Phoenix and Ashes (21 page)

“And
of course—the war—” Lauralee’s hands fluttered over her
cup, the sleeves of her pink gown fluttering gently as well. “There are
so many things one can do for the war—”

“Well,
when we were your age,” Lady Devlin said, with a friendly glance at
Alison, “I’m sure we didn’t think half as much about parish
work and the like. It seems a pity this war has reached so far into our
lives.”

Alison
let the corners of her mouth droop. “All of England seems so sad,”
she agreed. “And yet, one feels guilty if one does anything the least
frivolous, when so many are suffering.”

A
slight movement of her hands drew subtle attention to her lapel, where she wore
her widow’s ribbon.

“And
your dear husband was one of the first of our sacrifices,” said Lady
Devlin, with an air of sympathy.

“Mr.Robinson
and I were only just married, too,” she replied, now putting on a faint
look of patient suffering, one she had practiced long in the mirror. “My
first husband—the father of my girls—was a fine, fine man, but
Robinson was my true love, late though he came to my life, and brief though his
stay in it was.”

Calculated,
slyly calculated, to appeal to the romantic in her. And it worked, sublimely
well. Lady Devlin passed her the plate of potted-salmon sandwiches with a sigh
of commiseration.

“You
poor dear!” she said, with an air of having made up her mind after
careful consideration, which Alison did not in the least doubt. “You must
come up to tea at Longacre next week, you and your charming daughters. Will
Tuesday be reasonable for you?”

“My
lady, any day you choose to honor us will be convenient,” Alison replied,
with eager humility. “We would never wish to be a burden on you, no
matter what our cousin has told you.”

“Oh,
pish-tush,” Lady Devlin said, waving her hand. “How could three
more ladies be a burden at tea? The vicar and his wife will be there, and Roberta
Cygnet and her daughter Leva, and Gina Towner, Miss Elizabeth Tansy—the
Devon Tansys, you know, she’s visiting with Leva, and
Mr.Hartwell—”

Alison
placed her fingers over her lips and allowed a smile to appear. “You
don’t mean William Hartwell, surely? The one who keeps exploding his
sheds with his inventions?”

Lady
Devlin laughed. “He does seem convinced that he will win the war, does he
not? Well, he’s a dear, and the worst that will come along with him is a
faint aroma of gunpowder—”

There
was a light tap at the doorframe, the stocky form of the innkeeper hunched
diffidently there. “Is all to your liking, my lady? Is there anything
else I can serve you with?”

“No,
Mr.Caffrey, thank you,” Lady Devlin sighed. “You’ve done a
remarkable job under the trying circumstances that surround us. Thank
you.”

“Very
well, my lady.” The innkeeper bowed himself out, leaving them alone once
more.

“Will
your son come to tea, Lady Devlin?” Carolyn asked, ingenuously. “I
had heard that he was home at last. I have always wanted to meet an aeroplane
pilot! It must be so thrilling to be able to fly!”

But
to both girls’ vast disappointment, she shook her head. “I’m
afraid not, dear,” she said, in a kindly tone. “Company is a trial
for him right now. But that’s all right; sometime soon you’ll be
sure to meet him.”

I
hope to hell I don’t meet Mother or any of her kittenish friends
,
Reggie thought, as he drove the auto at a snail’s pace down into the
village.
Every bounce and rut made his knee sing with pain. This was not a
bad thing, in some ways; when he was in physical pain, he could ignore the
emotional turmoil within him. Grandfather had been up to his old tricks this
morning, hovering just on the edge of his vision and glowering, every so often
mouthing the word
, “
Malingerer
.”
He’d taken
refuge in the garage to overhaul the Vauxhall Prince Henry he’d bought
just before the war
.

That
was when Budd had made the current suggestion, and he couldn’t have leapt
upon it faster if he’d had both good legs back.

He
had Budd along with him, just in case his knee gave out and he couldn’t
wrestle the old bus any further along, but he was looking forward to the day
when he could go out on his own. On his own—because then, he could open
her up and let tear, and if he went smash, he’d hurt no one but himself.

