Love and the Loveless (23 page)

Walking up and down upon the summit of the Hill, warm and sunny, the new leaves on the trees shining in the gentle breeze, he felt extraordinarily happy. He saw himself as a boy again, in dark blue jersey which rolled round his neck, blue serge knickerbockers below the knee, black stockings and shoes, and his new cricket bat, stumps, and ball. Giving a treat to poor boys, and so anxious that his new bat shouldn't be used for sky-ing stones, and a small girl smiling as she looked on, obviously longing to be allowed to join in. She wore ragged clothes and her yellow hair hung down thickly from under a big floppy grown-up hat, hiding nearly all her big blue eyes, but not their shine. He had let her play, quite unaware that this was Lily, the darling girl who had known him all the time, but whom he had not seen clear and plain, as she was, until the night of her death. O Lily, he said to himself, as he walked on the grass, to and fro with his shadow, sometimes passing under the tall young lime-trees near the bandstand, with its sparrow nest hanging raggedly from the inverted pinnacle cage of iron under its roof, O Lily, are you in
the sunlight and the blue sky, calm and smiling with the love of God?

While he walked up and down, levitated by his feelings in the fine summer weather, seeing the Hill again as he had seen it in boyhood, a party of girls came along the crest, linked arm in arm, and singing a song that he had heard Gertie Gitana sing at the Hippodrome, years before; a sad and haunting song of a girl who had nothing to leave when she died, no money or property, but only happiness in nature.

The faces of the eight advancing girls looked most peculiar as the singing line approached; they were yellow, and he realised they were munition workers from Woolwich, probably having the day off from packing bombs or shells with picric acid. They were happy, two were graceful, their breasts under their white silk blouses moved up and down in unison as they walked in step, the arms of these two being linked crosswise behind them. Their yellow faces gave them a Chinese look, rather attractive, he thought. Mrs. Neville had said that they treated soldiers, the only way they could get off; but they must have worn overalls, hiding their breasts, if private soldiers noticed such things. Perhaps such men cared only for one thing—the soul in them was not awakened.

He sat on a seat, pretending not to have noticed them, waiting for them to pass, so that he could see their breasts moving and feed on the movement in his mind with longing that was almost an ache through his being. But the girls passed behind the seat, and he did not like to turn his head, but sat there, leaning forward, poking the gravel with his short cane, as though absorbed in some problem.

When they did not go on, but stayed by the bandstand, twenty or thirty yards behind him, he looked round. They seemed to be discussing something; there was a mixture of
directions in eager cockney voices. “You go there, Ireen, that's right, you cross with Dot, and you, May, you take the first round with Vi!” He shifted on the seat and rested his leg along it, to enjoy what they were doing. They began to dance, in pairs, weaving in and out of a circle, then all but two of them forming into pairs of arches, a couple passing under with bobbing heads; then they formed into two lines of four each, advancing and bowing and swinging back again, before breaking into couples and dancing in and out of their changing formations. He thought that girls in ancient Greece must have danced like this; and how well they looked, in spite of their canary-coloured faces, and what good clothes they wore. But for the war, these who had been poor urchins, screaming in nervous excitement around the bandstand on Thursday nights when the band played—dirty-faced children, pallid, thin, clad in rags—many without boots or shoes or stockings—but for the war they would now be white-faced girls, subdued, probably raped before adolescence, driven to inner hopelessness, or the streets; lost to love in unawakened homes. Now the war had brought, under its sacrifices, some kind of freedom, and hope for the future. He wanted to speak to them, but could not rise above his voiceless inner self.

He got up from the warm oak seat, thinking that perhaps Father had already gone home by the path switching from the row of elms, which led in front of the Grammar School, a path invisible behind the plantation of hawthorn bushes. It was sad to leave the happy girls; the moment of their summery joy was over; they sat or lay upon the grass—“Blime, I'm puffed!” said one—and were silent when he walked away. Had they noticed him, he wondered; and turning by the shelter at the top of the gully leading down to his home, saw them looking his way; he waved, and at once eight arms waved back. Perhaps they had been feeling as he had been feeling: I love them, he thought, I love them: the moment is gone for ever, it will never be the same again.

*

The spirit of the summer day prevailed. Mrs. Feeney, as always, had left the rooms dustless, polished, spotless, the steel fire-arms on the hearth shining bright.

Not a cross word at lunch: Richard was released by his son's open manner, for Phillip concealed his thoughts, and strove only to appear interested in Father's allotment, the “considerable
damage” done in the raid—“the second daylight raid upon London by those beastly Gothas”. He showed interest in his parent's description of the explosion at Silvertown, seen from London Bridge, as he was coming home from the office one January night.

“It was an awful sight, Phillip, really awful! I was crossing over London Bridge, it was a pitch dark night—you know the authorities are now very keen, and quite rightly, about exposed lights. These German beggars up above follow the streets, you know, and particularly the railway lines leading into London. Well, as I was saying, I was crossing the Bridge, in utter darkness, keeping close to the parapet, when all in a moment everything was as clear as day! Much brighter than when the Schütte-Lanz burned, you remember, old chap? The light came from down river, a great uprushing of yellow flames. The queer thing was these died down, but only for an instant was it dark again, for immediately afterwards the sky was a mass of rainbow colours—I can't tell you the effect! It had to be seen to be believed! I don't exaggerate in the very least, I assure you! All the colours of the spectrum run riot—green, red, violet, blue. They filled the entire sky, making the Tower Bridge black!”

“Rather like the Aurora Borealis, I suppose, Father?”

“Oh, much more vivid than that, Phillip! It was like a vast kaleidoscope, all the colours swirling and mingling together. Heaven knows what was the cause of the explosion.”

