It Was the Nightingale (12 page)

Arrived at the copse, he sat down to rest, and soon afterwards a bird began to sing in the new undergrowth a few yards from him.

It seemed to be hesitating; the same note was repeated among the hazel wands and ashpoles, a note low and plaintive. Next, three high and frail strokes of song and then another pause. Suddenly the green shade around him seemed to shake with the liquid notes of the bird’s passion. It was a moving occasion—the woods of his boyhood—Keats’ poem—Stravinsky’s opera heard from the Dove’s Nest at Covent Garden—Barley beside him in the Camargue——

It was right that the villages should be rebuilt; right that the shell-holes be filled, the ground levelled to grow corn once more. The living and the dead were one, united by faith. The nightingale’s song was immortal: a symbol of human longing as old as that longing in man for love and immortality. It was poetry, it was truth; and nothing else mattered. The bird’s song was perfection:
were it a little less so, it would touch all human hearts at once.

He walked on down Railway Road, and at Mill Causeway crossed the marshes and stream of the Ancre, meaning to climb up the slope to the Schwaben Redoubt, and on to Thiepval, and down along the old front line to the Bapaume road, where his platoon had fallen to a man, killed or wounded, on July the First. The battlefield had been left at that place, and he could still see where some of the trenches had been dug in the hillside slopes leading up the high ground and the Schwaben Redoubt.

Here, above Thiepval Wood, like a giant hand of stone severed at the wrist and upheld as a warning, stood the Ulster Division Memorial Tower. The trenches—over which the Orangemen had attacked on that hot summer morning until the enfilade fire from both the south and the north had cut them down—were half-hidden by the long wild grasses of the years, acres of undulating wilderness and silence.

There was nothing to be found on the high ground except an overwhelming feeling of loneliness, whichever way he looked: north to Hebuterne, Beaumont Hamel, and Gommecourt; east to the ridge, failed objective of July the First, with its black stipples of dead tree trunks; south to La Boisselle and Fricourt.

He could go no farther; he hurried away and down to the causeway across the marshy valley, with its charred poplar stumps wherein rusty splinters of shells and rifle bullets were still embedded. A barbed-wire fence enclosed the reeds and rushes on both sides of the causeway; he was about to climb a fence, to seek the position of the German 5.9 howitzer battery which, bestrewn with empty wickerwork shell-cases, had lain there broken and derelict in the winter of 1916, when a voice cried out threateningly, “Que voulez-vous là?”

He turned, and saw an elderly man with a grey moustache and ruddy face carrying a fly-rod.

“Je suis soldat anglais revenu, m’sieur.”

“Eh bien, allez-vous-en!”

Seeing the stranger hesitate, he growled in English with a Cockney accent, “This ain’t England!” and turning about, walked towards a punt moored to a post by the bank.

*

That night Phillip lay in bed in another new
estaminet,
thinking
that he must learn a fresh way of life before he lost himself in memory, like Uncle John at Rookhurst. The trouble was that he had grafted on himself, during the war, a new personality; he had returned half a stranger to himself, and very nearly an alien to his family. Where was the lost part? Was the war responsible? That shell on Messines Ridge of Hallowe’en, 1914, which had buried him? But did realisation of what had happened help to settle the effect? A madman knowing he was mad: would self-knowledge help to cure him?

Outside in the marshes of the Ancre many frogs were croaking. As the night wore on and he could not sleep he began to believe that the entire valley was permeated with the spirits of the dead, and the ghostly past of himself was being called to join them.

Did one lose a part of oneself, in spirit, as one shed part of the body in normal growth? If not, where was his lost part? Was it still lurking in the marsh, an essence of old emotion? Surely that would only be natural? Memory rules life, or most of it. For years the lost part of himself had lurked in the marsh, seeing wraiths of men in grey with helmets and big boots, wraiths of men in khaki, laden and toiling, wraiths of depressed mules sick with fatigue and mud-rash, walking in long files up to the field-gun batteries, past wraiths of howitzers flashing away with stupendous corkscrewing hisses upwards, wraiths of pallid flares making the night haggard, while bullets whined and fell with short hard splashes in the gleaming swamps of the Ancre.

He could not sleep. Was there a demoniacal influence in the marsh, materialising out of the ceaseless croaking among the stumps of the dead poplars? The perpetual and restless spirits of old wrong and imposed cruelty and hate and despair wandering among the reedy shell-holes, among the broken wheels of guns, and the rusty wire in the long grasses? The young green had grown again, hiding the old bitternesses, but the desolation was still there. The young danced at their Jazz-Balle; the cunning made profit; the money-markets ruled the world as before; the war was still continuing within the crystallised mentalities of human beings; the war had brought no purification to the world, only to those who did not matter any more, the sensitive survivors of a decimated generation.

