It Was the Nightingale (33 page)

“I was just signing a letter to you!” Anders exclaimed. “You’ve come up to see MacCourage, of course? He wants to be your American publisher all right! And I’ve other good news for you! This afternoon I received a cable from New York telling me that
The
Pictorial
Review
has accepted one of your animal stories, paying five hundred dollars. That’s a hundred and eight pounds for you at the present rate of exchange.

“That clears the hundred pounds you lent me. Good!”

They went for a drink to the bar of the Adelphi hotel. Anders let him have five pounds. “More tomorrow, when my bank opens!” Phillip explained his dilemma—wet clothes, and nowhere to sleep.

“Then why not book a room here?”

Why not, indeed? How very simple after all! He had forgotten that there were such things as hotels.

“There’s a garage under the Arches. By the way, have you seen a copy of Martin Beausire’s new novel? I was told about it, and got a copy. Later I’d like to hear your comments on it—put it in your pocket. Now I’ll take you down to the garage.”

“I say, Anders, where can I send a telegram? I’d like to ask my fiancée to come up—I can telegraph money, can’t I?”

“Certainly.”

Together they went across to the Strand post office where Phillip telegraphed two pounds to Lucy, asking her to come up as soon as she conveniently could. And then, Norton safely under cover, back to the hotel bedroom, puttees and boots removed, dry stockings and shoes on, breeches drying at the knees before a gas fire; to shave and wash, and with high heart walk round to Northumberland Avenue to his dinner engagement with
his
New York publisher!

A short elderly man with greying beard and deprecatory, almost shy manner came to meet him as he waited at the reception desk in the warm light of the foyer. At first it was not easy to talk with him. Mr. MacCourage did not seem able to get his words out easily, he used his hands to help him, while nodding many times and smiling at what he said, nodding almost before he had made the point of what he was saying, so that Phillip wasn’t altogether sure what he was talking about.

Then Mr. MacCourage called a waiter, and still nodding, ordered two large scotch whiskies and soda, or would Phillip like ginger ale with his? Phillip had already had one double whisky, and was uncertain about another; as he hesitated, Mr. MacCourage smiled and said in his husky tones, “Do you good, boy, I said, do you good! Bring two, waiter, bring two large scotch whiskies and soda, and waiter, don’t forget the ice. You’re tired,” he said to Phillip, moving his hands less now to help his meaning. “You’re tired, you’ve come a long way, the whisky will do you good. I guess that Britain has come a long way, too, but Britain is still very strong, yes sir! To read some British writers is to be
told that the Britishers are finished.” He shook his head gravely, and looked at Phillip with the gentle eyes of a deer. “Britain is still immensely strong, yes sir! Now drink your whisky, boy, then we’ll have some dinner, and you shall tell me about your books. But if you don’t want to talk, boy, just relax—I know you already from your writings. Yes, sir!”

The mellow whisky certainly did Phillip good, and he was glad that he had not given way to a feeling of resistance that he was being given a drink against his will. The older man, as though reading his thoughts, went on, “You’ll pardon me ordering whisky for you, but I guess I know you from your book, which I want to publish, and a little whisky at the right time is a very sound investment for tired muscles.”

Phillip felt a sudden liking for him. Had not W. H. Hudson called him Honest John? The two had been friends in Cornwall, just as he was now becoming friends.

He saw the dinner as a splendid kindness of one man to another. He rejoiced in the bright lights and the happy faces of the diners, in the music and the food. O, why was not Lucy already with him? He imagined her in the kitchen cutting sandwiches of bloater paste for supper. She should be sharing these
hors
d’æuvres,
these myriad dishes in red, green, and yellow—smoked salmon, sardines, anchovies, salted herrings, prawns, eggs, tomatoes—the waiter bending over her while she chose. Then sea-trout and mayonnaise sauce with finest slices of cucumber, and his American publisher,
his
American publisher, asking him if he could drink a sparkling Burgundy?

“By Jove, yes, thanks very much!”

Secretly he drank to the Boys, to Pa, to Lucy, to his Mother, to—to—steady now, this is the present, this is today, this is a full life
now.
Chicken and fried potatoes, green peas, salad, yes please, everything! Would he like another bottle? With memories of hectic guest-nights the answer is, Every time! but steady on, there is no death any more up the line, and besides, if you get tight you know you’ll be beastly ill.

