A Fox Under My Cloak (12 page)

“Oh, that’s all right, Father. Timmy’s race was run.”

“He had a reprieve, you know, old chap, on the day the news came about Messines—— Oh well, Hetty, have it your own way!” Richard laughed, seeing his wife’s frown-signal. She went out of the room, ostensibly to look at the fish kept hot for Mavis’ supper—the girl had gone straight from the office to a St. John of Jerusalem Ambulance Brigade meeting in St. Simon’s Parish Hall. Doris was doing her homework.

“If you don’t mind,” said Phillip, “I think I’ll just go in and say how d’you do to Gran’pa and Aunt Marian.”

“Wrap up well, old chap! We don’t want to lose you, now we’ve got you home, you know. By Jove, you had a narrow squeak, judging by your greatcoat!”

“Oh, I’ll be all right, Father.”

“Come back afterwards, and play the gramophone, Phillip, if you care to. I shall have to leave at seven-forty-five precisely, as I am on special constable’s duty tonight.”

“Well, thank you, Father, but I think I’ll go and see Mrs. Neville, after I’ve been next door.”

“Very well, just as you wish. You know, I suppose, that Desmond has joined up?”

“Desmond? But he’s only sixteen!”

“Well, he’s in uniform, and has left school, so I hear.”

“He’s in the London Electrical Engineers, and comes home every night,” said Doris. “Didn’t he write and tell you?”

“I had only two letters from him all the while I was out there.”

“I expect he had a great deal to do, dear,” said Hetty.

“Yes, I understand they have to do with searchlights,” went on Richard. “Raids by Zeppelins, you know, old chap, can’t be ruled out! The Prussians will stick at nothing to bring England down—you mark my words! It says here in the
Trident
——” and Richard read out part of a speech by Winston Churchill.

Phillip sat with his eyes on the tablecloth. After a while he said, “Well, I think I’ll go and see Gran’pa now, Father. By the way, Mum, if Ching calls, tell him I’ve gone out, but don’t say where. I did not want him to write his soppy letters to me, while I was in hospital.”

“Very well, dear. But don’t remain in the cold damp air too long, will you?”

Phillip did not stay long next door. Gran’pa was having supper. He refused a glass of wine, and also ideas about a spring offensive to the Scheldt. “You’ll remember that river, at Antwerp, m’boy? Well, it says here in the
Telegraph
that the high land, or ridges, that would give command of it, now in German hands around the town of Ypres, if assaulted—in the spring—— Oh, must ye go? So soon? But you’ve only just come! I expect you’ll want to talk to your mother. Tell her not to forget to come in for bezique, won’t you? Keep well wrapped up. Goodness me, what’s become of the rest of your overcoat?”

“I sold it, sir, to buy bread with.”

“You’re not serious, are ye——”

“The Belgian peasants, since the Cloth Hall was bombarded, can’t get any material to patch the seats of the trousers of their grown-up sons who have dodged the call-up and are sitting about all day at home.”

“Most reprehensible!” remarked Great-aunt Marian, with serious, attentive face.

“It was a joke, Aunt Marian. Well, I’m glad you’re both keeping well. How is Mr. Bolton, Gran’pa?”

“Poor fellow, poor fellow,” said Thomas Turney, sipping his claret. “His son’s death has broken him. He’s an old man now, before his time.”

“Well, no-one can live for ever,” said Phillip, eager to see Desmond. What luck, that Des was at home!

Outside the gate of “Wespaelar” he hesitated before
tip-toeing
up the road, to look at the house of Helena Rolls. He told himself that no flag would be hanging there; and saw that it was so. Chinks of light showed through the drawn curtains. Dare he call? No, they were probably at dinner. Mr. Rolls always dined at night, sometimes in a smoking jacket. Why did not Father wear his sometimes, with a white shirt? Turning away, he walked slowly down the road, to cross over and knock and wait while remembered footfalls came down the stairs. The door opened.

“Hullo, Desmond.”

“Hullo, Phil. I was expecting you later. I’ve just come home, and am having my supper!”

As Desmond did not move at the open door, Phillip said, “Oh, I’ll come back later then.”

“Who is it, dear?” called out Mrs. Neville.

“It’s Phillip, Mother.”

“Well, aren’t you going to ask him up, dear! Come on up, Phillip! Welcome back!”

He went up behind Desmond, feeling the floor shaking as Mrs. Neville came out of the drawing-room to kiss him—“Phillip, Phillip, dear boy——” He was hugged in her huge arms, led into the kitchen with a “Let’s have a look at you, dear——” Then, to let Desmond finish his supper, Mrs. Neville told Phillip to make himself comfortable in the armchair by the fire, his old place.

