The Gale of the World (9 page)

“What are you thinking, my master?”

When he did not answer she felt with her finger-tips the tears upon his cheeks, and a cry of knowledge subdued, and of pain, came from her.

“I know now! You are thinking of Billy, and others like him sacrificed by the old men who have died while living, and grown hard because they could no longer love! And so sent their sons to war! O, I cannot bear to feel you grieving!”

“You have the advantage of me, because you have read my books.”

She sat up and regarded him sharply. “
I
have the advantage of
you
! O God, I like that! You have haunted me for years, so that at times I have wanted to kill myself! And now you say ‘You have the advantage of me!’ Well take it, take me, beat me, rape me! Anything but this hypocritical gentle-Jesus stuff! I want your very essence, I don’t want your little-boy fears of my body, or your dreams of the boobs women have to carry around like pouter pigeons—for that’s all they are—I want to communicate with you, the true-self you—the
free
you—”

He was alarmed, for she had reverted to the dark aspect of herself that had repelled him in the past. For now she was not only angry, but her face seemed to have changed, particularly the eyes, which were round and protruding, and the mouth no longer
gentle and pliant, but a thin line.

And as abruptly as she had reverted, her face became relaxed and gentle, then falling upon him she acted like a man, kissing and biting his neck, covering him like a man, holding his head by a handful of hair while giving little kisses on his lips and cheeks, before going limp upon him, and releasing a profound sigh followed by a murmur of “O, my master, why wasn’t I born a man, and you a woman, to take you now and make you my wife?”

“I hope you feel better Laura!” he said, mildly ironic.

“I do. I’ve restored the balance symbolically, if not bolically, between the sexes.”

“Now may I have the promised eggs and bacon?”

“You may, my master. Then let’s leave my turret room, and go and see the little boats on the Round Pond.”

“Well, for a little while, Laura. Then I must go back to Dorset for my father’s funeral.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, entirely without feeling.

*

Kensington Gardens. Small boys and retired Naval Officers sailing their craft on the Round Pond. Dogs racing over
leaf-bestrewn
grass. Laura seemed to melt in the mellow sunshine. He told her his plans for
The
New
Horizon,
and invited her to help him edit it, and to write for it.

“I’ll live with you and be your love, and we will all the pleasures prove, my Prospero. I’ll be your tidy secretary, sub-editor, reviewer, and general drudge. What fun it will be!”

“You’ll have to go up to London for a week every quarter, and cadge advertisements. The mag. will pay all expenses, and five pounds a week. How’s that?”

“Then may I keep on my room? The rent is thirty shillings a week.”

“Yes, if you can post off the copies from there, and make your selections as well. It can be
The
New
Horizon
office! How about it?”

“Yes, my master!”

“There’s just one little thing I should perhaps, tell you—in his last number Christie proposed that the atom bomb be dropped on Moscow.”

“Instead, the bomb fell on the magazine?”

“More or less. Christie gave me the unexpired portions of
annual subscriptions, plus roneograph plates with names and addresses.”

“How much is the unexpired portion of subscriptions did you say?”

“I didn’t say. But it comes to nine pounds and eight shillings.”

“O my master, what an orgy we’ll have on that!”

On the way to Bournemouth Phillip called at Field Place, the home of Piers Tofield. Would he be there? The lodge garden was untidy. Trees felled in park. Branches—loppings and toppings—left to rot among brambles, thistles, docks. Grassy drive, house unpainted, rows of moving whiteness in upper windows. When he stopped before the Palladian pillars at the entrance he saw hundreds of Wyandotte hens looking down from what appeared to be bedrooms. Was the house a ruin? He walked under a high stone wall, and entered the courtyard by the postern gate.

The remembered fountain was still playing in courtyard pond. Weeds between cobbles, fresh heaps of dung of heavy-draught horses. The open coach-house door revealed a black flywheel revolving in darkness.
Thump
—
thump
—
thump,
charging batteries in an adjoining room for electric light.

