The Power of the Dead (31 page)

“Oh.”

“Was I very tight at the Channersons?”

“Sober as a judge.”

Plugge sighed. “I always behave so badly, you know.” He reflected. “I suppose I ought to send them an apology. I wonder if they saw that I arrived without a bottle? It must still be in my desk in the proof-reader’s room. Oh dear, I feel as I felt after that awful floater of mine, the bogus wedding. You know about it, of course.”

Plugge’s face regarded him with blank eyes.

“You never got to it last night, Archie. Virginia came just at that point, if you remember.”

“Well, Tony and I planned a bogus wedding to clear the way of any opposition to the marriage proper by Lady Donmaree. Virginia was eighteen then, and of course more minor than she is today, although whether a married woman can be a minor I don’t altogether know.” He groaned, and held his head. “It’s horrible to remember one’s past, don’t you think?”

“You don’t look bogus to me, Archie. You have a great sense of fun.”

“Thank you. Yes, I was the bogus priest at the bogus wedding. We sent out engraved invitation cards. The press came. We were in all the papers. I had a job at a prep, school in Sussex then.” He sighed once again. “I never went back—it was all too ghastly. My photograph was in
The
People
.
They even exposed me as a danger to young girls.” He meditated before continuing. “I’ve often wondered whether Tony gave the story to the press, because
The
Crusader
published a photograph of the bill for hiring my parson’s rig-out from Willie Clarkson. You see”—he leaned towards Phillip and lowered his voice—“Tony suggested in the first place that I go to Willie’s shop. No-one else knew.”

“Still they were properly married afterwards, weren’t they?”

“Yes, I suppose that can be put on the credit side, although it was a runaway affair in Caxton Hall. Even so, what will Virginia’s lady mother think of me when she hears the too, too frightful news that Virginia has now bolted with Piers? You see, I am in a way doubly responsible”—the round unspectacled eyes were like a seal’s out of water—“because it was
I
who introduced Tony to Virginia in the first place, at Eleanor Metfield’s party.”

Later that morning Phillip found Anders sitting a little diminished at his office table, a box of soda-mints before him.

“What happened last night, Phillip?”

“Nothing. Except that it was a jolly good party.”

“Didn’t I make an awful fool of myself?”

“No.”

“I know I drank too much. I am a fool to drink.”

“So am I. But I never drink whisky nowadays if I can help it.”

“I seem to remember that you were trying to avoid me, Phillip. Was it anything I said that offended you?”

“No, of course not. I’m glad I didn’t drink too much, because then I might very easily have told people about the Grasmere. If I had, and it got into the papers, I’d have had to withdraw my book. After all, it’s Miss Arden’s secret.”

“I stayed at the Barbarian, you know. I’ve no idea at all how I got there.”

“I think two people gave you a lift.”

“Who were they, d’you know?”

Anders swallowed two soda mints with water.

“It was dark then. The moon had gone down.”

“Perhaps Anthony Cruft brought me here. No, I don’t think so, for he didn’t mention it when he called earlier this morning. He’s going off somewhere remote to write a novel, and will let me have his address when he knows where he’s fixed up.” He held out the box of soda-mints. “Are you sure I was all right last night? Not noisy, or anything?”

“Not in the very least, my pilot. You couldn’t get a word in edgeways in all that chatter. Well, I must be off now, to catch my train. See you next week, at the Aeolian Hall. Keep mum about it meanwhile.”

“You can rely on me, Phillip.”

“I know I can, Anders. But keep away from the whisky bottle. It’s the death of literature.”

They set out early, driving slowly into the golden silhouette of morning above the downs, before turning north through the market town and the road to Shakesbury. Now that the sun was out of their eyes, Ernest went a little faster, the speedometer needle showing 25 m.p.h. There was no hurry; eight hours lay before them.