Mrs. Neville asked no questions. Wide-eyed, with Mazeppa the large neuter cat at her feet, she looked at him, exuding sympathy,
tragedy, acceptance. His thin, haunted look drew forth tears, which turned to gaiety very soon, as she gave him an account of the day when she had seen, from her window, Timmy Rat in his box being carried down the road by his mother, to the vet’s; and then all the way up again. “Mazeppa knew there was something in the air, didn’t you, Mazeppa? Oh yes,
he
knew! He was watching the box in your mother’s hands, from Desmond’s window, for Mazeppa remembered when you used to bring Timmy in his box here; and when Mr. Bolton came out of his house without his stick and gloves, to speak to your mother, we both knew there was something wrong. Yes, he’d had the War Office telegram——” Mrs. Neville dabbled her eyes again. “Mazeppa knew, cats do know, Phillip, I am sure. Yes, Mazeppa knew. He came and gave such a funny little howl when your mother went back with Timmy Rat up the road again. Ah, but it was no laughing matter, dear. Poor old Bolton, oh dear, what a day! Then the telegraph boy calling at Mrs. Wallace’s, all three boys killed! Poor woman, she was distraught. When your Aunt Dorrie called to offer sympathy, she cried out, “It isn’t right that you have two sons, while all mine are killed.”

“I did think of calling to see Mrs. Wallace, Mrs. Neville, but perhaps it would be better if I didn’t.”

Mrs. Neville knew about Phillip’s past trouble with Peter Wallace, before Boy Scout days, when Peter had fought his battles for him.

“Well, it was a long time ago, Phillip, and that poor woman would be glad, I am sure, to hear anything about her boys.” Mrs. Neville wiped away her tears. “What times we’re living in! Well, you do what you think best, Phillip. There’s no hurry, after all. Death is so—no, we must be cheerful! Now I expect you’ll want to talk with Desmond. He’ll want to take you down to ‘Freddy’s’, if I know my son!” She called out to Desmond in the kitchen: “There’s apple tart in the oven, dear!” To Phillip: “Don’t say I told you, but Desmond wants to take you for a ride in his motorcar.”

“A motorcar? Has Desmond got a motorcar?”

“Yes, but only lent to me for a week, by my uncle,” said Desmond, holding a piece of tart as he came into the room.

“What is it?”

“Singer open two-seater.”

“How wonderful. Where is it?”

“In Wetherley’s garage. I’ll take you for a drive when I get a day off.”

“Desmond, what are you doing? Why don’t you offer Phillip some of your apple tart?”

“He knows he can help himself, any time.”

“No thanks, Mrs. Neville. I had enough Tickler’s Apple and Plum in Belgium.”

Phillip told them the story of the soldier who pretended to be mad, by crawling all over the barrack square picking up little bits of paper. This set Mrs. Neville quivering with laughter; and in happy mood, the two left for the High Street, on their way to Freddy’s.

“Freddy is a most extraordinary man, in his way. Everyone calls him Freddy. He has a very good billiard table. I’ve learned to play since I joined up.”

“I’ve played a bit, too, at Alderley Edge.”

Freddy, in his warm, bright, saloon bar, politely lifted his yellow straw-hat. He was in shirt-sleeves, his cuffs kept back by nickel-silver bands. He smiled a Chinaman’s smile, his eyes almost disappearing behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Good evening, gentlemen! This is your friend we have had converse about, I take it? Welcome to my ’ouse, sir! May I have the pleasure of offering you one, as tribute to a hero? My word, you had a narrow escape!” The landlord stared at Phillip’s greatcoat. “You need fortifying at once, if I may say so!”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Phillip.

“The pleasure’s mine,” Freddy lifted the front of his hat again. “What is it, gentlemen?”

“I recommend Freddy’s hot rum, Phil.”

“That’s the stuff to give the troops!”

After the half quartern of rum, Phillip began to feel that life was good. Then it was his turn to stand a round. Freddy politely tilted his hat again, and let down a half quartern of water from one of the bottles hanging upside down from a shelf behind the bar. “I’ll take a drop of gin, gentlemen!” he said with his tittery laugh, his eyes almost disappearing. “Well, your very good health!”

They played a game of billiards. Phillip could neither pot nor go in off; only strike the ball hard in the hope that something would happen. Desmond reached fifty when Phillip’s score was
still thirteen. They put back the cues, and went through the stained-glass door to the saloon bar again.