On doors of the buildings around the courtyard someone appeared to have experimented with paint: red streaks and green blobs—doodling art. On a large rainwater trough was the picture of a yellow steamship. Relics of soldier occupation; or Pier’s attempts to escape reality? There was a full garbage can outside the kitchen door, under a lean-to iron roof. He knocked.

Piers, clad in deciduous tweeds, semi-buttonless jacket, loosely corrugated trousers, opened the door. Glittering, evasive eyes, peaky unshaven face, Etonian politeness. “Glad to see you again, Phil. Come in. You’ll find it a bit of a mess, but an improvement on Berlin, I believe. Only part of the roof has fallen in. I live in the kitchen, a comfortable wolf’s lair.”

After a cup of tea which was half whisky they went outside.

“The first floor is let off to a farmer, who asked me if I’d mind him ‘havin’ a foo guests’ to stay with him. Apparently he murders his guests periodically, for I hear squawks and other cries of distress at all hours before market day. The smell is somewhat over-powering upstairs, I’m afraid, for I haven’t so far removed the
‘manners’, as he calls the chicken dung—to the kitchen garden. I’ve plans to start it up again—always tomorrow, so far. The greenhouses haven’t much glass left, apparently the troops
celebrated
V.J. day by smashing all they could see. Can’t blame them, really, after all the boring years of home service. Good to see the old Silver Eagle again. My Aston isn’t mobile at the moment, needs a rebuilt engine among other things. Left it in London.”

The walled garden was a wilderness. “Two acres. Take some doing to get it all back into shape.”

They walked down to the water-meadows. “No trout in the Benbow ponds. Troops cleared them with hand grenades.”

Back to the house. Little trees growing among chimney stacks. Family portraits awry on faded dining and drawing room walls. Pallid empty patches where pictures had hung. Rows of empty whisky bottles along wainscotings.

“A London business man used to come down with fusil spirit, bartering ersatz whisky for china and plate. Told him to help himself. He did. He and his wife emptied the butler’s pantry. How my mother would have been upset. All her Jacobean, Caroline, and Georgian silver going into the back of an S.S. saloon to Whitechapel. Took all the china-ware too. Heard he sold some of it to an American dealer for ten thousand dollars. When I break a cup now I replace it from Woolworth’s. He must have made a small fortune—combines kerb-stone stock-broking with deals in the Black Market. He also bought most of the house for demolition, leaving the central rooms and walls of the original farmhouse barton. I can’t wait to see the house-breakers start.”

“Piers, I can only say that all of us now living have been ‘caught in the gale of the world’! Let’s keep in touch, old friend. I must now go on my way, for my father’s funeral.”

*

Phillip was prepared to tell Elizabeth that he would honour his promise made during the war to their sister Doris: when Father’s estate was wound up, each sister would receive in cash one third of the probate value. He would tell them after the cremation, before the will was read.

As soon as he arrived down the lane, his younger sister came out of the cottage. “Thank God you’ve come, Phil! Elizabeth is unbearable. I’ve been here since last night, and have had to put up with her. So I thought I’d come out and warn you what to expect.”

At the door Elizabeth said, “Isn’t it awful! I had to face it all
alone! Here, in the hall! He died on the sofa two minutes after the ambulance brought him here! Aunt Viccy had refused to visit poor Dads in the nursing home. Her own brother! Aunt Viccy hates me because I’ve become a Roman Catholic. Why shouldn’t I, if I wanted to? Mumsie wanted to be one you know, but Father wouldn’t let her! Of course the Maddisons hate Catholics, they got it from their mother, a German Protestant!”

“Would you like some tea?” asked Doris.

“I would rather, I’ve driven rather fast after calling on an old friend near Colham.”

“Yes, the Maddisons hate Catholics,” went on Elizabeth. “Father said they’re all after other people’s money to build cathedrals while poor people starved.”

“The cathedrals were built to give employment to masons and craftsmen, surely?”

“I know!” cried Elizabeth, as though she had thought of it herself. “But Father could never see that. He said that novices in Ireland shadowed young couples, ready to pounce if they saw any spooning. And yet he himself hated to see couples lying on the grass on the Hill! He knew about your illegitimate son, you know that, don’t you?”

