The Golden Virgin (24 page)

Up in the elm above him sounded petulant beseeching cries. Ten tomtits, with new yellow gapes at the hinges of their beaks, had left the nesting box and were awaiting, on various branches among the green leaves, their parents with caterpillars, spiders, and occasional bits of fat from mutton bones hanging from trees in some of the gardens down the road. In the Backfield a female cuckoo belled through the mist of morning air; from the distant cemetery came the urgent
wook-wook-oo
of a male bird. The morning seemed to dream in stillness before the coming of great heat, as on the moor above the shadowed valley of the Lyn, during that wonderful holiday just before the war broke out. Would it be the same now, when at the end of the week he and Desmond went together to the West Country?

Desmond seemed much more contented than he was; he still went out with Lily, or rather to her house in Nightingale Grove, just above the railway; but apart from that, Phillip knew nothing.

Soon Desmond was to have ten days' leave, before going overseas to a Tunnelling Company of the Royal Engineers. Six of those days were to be spent in Devon. Only seven more days now, and they would be sitting in a carriage at Waterloo, for the long and thrilling journey to Barnstaple; then the change to the little narrow-gauge engine, with the brass funnel, of the Lynton railway, leading up to the heather and furze and red deer of Exmoor, the bright running streams, the far blue Bristol Channel, the distant coast-line of Wales—far, far away would I rove!

*

Rod, line, and flies having been attended to, Phillip went through the open french windows into the house, and played his father's gramophone, which had been locked, but one of the keys
on his mother's key-ring opened it. After a cup of tea at eleven o'clock, brought by Mrs. Feeney the charwoman (his mother had gone shopping) he went down to visit Mrs. Neville, and had another cup of tea with her at the open window. They discussed Desmond's transfer, and he reassured her that all Tunnelling Companies were well out of the fighting, safe underground from shelling.

“I think Desmond applied because he was a little bit jealous of you having been out twice to the front. Of course I could stop it if I wanted to, but he would never forgive me if I did. He's so big that sometimes I forget that my son will not be eighteen until next September! And now he talks of being engaged to some girl! You look surprised, Phillip; didn't you know? I hope I'm not giving away secrets—perhaps Desmond wants to tell you himself. Anyway, I expect you know Lily, one of the little girls in the Gild Hall? I know nothing about her, beyond what I've told you. I don't expect to share in a young man's life, like some mothers do. But then, I'm not the possessive kind. I believe in letting the younger generation find its own feet. What's she like, Phillip? Some fluffy little thing, with goo-goo eyes?”

“Lily is fair, and rather pretty, Mrs. Neville. She's not exactly a flapper, in fact she looks quite grown up. Actually, I think she's the same age as Desmond.”

“Thank God she isn't a canary!” Mrs. Neville cried, with a little shriek of laughter. “Although, poor things,” she added, as suddenly reflective again, “they cannot help it. Haven't you heard of the canaries at Woolwich, Phillip? That's what the soldiers call them. They're the girls working in the explosives department, whose faces turn yellow with the chemicals they handle. They make a lot of money, and the soldiers know this, of course, and go out with them only if the canaries stand treat! They're doing well, you know, some of the working class, nowadays—especially those on munitions. They're buying motor-cycles, gramophones, and even grand pianos! That's respectability, you see, Phillip—a grand piano. Nobody can play them, of course!”

When she spoke next, Phillip realised that she had known more about Lily than she had pretended.

“Desmond says Lily is rather like Helena, Phillip, only quieter, though what that means I don't know, for Helena is the last girl to be called flighty! Still, it's only his first girl—all the boys in khaki nowadays want a girl, don't they, someone whose photograph they can carry in their pocket-book, and show the other fellows. You look rather sad, dear. Is anything the matter?”

“Desmond doesn't want me to talk to her, Mrs. Neville.”