Trains from Lille and Amiens rolled noisily past the window, a star moved across the window space, seeming to look into the
room curiously, glimpses of the past came with unavailing sadness.

The dug-outs of Y ravine had subsided, the dry-rotted timbers broke with a touch; the pistons and cylinders and mainshaft of a Morane Parasol rusted in the grasses—the charred fuselage once visible on the ridge above Station Road in December 1916—with rifle barrels and holed helmets and burst
minenwerfer
cases.

Was it all over and done with; or was it, as Willie had declared, all to do again?

The Ancre flowed in its chalky bed, swift and cold as before, gathering its green duckweed into a heaving coat as of mail and drowning the white flowers of the water-crowsfoot. Only one thing of all the Fifth Army’s work remained—the wooden military bridge over Mill Causeway.
The
Fifth
Army?
a voice seemed to be saying, the voice of the wan star,
What
you
seek
is
lost
forever
in
ancient
sunlight,
which
arises
again
as
Truth.

The voice wandered thinner than memory, and was gone with the star under the horizon.

And then, another voice, another face—hovering in the air, looking at him calmly—Barley before the baby had come—looking at him curiously, and with remote tranquility. Was it a projection of his thoughts—or was she really with him in spirit? Would she not be with her baby, if she could materialise? He must return to his son, be mother and father to the little fellow.

Hetty heard the exhaust notes of the motor-bicycle while watering the aspidistra in the front room, and looking out of the window saw him pull up outside. She waved, and hurried to the door.

“Welcome home, my son! When did you cross over?”

“This morning, Mother,” as he kissed her. “I’ve come straight here, I must go to Cross Aulton tonight. I’ll return soon.”

“At least you’ll stay until Father comes home, Phillip? He did
so appreciate your postcards from France, and we both followed you on the old trench maps in the drawer of your bedroom. He still speaks of it as ‘Phillip’s’ bedroom, you know. Now come down to the garden room, and I will get you some tea. Sit down in Father’s chair, and rest yourself. Was it a good crossing?”

“Not very, Mother.”

She hastened to put on the kettle, but stopped on the way to say, “I suppose you haven’t heard about the baby while you’ve been away? I did think of going down to find out, but thought you might think it interfering of me.”

“Oh no, of course not, Mother.”

He looked tired and very thin. Uppermost in her mind was the thought of her grandson. She nursed a hope that Phillip would come to live at home, now that he got on well with Dickie. Then she would be able to look after the baby. Poor little Billy, he should not be in the hands of strangers.

The french windows were open. She put a plate of bread and butter beside him, knowing that after a sea-voyage he needed plain food.

“Why has Father lopped the elm so much? It looks quite bare.”

“He thought the roots might spread too far, and undermine the foundations of the house, Phillip.”

Sipping his china tea with a slice of lemon, he said, “I did think of living more or less permanently at Gross Aulton, as a lodger.”

“Yes, Uncle Joey told me you seemed to like being there. It’s a great deal changed since I knew it.” She sighed. “All those new red houses on the Downs——! Ah well, we can’t put back the clock, can we? Still, Arthur tells me that the new tennis club is a place of much social activity—and who knows, you might even find someone you might like there.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’d never find anyone like Barley again. You loved her, didn’t you?”

“We all did, Phillip.”

He hid his face with a hand. She wanted to comfort him, to put her arms round him; but knowing his reserve, forebore. To ease her pain she moved to the garden steps, pretending to be looking at her wallflowers.

“Mother, sometimes I feel she is with me, helping me!”

At those words she dared to open her heart. “If it would be
any help dear, I think Father would not object if you left the baby with us for a time.”

He knew her intentions when she went on to speak of his sister. “I am afraid she is not very happy, Phillip. I did hope that the coming of her baby would help matters, too.”

“Mother, sentiment seems to rule us both. But what mind I have tells me that Doris will never be happy with any man. She is too adamant. I could never have stuck what Bob has had to put up with from her. I know you see it only from Doris’s side, you see the effects, not the causes.”

“I am only trying to make things better, Phillip.”

“I understand you, Mother. I have the same weakness.”

“I am thinking of Doris’s little one, when it comes, Phillip.”

“I know, I know! History must not repeat itself! But who am I to judge Father, or anyone else? I have the same faults, I know. Circumstances bring them out. We are both rather weak sorts, you know. Well, I must be going back to Cross Aulton now.” He kissed his mother. “Don’t worry, old dear. Try to keep an equal mind in all things.”

The sun was over the south-western slope of the Hill, reflecting its rays from the glass turrets of the Crystal Palace when he got astride the Norton.

“Father will be sorry to have missed you. You’ll be over again before you go back to Devon, won’t yous?”