“I wonder who told him.”

“Aunt Viccy did. She says she won’t come to the funeral, if ‘the black sheep of the family’ is going to be there. That’s you!” She laughed hysterically. “Also they know all about you in the office. It’s not very nice for me, you know. After all, they know I’m your sister! But I shan’t go back there! No fear! They’ve agreed to give me my pension. I had a letter this morning!
Anyway
, I don’t think I can live here now, after these past few weeks. That awful Dr. Manassa! He turned out poor Dads as soon as he saw he was dying! And do you know what I think he died of? Penicillin poisoning! He broke out all over in a red rash after you’d left. It’s my belief he was dying when they carried him out on a stretcher. I was just about to leave here, to visit him, when there was a ring at the bell. I opened the door, and there he was, on the stretcher, his eyes staring past me! They just lifted him on to the sofa, waited for me to tip them, but when they saw he was dying they hurried out. I was left all alone with him! Then his mouth opened to say something, and his eyes looked up, and I knew he had recognised me. He stared and stared. He tried to say something. Then his head went back, and his eyes closed ever so slowly, as though he knew he would be
forgiven for the way he treated us all. Well, don’t stand there without a word, looking at the floor! Don’t you care for anyone but yourself? Why don’t you say something? Don’t you realise that poor Dads is dead? No, don’t touch me!” as Phillip went to take her hand. “I know you only came here to see what you could get!” and she went out of the room.

“She’s been going on like that ever since I arrived,” said Doris, wearily. She sat down and held her head. “I feel quite worn out. It’s this goitre on my neck, you know—you can’t see it, it’s under my scarf. I’m having iodine injections for it. And they always make me feel funny.”

“Are you sure it’s a goitre?”

“Yes. My first doctor said it was, then when I was appointed to be headmistress of another school, I had to change my doctor.
He
said it wasn’t a goitre, but a cyst. He wanted me to have an operation, but I believe in homoeopathy, and iodine as you know comes from seaweed, which is natural. People live on certain kinds of seaweed, laver for example. Anyway, the doctor wouldn’t give me injections, so I found one who would.”

“Well, I hope it’s all right. Some commandos in the war lived on seaweed for days, on the coast of Italy. Congratulations on being a headmistress. By the way, what I said about sharing the estate with you and Elizabeth still stands.”

“Can you afford to, now that you’ve made over all you had from the farm sale into a trust?”

“Oh, I need very little for myself—food, clothes, and petrol. I’m going to write the novels I wanted to write a quarter of a century ago.”

“What’s that?” said Elizabeth, coming into the room with a bottle of gin. “Novels, eh? Aunt Viccy says your Donkin novels are rotten.”

“Oh.”

“She could have come and sat with Father, only she’s utterly selfish, living all alone in a seven-bedroom’d house. Even her daughter Adele won’t see her any more. I’ve visited her
sometimes
, and come away feeling quite ill. Viccy says horrible things about my poor little mother, and how Grandpa Turney was a Jew, and ruined Father’s life by coming to live next door at Wakenham. Well, why do you look like that?”

Phillip put down his untasted cup of tea. “I think I’ll go for a walk and get some fresh air. I may be the black sheep of the family, but I don’t want to hear what my aunt and godmother
says about me or the Turneys, or anyone else. Even if Grandpa was a Jew—which he was not—the Turney’s have been Gaultshire yeomen for centuries—what does it matter? He was damned good to his family, perhaps that’s what made the Maddisons think he was Jewish? Do you remember how Grandpa, when Hugh developed locomotor attaxia from syphilis, kept him at home, and had a man to look after him for years, and only put him into a Nursing Home when his mind was gone, properly gone—not like Father’s mind, which was clear and reasonable. My protesting godmother got rid of
her
husband, George Lemon, when he got syphilis, and
her
brother Hilary shipped him off to Australia, to get him out of the way. There’s your Christian Protestant for you! Now
I’m
ranting, so I’ll shut up!” He seized the bottle. “Did you say help myself? You didn’t? Well, it’ll all be the same in a hundred years time, so I will!” He filled three-quarters of a tumbler, and drank half of it. “That’s better! Petrol for the old engine! That’ll put up my revs! Now come with me, dear sisters, and we’ll have dinner at a Bournemouth hotel.”