Phillip felt that life was good. He lay back against the leather upholstery, his velour hat tilted over his eyes and one leg cocked over the other. In his pocket were the letters collected at Colham by special arrangement before the post-office opened. It was a grand feeling to be driven by Ernest, a steady driver if ever there was one. No ambition to show off the Crossley engine, or a fancied skill in driving: there he sat, upright and unmoving, Pa beside him looking about, approving what he saw of the natural world. What a good idea it had been of Ernest’s, after all, to buy a roomy touring car, instead of some poky little roadster 2-seater.

“Happy, Lulu?”

“
Very
happy.”

“Oh, I nearly forgot. There’s a letter for you, from Australia. From Tim, I think.”

She read it eagerly, rich colour in her cheeks. It was good news, she told them. The jobs Tim and Fiennes had in the coal-mine were now more or less permanent. They had economised by living in bivouacs made of sheets of newspaper stuck layer on layer with flour-and-water paste until a hard stiff awning was secured, stretched on rope between trees. A couple of coats of paint preserved the surface, each had his own bivvy, they cooked their own food, and were quite enjoying life, ‘considering all things’.

“Good for old Tim.”

Ernest was another matter. He recalled the talk they had had that morning in the Works before starting off. There the
Delauny-Belville
was, the parts of its transmission, accurate in every
particular
, laid out ready for reassembly. Ernest had done a
meticulous
, a
beautiful
job, but——

“By the way, old chap, I suppose the owner knows you are repairing this old crock?”

“Oh, I don’t suppose so.”

“But isn’t this job going to cost a fair amount? These
yellow-metal
castings, aren’t they phosphor bronze?”

Ernest had made no reply. It was hopeless: everything he did was a wastage of capital. There was Fiennes’ brand-new
Grindley-Peerless
motorbike still standing in the garage, exactly as Fiennes had left it, except that now there was mildew on the saddle. And there, too, was the Tamp, its straight wooden mudguards green and rotting, the chassis hidden by nettles and brambles——

He picked up his letters. There was one in a slightly flourishing handwriting. He tore it open and saw within the signature Thomas Morland.

“We’re invited to stay with them tonight, Lucy. In Hampstead. How about it?”

“Oh yes, if you’d like to.”

“How about Pa and Ernest? Will they be all right in the hotel by themselves?”

She laughed, she coloured a little. “Oh yes, I think they’ll be able to manage.”

The next envelope was from Nuncle. He flipped it aside. “I think I can guess what he has to say. Open them, will you?”

A letter from Piers. “He sends his congratulations for the day and says he’s afraid he can’t manage to get to the Aeolian Hall, but hopes to see us later on at Rookhurst.”

“Good.”

“A letter from Mother. She says will meet ‘Spica’ under the clock at Charing Cross station as arranged. Who is ‘Spica’, Pip?”

“An old friend of mine, Tabitha Trevilian, a girl I was in love with in nineteen twenty, when I was a hack in Fleet Street.”

There were two reasons for asking Spica to meet his mother: the one, he didn’t want either of his sisters there; the other, that his mother and Spica would appreciate one another.

“I’d love to meet her.”

“She’s a fine young woman.”

He felt optimistic enough to open Nuncle’s letter. A glance at the two typewritten sides of the paper was enough: he refolded it into the envelope and put it in his pocket.

The journey proceeded in silence for a couple of miles before Lucy noticed that he was sitting up straight beside her, knees close together, arms folded across his chest. Thinking that he was cold she asked if he would like the side-curtains put up.

“Oh, I’m all right, thanks.” Then he said, “You’d better read Nuncle’s letter.”

Hilary wrote that he would not be able to go to London for the presentation as he was temporarily indisposed. He hoped to spend a few days, if well enough, with them when the mayfly was up. It was now imperative that he, Phillip, make up his mind about what he intended to do with his life. A writing career was, at best, precarious; but apart from that, as he had said before, it demanded a life of comparative inaction, while farming was a constant involvement in practical affairs. He was not a rich man, much of his capital was locked up in the estate, and had charges upon it concerning the present and future welfare of others beside himself, namely the Aunts—Isabella, Victoria, and Theodora. In addition, there were burdensome tithes to be paid away. Agriculture at this period in its history was in the nature of a depressed industry, as he must have realised by now. In short, a decision must not be put off any longer; and he wanted Phillip’s answer by midsummer.