“No thank you, sir! But may I have another strawberry ice-cream?”

A bowl of delicious sweets, marzipan, crystallised rose petals, chocolates. Dare he eat rolled fried bacon wrapped around mushrooms?

Indigestion be damned! Brandy? Thank you! Puffing a cigar, he left the dining-room with Honest John, feeling that life was pretty good, and there was no reason why a poet, or any man, need be unhappy on the earth if he used his brains. There didn’t seem anything more to talk about, and after coffee and brandy he could hardly conceal his yawns.

“You want to go to bed, boy, you need a good night’s sleep, I guess.” Honest John shook his hand several times, smiling and beaming. “I’ll be seeing you, I said! Write me that book about the search for your tame otter. I have lost a dear wife, boy, I guess I know your thoughts. I could never love another woman, but you are young, boy. So write your pilgrimage story, and how it led you to Miss Lucy.”

“I will, certainly! When Lucy and I are married we plan to spend the first part of our honeymoon on Exmoor, exploring the rivers. Then we thought of touring the battlefields, for my other book.”

Honest John looked at Phillip for a moment with unguarded eyes, and thought that a part of the boy before him was dead beyond resurrection. “What I am looking forward to reading is that book on your tame otter,” his quiet, grave voice was saying.

*

Lying in bed in his hotel bedroom Phillip looked through Martin’s novel and found it all a tremendous joke. It appeared to follow Martin’s own ragged life, but everything had been changed. The hero, Fitzroy d’Egville, left London with Flora Bosanquet for Devon, feeling as though they were in the half-world of
Outward
Bound.
They were met at the railway station by a tall, thin young man with a lantern jaw and lugubrious expression who manifested no enthusiasm on seeing them. Rollo Gangin had engaged a rattling, draughty open car; and when Fitzroy asked if it were the only car available, Rollo replied in an off-hand manner, “You’re lucky to get this one,” before relapsing into sullen silence. He was surly, casual and rude, sitting down at table with unwashed hands and unbrushed hair. He ate noisily with his mouth open, and belched loudly.

At this point, remembering Martin’s own belchings, Philip shook with laughter. Then he read on. During walks above the sea Rollo asked innumerable townee questions, boring Fitzroy nearly to tears, and when Flora, in desperation, said, “
Have
we
got
to have him with us
all
the time?” Fitzroy replied, “I am protecting your good name by taking him with us.” Fitzroy had a separate lodging, in the village gravedigger’s cottage. Rollo took them to see his girl, Lydia, whom he snubbed in order to enjoy her suffering while he had an open affair with the village postman’s red-headed daughter, Bathsheba. The gravedigger spent his time listening, during meal-times, to their conversation, trying to find out if Rollo intended to marry Lydia, who worked in the Speering Folliot basket-factory. The food provided was horrible: brown Windsor soup (out of a packet) and cold pork and prunes were the only dishes provided. All attempts to get a fire lighted in the only sitting-room were foiled by the avaricious and bigoted landlady. Rollo was suspected of dope-taking habits; he wrote stories about deer, buzzards, herons, and ravens, which he insisted in reading to them at night in a monotonous voice, driving Fitzroy to near frenzy and Flora to desperation. Rollo allowed his cringing mangy spaniel to clean up his plate—after he had kicked it—while his cat, which might have belonged to one of the witches out of
Macbeth,
hissed and spat whenever Flora attempted to stroke it. It brought in live birds while Rollo gloated over their sufferings in the intervals of talking about the money earned by Dikran Michaelis, H. de Vere Stacpoole, Ethel M. Dell, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

During the morning walks, when Flora wished to be left alone, bare-headed and sylph-like, Rollo’s voice grated on her ear with questions about fashionable people whose names he knew only from
The
Tatler,
old copies of which he stole regularly from dentists’ waiting rooms.

The story moved away from Devon to Sussex and Phillip fell asleep.

*

Hetty took to Lucy at once, as he had known would happen; but he dreaded what his father would say about the marriage settlement. Nevertheless, he must ask him out of courtesy to Mr Copleston, who had said, “Some busybodies in the family have got on to me about it. I’ve got nothing to offer, but perhaps you will be good enough to let me have the name of your family solicitors.” Phillip spoke first to his mother, asking her if he could give the name of her solicitors, Leppitt & Co. She showed him a letter, which cheered him.