More gas-mantles had been lit. The evening trade was beginning. Behind the mahogany counter stood a young woman, with a sweet childish smile on her face. It was a sly-eyed pretty face, with the dark hair drawn back tightly from her forehead. She carried a baby, rocking it. She looked about fourteen years old. Phillip ordered two more hot rums.

It was much nicer, taken hot with lemon and sugar, than the Belgian
rhum
, which had made him swirl. They sat on the horsehair settee, and Desmond began to tell Phillip about the extraordinary adventures of Freddy. He had been all over the world, according to his yarns to Desmond: Australia
cattle-droving
, New Zealand sheep-farming, diamond-mining in Africa, silver-mining in the United States, gun-running in Cuba, gold in Alaska. “Freddy’s motto, he told me, in all those places,” sniggered Desmond behind his hand, “was ‘frig and run!’”

The way Desmond said this seemed to Phillip to be so
frightfully
funny that he nearly spilled his drink with silent laughter. He pictured Freddy, in shirtsleeves kept up with nickel-silver bands, running, straw-hat on head, from one vast open space to another, a little cloud of dust behind him; then after a pause, and some polite hat-lifting and square-pushing as Cranmer would say, on again! Desmond was grunting with laughter beside him; several people turned to look at them on the settee, Phillip also grunting as he bent sideways with his
backwards-in
-throat laughter that he had “patented” at school, presenting expressionless face while jerky groan-like noises were stifled upon indrawn breath. Desmond, who had copied the patent, sat groaning beside him; while the child-wife behind the bar regarded them with the look of a small ferret on her
white-and
-pink face.

“Hi, you two!” she said. “What’s the joke?” as she bobbed the baby. Their laughter burst its constriction, they leaned on one another, half-empty glasses shaking in hands. Tears came into Phillip’s eyes; with a gasp he sat up, ribs aching, his eyes avoiding the challenge of Mrs. Freddy.

“Oh dear!” gasped Desmond.

“‘And that’s the bit of paper I’ve been looking for!’ said the soldier, as he walked past the guard room,” said Phillip, winking rapidly. “Well, how about another rum?”

“It’s my treat, Phil.”

“No jolly fear! I don’t suppose your pay’ll run to many of these in a week. And I’ve got three weeks’ leave, and a lot of back-pay to come.”

“I said, ‘What’s the joke?’” repeated the girl-wife.

“Sorry; I didn’t hear you,” said Phillip.

“Then wash yer ears out! D’you think I don’t know your friend was talking about me?”

“I was telling my friend about a soldier in India named O’Casey who successfully swung the lead with the Doolally Tap.”

“I don’t think! See any green in my eye? You made that up, I know by your face. Tell the truth, and shame the devil. You were talking about me. Doolally Tap! I’ll Doolally Tap you! What you want, the same again?”

She poured them, her face sweet and childlike once more.

“How much, please?”

“One and a kick to you. Ta!” She took the half-crown he put down. As she shut the till with a bang she turned round, and said, hard-faced, “I’ll give you and your friend talk about me, if you take away my character, you bleeder! Who d’you think you are?”

“I’m Sergeant Haggis, didn’t you know?” said Phillip, picking up the shilling change, and smiling amiably at her.

“Gerr’rr’t yer!” she cried, making as though to give him a back-hander. Her face looked pretty again. “I’m glad you can take a joke.”

Freddy came up from the four-ale bar, raising his hat to his wife. “My dear, I want to introduce you to a friend of a friend of mine, I would like to say also a friend of mine, who ’as just come back from the trenches. Am I right, sir?” he beamed.

“Well, actually, I’ve just come out of hospital.”

“I think your name is Maddison. I once had the pleasure of serving your father. Meet my wife—the missus,” said Freddy, sipping his pseudo gin.

Phillip saluted her, and shook her hand. “How d’you do!” Then gently he wiggled the lobe of the ear of the sleeping infant. “And how d’you do, too!”

This put her into a happy mood. Sucking a tooth familiarly, she said to Freddy, “I knew his name wasn’t Haggis. Wonder you didn’t say Harry Lauder. I’m not a fool you know!
What’r’-you
thinking now? Come on, out with it, a penny for them!”

“I was thinking how nice everyone is.”

She studied his face; decided he was not being sarcastic, and said suddenly, “Here, kiss the baby for luck.” Phillip touched its delicate little wrinkled brow with his mouth. Then, while Freddy beamed with his slits of eyes, she turned to the till, and took out a half-crown. “Go on, shove it in your pocket! ’Ave those two on the old man. He’s got plenty, the mean old devil.”