When she had read the letter he waited for her to speak. When she said nothing, he clenched his hands and struck his fists together several times, while taking a deep breath. “Can’t you give a lead sometimes?”

“What am I supposed to say?”

With an effort to control contrary feelings he replied quietly, “Would you mind very much if we gave up the farm?”

“I’m ready to fall in with anything you may decide.”

“Can’t you, for once, say what
you
would like? Shall we, or shan’t we, give up the farming idea?”

“Perhaps if you will be happier writing, then it may be best to tell Uncle Hilary.”

They were driving through a valley with a trout stream visible now and again. A gang of hoers were preparing to start work in a field. Coats were off, sleeves being rolled: obviously this was ‘taken work’. They were their own masters, ready to work long hours up and down the pale green lines of seedling roots.

“Men work much better when they are their own masters.”

“I absolutely agree.”

This was a new Lucy. “But do you like living at Rookhurst?”

“Oh yes, very much. But then I don’t mind much where I live, so long as you are happy.”

A kestrel was hovering over an old, unbroached hayrick. Its black-streaked breast of chestnut brown was distinct in the eastern
light, which revealed every slight curling of its pinion feathers. As the car passed, it half-rolled, like a scout ’plane before going into a dive, and glided away over the field of tillered wheat.

“I really want to write my war trilogy, Lucy. I see myself sometimes living in Scotland beside a trout stream and catching finnock, as they call the small
sea-trout
. I’ve never caught a seatrout. In fact, I’ve hardly ever fished with a fly. In Scotland it would be fun, with the midnight sun.”

“Yes,” said Lucy, thinking that he had not fished once in all the time they had been at Rookhurst. Poor old boy, he had always been too tired after his work, particularly when he had been writing.

“Or Ireland. The coast of Connemara. Going about barefoot. Just fishing and writing.”

“Oh, I would love Ireland. Pa and Mother used to go often, you know. Lough Corrib, wasn’t it, Pa?”

“Hey?” said Pa, turning his head, so that the thin grey hair under his cap was stirred by the wind.

“Phillip was saying that he would like to go to Connemara.”

“Ah, Galway. Those beggars burnt down cousin Roger’s place in the trouble. Moorpark was a jolly place to spend the summer. Not much good for arable farming, I fancy, Phil. Horses, yes, if you like ’em.”

“I’d like to write a book about fish.”

“Plenty there still, in the loughs of Connemara.”

Ireland; the wild and rocky coast; peat fire and white-washed cabin. The simple life, going barefoot. All the same, it was a bit of a wrench to think of giving up the downs, the beech hanger, the coppices, the brook, the Longpond. Also, it would be running away; deserting Uncle John, and his new lease of life. The poor old boy
lived
in Billy and the baby; and he and Lucy were so happy together.

If the dead lived on in their old places, would not Willie be rejoicing, and Barley too, that they were all there together?

And the thought was poignant; he relapsed, became heavy with a recrudescence of grief. No! He must not think of the past, he must hold on, and rise above his weak inner self. It could be done with a new routine. Be like Trollope; write by the clock—no more, no less. Oh, things would be much better now that he would no longer be dependent on Nuncle for money. Ideas for his novel sequence arose in his mind.

First, the general idea.

Illusion in 1914; chaos in 1915; disaster in 1916; deadlock in 1917 until the way was found at Cambrai in November;
tremendous
peril early in 1918, but the front held in balance—and so to the victories of the late summer: Passchendaele reached in a 5-mile advance
in
one
day
. All that had gone before had led to the smashing of the Siegfried Stellung, and the way open to victory. Haig had held on in the exceptional wet summer of 1917 at Ypres, according to ‘Spectre’ West, after being told by Pétain, in
confidence
, that over forty French divisions down south were in passive mutiny.
That
was why Haig had not broken off the battle of Third Ypres. Duty, duty, duty.