“Good, they also have an address in Lincoln’s Inn! I’ll give that address to Pa, and explain that I want to make over my life policy to Lucy, and all my copyrights, which Anders Norse says will be valuable one day.”

“I think you had better mention the matter to your father first, Phillip. He may feel hurt if he is left out of it.”

“But you know how he behaves when he is ‘hurt’, as you say!”

How would Father respond? Would he think he was trying to get him to support him? He wanted nothing from anyone, alive or dead, and if any money ever came to him, he would at once give it to a hospital, he went on to tell his mother.

“You won’t tell Father that, will you, Phillip?”

“Hardly! I’ve learned just a little bit of tact, you know.”

He was much relieved when Father got on well with Lucy; and happy that Father showed the same charm of manner as when Barley had come to stay. All the same, he could not help wishing that Father would not put his tin of Samson Salts, which he usually took with his tea—‘Enough to cover a sixpence’—on the table beside his cup and saucer.

Observing his son’s glance, Richard said playfully, “I suppose you’re not old enough, old chap, to appreciate the ‘little daily dose’?”

“By the way, Father, it must be splendid exercise flying kites. Are you going to fly yours this coming summer, as you did before the war? I miss the kites above the Hill!”

“I must tell you, Lucy,” said Richard, playfully, “that Phillip has inherited his grandfather’s sensitive liver——”

“Oh, Father, really!”

“—with his grandfather’s love of nature. Now when the time comes that the cares of family life impinge on that seat of sensibility, always remember——!” And he held up the little tin of Samson Salts.

Then seeing the expression on his son’s face that he was being criticised by that, at times, superior young fellow, he went on, “Well, we can’t
all
afford to go fox-hunting three days a week in winter, and follow the otter-hounds in summer, to keep ourselves fit, you know, old chap!”

“I do quite a lot of sedentary work, too, you know, Father. Anyway, my foxhunting days are over.”

“Of course they are,” remarked Hetty, encouragingly.

“Henceforward you’ll have to dig in your garden, old chap! Does your father like gardening?” Richard said, turning to Lucy.

“Oh, yes! He spends nearly all his time with his rockery and green-house. Pa would be lost without his potting-shed, and plants to bed out!”

Phillip returned to the deviating subject of kites. “Father, do you think that if one flew a six-foot double-box kite over the sea, from the shore, one could catch fish by a line let down from a pulley?”

“But I thought you already caught fish by means of a tame cormorant, with a ring round its neck to prevent it from swallowing fish, as you described in your story, old chap!”

He turned again to Lucy. “Of course, if that was a fiction, you might train Phillip to dive from a boat, with a ring round his neck!”

When his mother and Lucy had cleared away the tea-things, Phillip breathed deeply before plunging in about the marriage settlement.

“Of course,” he began hurriedly, “I realize it is merely a formality, as Mr. Copleston told me that he had nothing to put in, so I feel, with respect to him, that I ought to ask you, as I said, merely as a matter of form——”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was wondering, Father, if anything is due to me in the natural order of things, in which case I suppose it should be settled on our children. There is the family plate, I suppose, and for all I know something in your grandfather’s will, part of that hundred and forty thousand pounds he left on trust——”

“So you’ve been representing yourself down in Devon as a man of means, have you?”

“No, Father! It is a purely formal request, by Mr. Copleston, who said, as I mentioned just now, that he, anyway, had nothing to offer——”

“Now look here, my boy! I am a poor man, and have always been a poor man! There was a family trust made by my great-grandfather, but that has long ago been determined, anyway it only applied to the Aunts. I would have you know that the greater proportion of that hundred and forty thousand pounds came to my own father, who squandered it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Father. Thank you for telling me.”

“As for my own will, everything I possess is left to your mother! ‘Marriage settlement’, indeed! What have you been pretending to this girl’s family, pray?”

“As I said, Father, it is merely a formal question.”

“It looks to me to be very much like a case of misrepresentation—if not of fraud! What have you been telling Mr. Copleston about your means, I should like to know?”