“A little jealousy, dear, that's all. Don't you take any notice of that! He's finding his own feet, you see. So far it has been you who has filled his life, for as you know, Desmond has not had a father's care, and a growing boy needs someone other than his mother to look up to. Why, he was jealous of your devotion to Helena at one time, and used to tell me that if you and she became, well—it's only a phase, Phillip! Have another cup of tea, won't you? Oh, it's the gramophone at the open front window again today, is it? ‘If music be the food of love, play on,' as Shakespeare says. Which reminds me, I am so glad that your mother has found an interest outside her home, in the plays she sees with Grandpa! I see them trotting off down the road, to get the midday cheap tram! Then back again, before your father comes home. Why don't you go with her to the Old Vic one day, it would give her such a treat, and you'd enjoy Shakespeare too, with your fine perceptive feelings, dear.”

“Oh, I had enough Shakespeare at school to last me a lifetime! Though I must admit bits Gran'pa used to read weren't bad. I remember the scene from
Henry
the
Fifth
he read, the campfires, and the armourers ‘accomplishing the knights', knocking in the rivets to their armour. That was when Uncle Sidney and Uncle Hugh were going to the Boer War. Well, I must skedaddle now. Can you hear the gramophone down here?”

“Faintly, dear. But I shall be looking out when she comes past, wheeling her bike. She always looks up and waves to me, you know.”

“You are my ally, Mrs. Neville! Well, I must rush now! I think I'll play the Nimrod movement from Elgar's
Enigma
Varia
tions
today, and not the
Liebestod.
Only four more days now, and Des and I will be on our way to Devon! It won't be the same, of course, for somehow in war-time the country does not seem to be as it used to be, but with Des, who likes fishing better than watching birds, I hope it will be like old times again.”

Phillip's new mood of optimism, which might have been due to the slack time he had been enjoying, was not to last long. Detective-sergeant Keechey was to see to that.

*

Feeling happy with life, Phillip went down early to Freddy's bar; but going in out of the sun, which was slanting shadows across the street and half-way up the buildings opposite, he felt sudden longing to be in the country. The bar looked dull and ordinary;
he had never been in during a summer day before, only in the autumn by day, and gas-light during the darkness when the shadowy world was shut out. Now Freddy somehow looked older, and artificial, like his wearing a strawyard indoors, a man of straw and cash in the till, and with no other personality than that of a foreground figure to rows of bottles. He was reading
The
Morning
Advertiser
when Phillip went in, there being no customers in the three bars.

“I'll have a beer, Freddy. And one for yourself.”

They were on terms almost of confidence now; at least in small things, such as Freddy having confided that the money he got for drinks stood to him went into a money-box for his little boy; but when a very special friend asked him to 'ave one, well, he took a little gin. To show his sincerity, Freddy poured himself a tot from a bottle from which he unpeeled the wrapper.

Having toasted one another, Freddy glanced around the empty bar, took a look into the snug next door, and into the four-ale bar at the end. Coming back, his eyes made a conspiratorial sweep before saying in lowered voice, “You know those two plain-clothes fellows from the station? I thought I'd warn you that they've bin making enquiries about you. I told them nothing, of course. Don't say I told you, you know they can make it awkward for the tenant of this 'ouse with the Council.”

“The Council?”

“The Borough Council owns this house, you see, sir. It's not a tied 'ouse, like most houses, it's what they call a free house, leaving the tenant to buy where he likes. But we have to be careful, as the Council owns the place.”

A feeling of being shadowed, in two senses, came upon Phillip. He thought that his happiness had been too good to last: something was bound to happen. He touched the mahogany slab of the counter.

“I think—only don't say I said anything, will you—but I fancy it may have to do with your being about here so long, and out of uniform. You remember that Australian what was here spending money like water a week or two back? You may recall you told me his medal ribands looked wrong, he wore one for Gallipoli, I think it was, and you said there was no such medal yet. Well, they questioned 'im in the billiard room, and later he was arrested in London, as a deserter, by the military.”

“Good God, do they think I'm a deserter, then?”

“I can't answer for what a flatfoot thinks, but I know they are
out to get all the pinches they can, for promotion. It's not for me to express an opinion, but I think you can guess what I think of them,” tittered Freddy, his eyes closed to slits as he sipped his gin.