*

Before they had started out that morning, Phillip, fearing an unexpected delay, such as a traffic hold-up, had suggested to Ernest that they leave the car at Reading and go on by rail. This they did shortly after 10 a.m., catching a train to Paddington, and thence by taxi to the Strand, and the Adelphi hotel, seen in bright daylight to be a somewhat dingy sort of place, with its entrance facing north away from the Thames. Having seen Pa and Ernest settled, and made arrangements to pay the bill on the morrow, there arose a problem.

“Do you think we should take our bags to Hampstead now—or after the show? Where can we leave them?”

“Why not here?” suggested Pa.

“Ah, good idea.”

That decided, there were four hours to fill in.

“Shall we ‘spy out the land’, Lulu?”

Saying goodbye to the others, they crossed Trafalgar Square, stopping to look at the pigeons, and then strolled up to Piccadilly, asking a policeman the way to Bond Street.

“We must reconnoitre the enemy territory.”

There was a feeling almost of preparation for going over the top. He tried to find interest in various pictures in the windows fronting galleries, until unexpectedly he found himself outside the Aeolian Hall.

“The big dugout under the church at Graincourt, in the reserve Hindenburg Line. It was like a liner underground, with an electric light plant still being worked by the Germans. As soon as they knew they had to carry on, the engineers tactfully revealed that the whole place was mined, and the main switch was connected to the detonators.”

“How clever of them to arrange that.”

“When we arrived the sappers had already cut the leads.”

They returned to the Strand where Lucy said she would like a cup of tea, so they went into an A.B.C. and shared a pork pie with
compôte-de-fruit
to follow. He picked up an evening paper left on a table and saw on the front page his own photograph with the caption that the prize was to be awarded that afternoon for
The
Water
Wanderer
.

“Someone’s earned thirty bob by jumping the gun. I wonder if it is Felicity Ancroft, that girl I told you about, Lulu.”

They drank coffee before leaving the shop to sit by the fountains in Trafalgar Square. Then, at 2.30 p.m., leaving the narrow light of Bond Street for the comparative darkness of the Aeolian Hall, where his ‘civilised’ nervousness—as he thought of it—returned. They were met at the top of some stone steps by a young man with a mass of hair like canary feathers who led Phillip into an
anteroom
where a number of people were standing. There he
recognised
J. C. Knight, the poet and editor of
The
London
Apollo,
who presented him to Miss Corinna Arden, a tall elderly lady with a bright, virginal manner; then to other members of the Committee—to a clean-shaven, rather bland-looking man with a square face in which was fixed a rimless eye-glass; a smaller dark man with a gentle, lined face and cleft chin denoting sensibility, and two other people whom he barely noticed, for by now he was wondering what had happened to Lucy; and as the minutes dripped away he began to feel she might be lost. And would Mother have missed Spica at Charing Cross Station? Supposing he had written
Victoria
Station,
where Spica would arrive from her home in
Folkestone
?

J. C. Knight was talking to a Georgian poet who had won the Grasmere Prize some years previously, for a book of poems called
The
Queen
of Sumeria
. He now earned his living by reviewing books, writing critical essays, and anonymous contributions to Fleet Street gossip columns. It was he who had telephoned the details of the award to the evening newspaper.

The youth with canary-feather hair reappeared with Thomas Morland. Knight led Phillip to him.

“Do you know Phillip Maddison?”

Morland replied, “Oh yes, he’s staying with us,” and Phillip thought that Knight appeared to be momentarily abashed.

The next distinguished visitor to enter was an old man with
grey moustaches and keen friendly face. Phillip recognised the General who had spoken to him in the ranks of the London
Highlanders
during the final inspection before they had left to join the B.E.F. in Flanders in September, 1914. Dare he speak to him? He hesitated; then it was too late, many people were now passing through into the hall proper. He could not find Lucy. Dare he look inside the hall—or would his absence be discovered?
Supposing
they wanted to present him to the General? He returned to the ante-room, and saw Knight looking at his watch.