“Yes, Mother, of course I will.”

He realised how dear to him his old home was now.

*

It was good to see the Downs again. They passed an area where hundreds of new houses were being built on what used to be farm and park lands. At first Phillip reacted away from this spreading suburbanisation; but seeing that many an oak and ash and beech—the hedgerow timber of former farms—had been left by the builders of the new Housing Estates, as they were called, he changed his mind about it.

Arthur said, “We’re going to make things better than they were in Grandfather’s time. Of course Father doesn’t like to see things changing, but then I tell him he’s old fashioned. I’ve tried to get him to see that it’s a good thing, since it will mean less human unhappiness.”

“I expect he, like my mother, remembers the herb fields.
Where are they now? Living in the memories of old people!”

“I don’t think people should live in the past, Phillip.”

“It’s not what men
should
be, Arthur, but what they
are.
”

“I don’t agree. However, we’ll agree to differ, shall we? By the way, I want to see a man at the tennis club, we can get there this way.”

They came to an older road of detached Victorian houses, each standing in about an acre of ground. In some a coach-house had been converted to take a motor car.

The new tennis club, presided over by Sir Benjamin Sword, Bart., was the centre of the new social life. They had several distinguished members, declared Arthur, among them the Conservative member of Parliament and his wife and daughters.

There were a score of
en-tout-cas
courts of fine red rubble which made the balls faster than on a lawn, Arthur said, and also play was possible immediately after a shower. There were over a thousand members, and a long waiting list. Phillip thought it was a splendid place, so different from the small one-court club where he had played during half of one season in South Devon. Indeed, as he tried to think of his circumstances now, the old life in Malandine village seemed purposeless; perhaps he should ‘learn to submit’, in Joseph Conrad’s phrase, and return to suburban life. Mother had said that Uncle Joe was quite willing that he should stay with them for as long as he liked.

“We have dancing, or amateur theatricals, or both, every Saturday night, Phillip. By the way, we’re having a little dance tonight at home, to celebrate May’s engagement to Herbert. Only a gramophone, and ourselves, it will be very quiet.”

While he was wiping his boots on the mat Phillip heard his cousin May say to Arthur, “Herbert says he won’t be coming tonight.”

May was eighteen years of age. Recently she had announced that her name in future would be spelt Mae, after her adored heroine of the silver screen, another
petite
brunette
like herself, Mae Murray, who had started her career as that glamour object, a Ziegfeld Folly girl on Broadway.

May, or Mae, her face slightly rouged and a dark whisker-curl pressed on the upper part of each cheek by the discreet application of some of Arthur’s Shynecreem, held out a languid hand to her cousin.

To Phillip she was almost a stranger; he had not paid more than half a dozen visits to Uncle Joe Turney’s house in his life, and until recently Mae had been at boarding school.

“Hullo, Ma-ee. Is that how you pronounce it?”

“Hullo, Phil-lip. No, it’s the same pronunciation.”

“I was looking forward to meeting your
fiancé
again.”

She gave him a glance; she was not sure that he was not being sarcastic; hitherto he had been reserved towards her.

“So you may be coming to live with us? Aunt Hetty said you might.”

“Doesn’t Herbert approve of dancing?” asked Arthur.

Mae gave her brother an aloof smile. Turning to Phillip she said, “Jonesy is out tonight, so we’re having supper in the kitchen, if you don’t mind.”

“I like kitchens.” Then seeing a motion-picture paper beside her, he said, “Still keen to go on the films? You’ve done some amateur acting, haven’t you?”

She looked at him half defensively, before saying quietly, “Herbert says he won’t let me.”

“Herbert thinks that all actresses and actors are immoral,” explained Arthur. “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

He returned with a bottle of sherry and glasses. They drank. Arthur refilled Phillip’s glass before hiding the bottle behind the coal-scuttle.

Left alone with Mae, Phillip said, “Will you mind if I ask a rather personal question?” as he drained his glass.

“That was quick!” said Mae.

“Do you really love this chap Herbert?”

She had beautiful grey eyes and long lashes. He felt warm towards her, and saw that she had warmed to him.

“Well, Phillip, I’ll try and answer your question. Here is an example. Herbert thinks that a sunset is just ordinary, and tells me that I’m morbid for wanting to look at one and remain quiet, when I am with him. Do you think I am morbid, Phillip?” Her face was a little sad as she smiled.

“Of course you’re not morbid! A sunset
is
beautiful. The purpose of life is to create beauty. A sunset can be a glory when one sees it with a kindred spirit, but sad when one sees it alone. One can be alone with another, unless he or she thinks the same as one does.”

Mae was looking at him with a kind and gentle gaze. He saw a tear rolling down her cheek, and dabbed it with his handkerchief.

