells——”

They returned. The senior M.O. said, “How long have you been overseas? Just about two years in all. I see you were out in 1914. This was your fifth time? You need a long rest, to build you up. I don’t think there’s the least need to worry. What you need is plenty of sunshine, and good food. Convalescence in
the west country, take everything easy, laze about. Do you fish? The very thing. I’ll put your name down for convalescence. They’ll fix you up with a place to go to, in London. And, as I said, take things easily. The intermittence in your heart is most likely due to flatulence, consequent on strain. We’ll give you a tonic; in the meantime, take it easy in the sun, and enjoy yourself.”

It was wonderful to see one’s shadow again.

Everything he saw had a beautiful shape, and colours all made perfect patterns in a manner never seen before. They absorbed sounds; voices of men and birds were part of their patterns. Print on a page was miraculously clear. On the way to the throne was an old notice, printed, he at first thought, from wooden type, but on closer scrutiny the lettering must have been based on metal, for the hair-lines were so fine: work of craftsman like Father, who wrote always meticulously, every letter clearly defined.

The notice on the wall was to do with the servants, who obviously had to jump to it; by the long letter
s
as a tall
f,
the notice had been put up in the 18th century.

He read on, imagining that the strict life behind the green baize doors would have pleased his father. The hall was to be decently swept, the dirt taken away; water to be pumped every Wednesday; no Provision to be put in any Cupboard or Drawer; Table cloth to be folded after all meals & put in the Drawer for that purpose; anyone detected ‘wiping’ knives on the Table cloth; anyone taking plates to the table, to be ‘seen to set them for dogs to eat off’; ‘no wearing apparel or hat box be suffered to hang in the hall, but shall be put in the closets for that purpose’—fined 3d a time; and it ended with WHOEVER DEFACES THESE RULES, IN ANY MANNER 5s.

*

When he was back in the ward an aged footman, whose face was vaguely familiar, came and said, with a bow, “His Grace presents His Grace’s compliments, sir, and His Grace requests the honour of your presence in His Grace’s Lignum Room at eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Oh, thank you. My compliments to His Grace, and I’ll attend upon his Grace at eleven. But how does one get to His Grace’s Lignum Room?”

“I’ll come and take you there, sir, five minutes before eleven.’’

“I’ve met you before, somewhere, I think?”

“I was Colonel Mogger’anger‘s batman, sir, at the White City. I come home with ’im, sir.”

“Of course, I remember now. Dear old Moggers! Well, I’ll see you here at five to eleven. Don’t be late, you crab wallah, or it’ll be three dee up your shirt!”

*

The crab-wallah returned to the minute, and led him down several passages to a green baize door, through which he passed to a corridor lined with sporting prints on either wall almost to the ceiling. Down another corridor lined with butterflies in cases. Here an elderly butler took over from the footman, leading him on to a red-baize door, behind which stood the chamberlain, an equivalent, he thought, of the Senior Regimental Sergeant-major. With great dignity this individual, resplendent in crimson and gold, led him to a tall door made with what seemed to be teak-wood, or possibly
lignum
vitae,
since it resembled the round boxes in which string was pulled in ironmongers’ shops to tie up parcels. Before the massive door the chamberlain paused to rap loudly on the door, afterwards opening it by turning
a handle of what looked like gold. Stepping back, he announced in quiet tones, “Lieutenant-Colonel Maddison of the Mediators, Your Grace”; whereupon he bowed slightly to the guest, and with a sweep of the door closing backwards, left him in a tall room with an advancing figure of medium height, wearing spectacles above a heavy moustache rather like a sturdier Rudyard Kipling.