“German spies, I bet,” said Doris.

“No,” replied Phillip. “Five tons of T.N.T. were set off by a fire in one of the top-storey rooms at Brünner Mond, then the various chemicals for S.O.S. rockets—barium, strontium, magnesium et cetera caught fire, in the air.”

“What?” said Richard. “You know all about it, do you?”

“Only a little, Father. Please go on. It is most interesting. I haven't heard what it looked like, until now.”

“Oh well. Where was I? Oh yes. As I was saying, it was a wonderful sight, but that was not all! In a few moments the whole Bridge was vibrating with the effects of an enormous explosion! Then, when it had rolled and rumbled away, the sky began to glow with burning buildings. I had my own ideas of what had happened, but kept them to myself, for obvious reasons. But now, it appears, you know all about it!”

“What was it, Phillip?” asked Doris.

“Well, as it never got into the papers, and as one can't be too careful, perhaps——”

“Now you're pulling my leg, old chap!” said Richard. “Come on, tell us——”

“Well, Father, the little bit I heard fits in with your very vivid description. I got my information from a driver in my section whose home was blown up, so he was given compassionate leave. Lost everything except one small boy—his wife, two young children, his parents. Everything flat, for hundreds of yards.”

“Oh, how very sad! And his poor little son, left all alone!” Hetty was nearly in tears.

“Luckily Tallis was wounded, and got home with it. I heard from him the other day. He's going to work in a munitions factory.”

Richard laughed with relief. “So he'll be able to take care of his little boy, won't he? Well now, tell us about what you have been doing, old man.”

“Yes, do, Phillip! We know almost nothing from the paper.”

“There isn't much to tell. All Weather Jack, the C.O., copped it, and now Downham's in command of the company. I want to go back to the Gaultshires, if I can.”

“What, another change?” asked Richard.

“Won't that mean giving up your riding work, Phillip?”

“I might get a battalion transport. Anyway, in the infantry things are much better now. Messines was a good show.”

“Yes, we thought you might be there, when you mentioned your bike ride on Christmas Day. Mother and I read between the lines, didn't we, Mother?”

“Yes, Dickie.”

“So things are going well out there, are they, old man?”

“Unfortunately the French are out of it. Nivelle's a wash-out. He lost hundreds of thousands of his men in one day in Champagne. The troops mutinied, and some set out to march on Paris.”

“Oh!” said Richard, glancing from one face to another. Incredulity and amazement gave him a partially helpless look. “But I have seen no mention of what you say in
The
Daily
Trident
!”
Then with a pang of disappointment he remembered his son's habit of—well—drawing the long bow.

“
Mutiny,
you say, my boy?”

“Yes, Father.”

“That's a most serious charge to make, you know!”

“I am not making any charge, Father.”

“Well, I can only hope you will not go about talking like that, outside this house. That's all I can say. No doubt you remember what happened last time.”

This was a reference to Phillip's abrupt recall when on sick leave in June of the previous year, after he had been talking in Freddy's bar, and Det.-Sgt. Keechey from Randiswell police station had reported his words.

Phillip hesitated between a desire to speak out and another to avoid his father and all he might say. The hesitation gave a third feeling of acute discomposure. He stabbed a slice of smoked salmon with his fork, and put it clumsily in his mouth and chewed without tasting, while keeping his gaze on the plate.

He put down his fork. “I'm sorry I spoke,” he said, to the tablecloth. Why had he come on leave?

“Are you sure of your facts?” went on Richard.

“No, Father. It was a rumour. You are quite right, I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

“Well, we'll say no more about it, old chap,” said Richard; but his anxiety, increased by inferior food, overwork, and habitual loneliness, was not to be suppressed. “All the same, it is most disturbing to hear what you say, considering the gravity of the submarine sinkings. It only goes to show that the warnings of
The
Daily
Trident
have some foundation in fact—provided, of course, that what you tell me is the situation with our Ally.”

“But Phillip has said that he only heard it——” began Hetty, but she stopped when Phillip frowned at her.

“Well, ‘the least said, the soonest mended',” said Richard, wiping his bearded lips with his table napkin. “It's a lovely afternoon, I think I'll do some work on my allotment. The fashion has spread!” he went on, genially, looking at his son, “since you were so very kind as to provide me with some cabbage plants—let me see, it was just about a year ago, wasn't it? Well, Phillip,” as he put the rolled napkin in its ring, “I'd like to thank you for providing an excellent lunch. What do you say, Hetty?” He manoeuvred a few crumbs on the cloth beside him to a knife blade, and tipped them into an envelope.

“Yes, it was very thoughtful of Phillip.” At that moment a sharp
rat-tattat
sounded on the knocker of the front door. “There's Mavis! Open the door, will you, Doris?”

“Mother!” said Doris, in warning voice. “Remember what you said—‘Elizabeth'!”

“Ah yes!” exclaimed Richard, jocularly. “You must prime Phillip about that new departure! Well, I will leave you to enjoy yourselves,” and putting his napkin in its especial place in the drawer below the mahogany bookcase, he went through the open french windows into the garden, to put the crumbs on his bird-tray under the elm, followed down the lawn by Zippy the cat, mewing unhappily at the memory of tomtits well out of reach of its chattering teeth. For Zippy ground, or rather chopped its teeth at birds that remained selfishly out of reach so that it could not catch them. Sometimes the neuter appealed to the birds with faint mewings; but they never came down, to be kind to Zippy.

“Bastard!” said Phillip, looking through the open doors.

“Really, dear! Your father——!”

“Oh, I only meant the cat. What's all this about ‘Elizabeth'?”