“Cousin dear! First love is nearly always experimental! And when there is doubt——No! There is no doubt in Nature. A wren with a wren, an owl with an owl, a hawk with a hawk, a nightingale with——”

She looked pensive.

“Your intuition is the truth, Mae. Never smother it, as I have done, again and again! Trust it! Don’t stifle it, out of loyalty to an idea.”

She sighed. “Herbert needs me. Also, he’s fearfully jealous. I’ll tell you why he isn’t coming tonight. It’s because you’re here.”

“Then I’d better go. Is he on the telephone?”

It was her turn to be embarrassed. “I must look at the joint in the oven,” she said, leaving the room.

“No need to go,” said Arthur. “I don’t think Herbert’s a genuine religious man. He sneers at poetry, asking what use it is to anyone.”

“Poor Mae. She’s the steadfast type, like your father and my mother. Life can be pretty awful for such people when they haven’t much brain to give their feelings balance.”

Arthur felt put off by this remark. “I—I don’t think you ought to say such things, Phillip.”

“But it’s true. They were born like that.”

“It’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Can’t you think with your head?”

Arthur considered this. “Yes, I know what you mean. But I don’t like cynicism. Not that you”—he hastened to explain—“are exactly cynical. Anyway, I haven’t lost my ideals yet.” He looked reflective. “I’ve got a girl, you know; in fact I’m very nearly engaged to her. There’s one thing about her that worries me, to tell the truth. Like some more sherry? I have to hide it, because Herbert doesn’t like to see any kind of intoxicant.”

“So the man who pinched whisky from the back of the officers’ mess cart doesn’t approve of others drinking!”

“That was in the war, he’s a different man now. Anyway, don’t let’s talk about Herbert.”

Phillip drank his third glass of sherry.

“Men don’t change their natures, Arthur. Their habits yes,
but not their natures. May I have another glass? I’ll buy you another bottle tomorrow.”

Someone was walking up the garden path to the front door. “Here’s Father,” said Arthur. “He’s been down your way this week.” Back went the bottle behind the coal-scuttle.

Joseph Turney came into the room, wearing his black hat and dark overcoat. Holding out a hand he said, “Welcome back to Maybury Lodge, Phillip!”

“Thank you, Uncle Joe. Have you had a good week?”

“Oh, not so bad, my boy. Queensbridge is looking its best now. I suppose you’ll be thinking of going back soon?”

Joseph Turney, with his large, drooping grey moustaches, grey eyes and mild expression of general kindness, looked smaller than ever to his nephew. His eyes twinkled, and Phillip knew that one of his little-boy jokes was coming.

“You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like, you know, as I told your dear mother. The only condition is that you wash your feet once a month, and change your shirt every six months, ha ha!”

“Ha ha. I would like to stay very much, Uncle, thank you. Of course I’ll pay my whack.”

“Just as you please, my boy. Make yourself at home.”

As soon as he had left the room Arthur said, “I’d like to ask your advice about Gladys, Phillip.”

“I’ll respect your confidence. What’s worrying you?”

“She says when we marry she doesn’t want any children.”

“Why doesn’t she want any?”

“I don’t know really.”

“Then why not ask her?”

“I have, but she won’t give any reason.”

“Is she a frigid woman, like Doris?”

“I don’t know really,” replied Arthur, not liking the question.

“Then why not try her? Doesn’t she want to sleep with you?”

Arthur said hurriedly, “She’s not that sort of girl, you see. Gladys doesn’t care for kissing—she’s a serious girl, nothing frivolous about her.”

“Then what is your liking for her based upon?”

“As you know, I run the local branch of the Poetry Association. I met her there, as a matter of fact. She was sitting by herself, and looked rather lonely. I spoke to her afterwards, and found
that she liked Rupert Brooke. So do I, so we made friends. Then one day I gave her Wilfred Owen’s poems.”

“What did she think of them?”

“She said they were morbid.”

“Which inferred that you were a bit morbid for liking them?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I rather fancy she did.”

“I’ve heard that word morbid all my life, Arthur! Nowadays I
run
from people who use that word! Morbid be damned! Are you morbid for seeing the truth, which is compassion, of Owen’s verse? Is Mae also morbid, for wanting to be at peace with herself, watching a sunset? You can see the mix-up with Herbert, but are you sure you’re not in the same boat yourself? Bob Willoughby and Doris haven’t anything in common, so their marriage is a mutual dull ache. To hell with being morbid! It’s a word used by fools to maintain their own stupidity. You want to look at causes in human behaviour, not effects only. It’s morbid if you like not to want to have a child; but what is the source of that morbidity? Perhaps she heard a woman screaming in childbirth!”