Phillip took a draught of his beer, and was putting down the glass when the swing doors opened. Giving a wink, Freddy took up cloth in one hand, glass in the other, and began to polish. Rubber footfalls came from behind Phillip, and he saw in the retinae of his eyes dark-clothed arms from which rolled umbrellas hung.

“I'd like a word with you,” said Keechey, beside him.

Discomposed by the deliberate nearness of the two men in bowler hats, Phillip tried to show calmness as he raised his glass, to drink slightly, and, he hoped, with nonchalance.

When Phillip made no reply, Keechey went on, “Will you come with us into the billiard room? I want to ask you some questions.”

Freddy went on polishing the glass as though he had heard nothing. Curious and a little upset, Phillip followed Keechey into the billiard room. The tall moustached detective came after him, and shut the door.

“You have been about here for some weeks now, off and on, and I have made some enquiries about you. I think I am right in saying that your name is Maddison? And it may interest you to know that we have made enquiries at the Motor Machine-Gun Section, Bisley, and they have no knowledge of you. What do you say to that?”

“Only that I am not in the Motor Machine-Gun Section at Bisley. I am in the Machine-Gun Training Centre at Grantham.”

“Then what are you doing, sometimes in uniform, down here?”

“I was given two months' sick leave by a medical board at Caxton Hall, a little over five weeks ago.”

“Two months. That's a long time, isn't it? Were you wounded?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I was given the leave to go away into the country; Devon, in fact. I'm going there on Friday. I've been given a railway warrant to Lynton.”

“I'll take particulars of your unit. Grantham, you say, is your headquarters? What's become of your friend Devereux-Wilkins? Ever hear of him nowadays?”

“He's not a friend of mine. I've only seen him once.”

“But you went down to see him the night you came back from France, the thirteenth of October last, didn't you? You went to the Roebuck for that one purpose only, I think. You spoke to him for less than two minutes, having called him away from a game of
billiards. Then he left for London, and you came back here. You were accompanied by a Brazilian friend, I think. Shortly afterwards there was a Zeppelin raid. Then you met Dr. Dashwood on your way home and returned with him to the Conservative Club until shortly after eleven o'clock.”

“You seem to have been shadowing me quite a lot. I suppose you've been talking to Mr. Jenkins?”

“Which Mr. Jenkins?”

“The special constable who lives in the same road. Anyway, what is all this leading up to? Some spy-scare business?”

“We have to take notice of every thing, especially during a war, you know. How d'you think the war's going? When are we going to have a smack back at the Germans?”

This was so obvious a trap that Phillip laughed. He thought of saying that they might put on khaki themselves and go to France and find out, but he could never make the sort of reply to people that might make them feel awkward. It was because he was a weakling, he knew; quite unable to hit back at anybody.

“Oh, a big push is coming, all right. We've got a lot of water-tanks in position behind our lines in France, south of Arras, in order to make Jerry think we are there for life; but that's where the attack is coming, I hear.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“In Millbank Hospital, about five weeks ago. From an officer there, who had just come back from the front.”

“What are the tanks going to be used for? Poison gas?”

“No, for water, according to what I heard. It was obviously a blind, to puzzle Jerry, if he came over to raid.”

“In a Zeppelin, you mean?”

Phillip laughed.

“So you think it funny, do you?” The buck-teeth were exposed, the upper lip slightly drawn back.

“Well, sort of Heath Robinson, you know.”

“Who's Heath Robinson?”

“Haven't you heard of Heath Robinson?”

“I'm asking the questions,” retorted the other, with a suggestion of snarl.

“He's a comic artist. He's as well known as Bairnsfather.”

Looking at Phillip sideways, the plain-clothes policeman said, “Are you trying to be funny? Because if you are, two can be funny, see? Who d'you think you're talking to?”

“Who do
you
think you're talking to?”

“You'll soon find out!” And taking his umbrella, the buck-toothed man, the blood partly drained from veinous face, walked from the billiard room, and out of the saloon bar, followed by what Phillip, who had been reading a story by Harrison Ainsworth, thought of as his myrmidon. Then, peering through the open slot in the stained-glass partition, his glance met the sky-blue shine of the eyes of Lily smiling at him from the other side of the partition.