And
if I go smash, no one’s to know how much of an accident it is… or
isn’t. Once he had fought death off like a tiger. That had been before
every day was a battle, and every night a little war, and he could feel his
sanity slipping through his fingers like water. Maybe death was just the door
into another life. At the moment, he didn’t believe it. He didn’t
believe in a higher power, either. What higher power would ever let the
slaughter across the Channel go on and on and on as it had
?
Unless
that higher power were stark raving mad
.

So
the big thing would be to do yourself in a way that was fast, and hopefully
painless. A good smash into a solid oak tree at the Prince Henry’s top
end would do that.

But
that wouldn’t be today. Today, Budd had tendered that rather awkward and
shy invitation to—a pub.

“Not
just any pub, milord,” he’d hastily said. “Used to be the
workingman’s pub, afore the war, so they say. Now—”
He’d shrugged. “Not many workingmen in Broom. Them of us got
mustered out, took it over, more or less.”

He’d
captured Reggie’s dull attention with that. The only men that were
“mustered out” these days were those who were too maimed to go back
into the lines.

“Really?”
he’d said, looking up at Budd over the Prince Henry’s bonnet.
“Tell me more.”

“Not
much to tell,” Budd had replied. “Just—we didn’t feel
none too comfortable around—people who weren’t there, d’ye
see?”

“I
do see, believe me, I do.” He had tried to give Budd that
look
.
“So, no one else ever comes in?”

“Mostly
not, and they mostly goes back out again pretty quick.” Budd had sighed,
and stared glumly down at the carburetor. “Not a cheery lot, are we.
Don’t go in for darts, much. Skittles, right out. Tend to swap stories as
make th’ old reg’lars get the collie-wobbles and look for the door.
Now, we’re a rough lot. And old Mad Ross the socialist is one of us. But
I wondered, milord, if you might find a pint there go down a bit easier than a
brandy—” and he had jerked his head up at the house.

“I
have no doubt of that,” he’d said savagely, giving his wrench a
hard crank. “And I’d be obliged if you’d be my
introduction.”

So
that was how he found himself now on dusty High Street holding his fast auto to
a chugging crawl she did not in the least like, while curious urchins came out
to watch him pass.

Now,
he had not, as a rule, held himself aloof from Broom in the old days. He
wasn’t at all averse to a pint or a meal at Broom Hall Inn. He tried to
make some sort of a point of knowing a bit about his villagers, and he’d
had a good memory for names and faces. And it was a shock, a real shock, to see
what was going on now.

There
was a woman delivering the mail. He thought it might be Aurora Cook. The
postman
had
been Howard Sydneyson—the postmaster had been Thomas
Price—

Who
were both something like thirty… Gone, of course, by now. Conscripted.
Neither job came under the heading of
“
vital to the needs of the
nation
.”

David
Toback had been the constable—another shock came when Reggie saw poor old
sixty-year-old Thomas Lament making the rounds in his stead. What would
he
do to a miscreant? Talk them to death? It was a good thing that most of the
troublemakers were gone too—also conscripted, or else told by the judge
it was the infantry or jail.

Carlton
McKenney’s blacksmith shop was closed; there were no sons to take his
place at the forge, and blacksmithing was no job for a daughter…

Thank
heaven for a moment of normality—Stephen Kirby’s apothecary shop
was still open with Kirby in it—but then, the poor man was the next thing
to blind, and his wife Morgan had to read out all of the doctor’s
prescriptions to him. Not good on the front line.

The
saddlery was closed. Reggie bit his lip, remembering that one of the last
things he had done before going off to the RFC Flying College at Oxford was to
take his hunting saddle down there for repairs.

He
finally stopped glancing to the side; there always seemed to be more bad news
than there was good. Finally Budd directed him to park next to a whitewashed,
two-story building he wouldn’t have known was a pub except for the sign
“The Broom” over the door.

“Here
we are, milord,” Budd said, getting out. “Now, don’t you mind
Mad Ross. He’ll probably be on you the minute you’re inside.”

Reggie
raised an eyebrow. “If I can’t manage Ross Ashley, I’m in worse
condition than I thought,” he said wryly.

Budd
held open the door for him, and the two of them entered, Reggie going first,
his cane thudding on the dark wooden floor like a third foot.