“What, and leave poor Dads all alone?” cried Elizabeth.

“We can take him with us if you like.”

“Isn’t he awful?” Elizabeth appealed to Doris.

“Well, perhaps you’re right. After all, this isn’t Ireland, and I don’t suppose they’d welcome a wake in a ‘respectable’
middle-class
hotel. Sure, the sight of the ould gintleman, all stiffly formal, would liven up the company, himsilf standin’ up in a corner, dressed in frock coat, top hat and holding a butterfly net! I could tell the company his last words—‘It isn’t so bad dying, the trouble is that one is so confoundedly stiff the next day!’” He refilled the tumbler. “All right, I’ll buy you another bottle! No, I haven’t had too much, I haven’t had enough! By the way, is the coffin screwed down? What a pity: we should drink a toast to your poor old Dads. No, I’m not sneering. He used to be your dearest Dads, I know, but he was never mine. He liked you, not me. And I let him down, you know, just as you have done. I asked him to come and live with us on the farm, but I never followed it up. For one thing, our accommodation was pretty awful. So was I. Worse than he ever was at his worst. He was only a nagger, he never struck Mother. I bashed Lucy. So I’d like to see him before he goes into the flames tomorrow. He had some tools here, I’ll find a screwdriver.”

“You’re tipsy,” said Elizabeth, seizing the bottle. “And if you
dare to take off the lid, I shall telephone for the police. I warn you, now!”

“You sound just like Father in the old days, dear sister. But I must not be rude to a guest in my house.”

“
Your
house? I like that!”

“Well, I must tell you that, during the war, when Lucy and I, with her brother Tim Copleston and his wife, called here one day, he told me that I was his sole heir. I wrote to Doris shortly afterwards, saying that I intended, when he died, to share
everything
with you two. And so I’ll keep my promise.”

“Well,” replied Elizabeth, “you’re a bit behind the times! Father made a new will while he was in the nursing home, leaving all to me! And there’s a clause in the will saying that if anyone tries to contest it, he or she will automatically be excluded from any benefit from the will.”

“I’m not a lawyer, but I should say that if there be only one beneficiary from a will, that clause is invalid. Any crook could force someone to make a will under duress, and there would be no appeal against such an act, if your clause were legal!”

“So you’re thinking of going to law, are you? Haven’t you got enough already? Anyway, if you’re going to threaten me, I’ll call the police, as I warned you!” And with that she left the room.

“No, of course I’d never go to law, Doris. I spoke too hastily. She must think me pretty awful.”

“She’s the awful one, Phil. I’ve had her going on like this ever since I arrived.” She looked at her brother intently. “Now I know what cousin Maude meant when she told me that Elizabeth had asked her to live with her here and look after Father! She said she’d pay for her services, but when Maude told her she couldn’t come, as she was nursing at the London Hospital, Elizabeth said that she’d have ‘to stall’, because she couldn’t look after him all by herself, or get anyone else. You see what I mean? She must have promised Father to take him home, if he made a will in her favour, for if she left her office before a pension was due, she would have nothing to live on.”

Elizabeth, coming back into the room, cried, “Well, now you two conspirators know that this cottage, and all its contents, are mine. Father’s last will leaves everything to me. Including the family plate! So if you try to take it away Phil, I’ll telephone the police!”

“I’m afraid I was tactless and stupid in saying what I did say, Elizabeth. Of course I won’t think of contesting Father’s will.
But the family plate should go on down, you know, to the heir. There’s Peter, now that Billy’s gone. And I hope you won’t mind my saying it, but you might like to consider leaving the set of books I gave Mother, to Peter—or sell them to me—”