It
was dark inside, with a low, beamed ceiling, and plastered walls that
hadn’t been painted in some time and had turned the color of perfect
toast. The usual pub furniture. Big inglenook fireplace at one end. Nothing
roasting on it though; whole pigs were hard to come by these days. Just a
little bit of a fire to keep the chill off.

All
eyes were on them as they stepped up to the bar.

“This’ll
be—” Budd began “Reggie Fenyx,” Reggie said gently. He
held out his hand to the barman, who took it gingerly.

“Thomas
Brennan, sir,” the man said. “What’ll it be, gents?”

“Bitter,”
said Reggie, and “Stout,” said Budd. They took their drinks, both
in good pint glasses, solid and substantial.

“That’ll
be my round, then,” said Reggie, loud enough for the rest of the pub to
hear, and cast a look around to make sure that everyone
did
hear him.
Then he left a pound note casually on the bar. “And one for
yourself,” he added to Brennan. “Let me know when that runs
out.”

“Thenkee,
sir.” The barman made the pound note vanish.

There
wasn’t a rush for the bar, more of an orderly shuffle. Everyone seemed to
know his place in the pecking order, and no one was in such a tearing hurry as
to care to dare to jump the queue. Budd and Reggie took a little table at the
back of the place to wait for people to come to them.

And
predictably, the first was Ross Ashley, stumping over to them with
determination on his face and a pint in one hand.

And
before he could say a word, Reggie beat him to it. “Take a chair,
Ross,” he said mildly. “Don’t stand there and sing
The
Red Flag
at me, you couldn’t carry a tune to save your soul, and I
already know all the words.”

Budd
kicked a chair over to Ashley, who, all the wind knocked out of his sails, took
it.

“Now,
old man, if you’re more of the ‘share the wealth’ sort of
socialist and not the ‘murder the oppressors in their beds,’ sort,
I think we can talk,” said Reggie, as the rest of the pub denizens
pretended to be very interested in their beers, while their ears were stretched
to the furthest extent. “If you persuade me of a few things, you’re
a good enough speaker, and you aren’t too mad, I might be persuaded to
help you stand for Parliament. But you’d better be able to make a good
speech and prepared to live up to what you promise in it.”

Now
Ross’s mouth was opening and closing like a stranded fish’s. Reggie
was quite enjoying himself at this point—a sardonic sort of enjoyment,
but more amusement than he’d had since the day Emily Welsh, his nurse in
the hospital, had tipped a matchbox with a live spider in it into a
particularly abusive doctor’s pocket, and when the man had gone to light
his cigar—

Served
him right, too; acting as if the VADs were his personal slaveys.

Now,
he wasn’t going to do anything malicious to Ross, who he recalled as
being passionate, but not particularly obnoxious. The man probably resented
having one of the gentry, the oppressive ruling class invading his pub, and
Reggie didn’t blame him.

But
he was tired of class separation. He was tired of officer and enlisted. He was
tired of RFC and PBI. And he was tired to death of the boundaries between men
that the war should have broken down and smashed to bits by now. He would have
to take his father’s seat in the House of Lords eventually—if he
didn’t do himself first—but he damned well would like to see a man
in Commons for this district that had some ideas that weren’t spawned in
the seventeenth century.

Finally
Ross managed to say something. “You’ll not be bribing me, Reginald
Fenyx,” he growled. “You’ll not be paying me off with the
promise of a seat!”

“Of
course I won’t; I don’t intend to.” Reggie took a pull on his
pint and sighed. He was very glad that Budd had brought him here. If nothing
else, Brennan could brew. “And it’s not a promise of a seat,
it’s a promise of support. You’ll have to win the seat yourself; if
you can’t persuade people to vote for you, too bad. I want a fellow from
here who’ll argue for the people, even if it’s against me. Better
butting heads in Parliament than storming the walls of Longacre.”

Ashley
regarded him with a remnant of suspicion for a moment. “And I can say
what I like?”

“I
wouldn’t begin to try to stop you,” Reggie said sincerely.
“Just remember you aren’t recruiting for the socialists if you do
go out there for a seat. You’ll be stumping for votes. That’s two
different things. About as different as PBI and the sixty-minute men.”

Once
again, Ross sat there opening and closing his mouth a few times before stopping
it by taking a pull of his pint.