A Fox Under My Cloak (26 page)

T
HE
flush of Irish rye-grass amidst the wild white clover of the open pastures was beginning to gleam in the wind; nightingales sang in the beechen spinneys, in solitary hawthorns along the verges of the open grassy gallops called the Severals, and in the shrubberies of large gardens of the horsey and prosperous. Phillip had little thought of wild birds now; life was full of new prospects. It seemed to him that he had never lived before.

There was his new friend the garage manager, the handsome Monty with the rich chuckling laugh, debonair manner,
graceful
figure, and dark, good-looking face. He took Phillip out in various motor cars in the long sunny evenings. Monty's idea was to have some sport, to get hold of two birds, as he put it. Phillip's idea was to learn to drive properly.

One night they drove through flat green pastures and cornfields, seeing in the distance a small town on a little hill,
clustering
round a cathedral looking as though all the walls had once been under water, and dried off again, very long ago. He mentioned this to Monty, who laughed and said, “Well, you're not far out, for Ely was surrounded by water in Hereward the Wake's time.”

“Good lord, were these the Fens?”

“They still are. And what's more, here are two birds out for a walk on a nice spring evening. I'll drive past, and we can get a squint at their faces.”

He set his gaily-ribboned boater at a slight angle, and cleared his throat. The black Studebaker went past; drew up; reversed, while Monty said, “Not bad at all. I bags the bird on the left,” with a gurgling laugh. Phillip was slightly scared; he had no desire to talk to girls, and deeply within him was the fear of syphilis.

The Studebaker stopped. The girls walked on. Raising his hat, Monty said, “Is this the way to Manchester? My friend Major Dogsbody has an urgent appointment with General Nuisance.”

Soon he was on easy terms with the girls. Phillip did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

“Dogsbody is shy,” laughed Monty. “He's been doing too much drill. How about a ride, girls? Let me introduce myself, I'm Lord Helpus.”

The girls were willing; Phillip was not. So Monty suggested that he went for a ride with his chosen girl, leaving Phillip with the other.

“We'll go around and see the sights, and be back in half an hour, old man, and pick you up here, how's that?” said Monty.

Phillip sat still. He did not know what to reply. He was not going to risk being left miles away from the battalion; besides, he did not want to be alone with the other girl.

After some attempts by Monty to get him to agree had failed, the driver put in the gear and drove off violently, his face
contorted
with rage, his words bitter. Through the tirade Phillip remained unspeaking. The words fell upon him like small explosions. There was nothing to do but wait until Monty had finished; when he too became silent, after a final remark, “Well, I thought you were a sport, now I know what you are, you'll never come with me again!”

A hare got up by the grassy wayside soon afterwards, and Monty accelerated, trying to run it down, as it sped along in front, kicking up a little dust and jumping from side to side as it stared backwards with terrified eyes. The chase seemed to restore Monty's good humour; then just as the speedometer needle reached forty-five and the brown animal was almost beneath the front axle it leapt sideways and got away.

After that Monty became his former self; and when Phillip had apologised, and told him what he had been frightened of, Monty slapped him on the knee and with a gurgle of laughter said, “You silly old ass, why didn't you tell me? I could have given you a fish skin, they are better than ordinary letters. Anyway, I had only one, and you never know, I might have got a dose. My girl comes next week, you must meet her, she's an actress. We're going to be married as soon as I can save enough dough.”

On the way back he turned off to visit a farmer to whom he was trying to sell a Studebaker. The farmer was out—“They're making pots of money now, you know”—and Monty let Phillip take the wheel through the narrow lanes. Phillip drove carefully,
still unable to change gear while in motion, but keeping in mind where the brake pedal was. They entered a village, and almost at once Monty was waving his boater, and saying, “Stop!”, for three fair-haired young women were standing outside a cottage gate. Monty pulled the hand-brake tight, the Studebaker slid in the dust to a stop. “Hi, put the clutch out next time, you ass! I say, three fairies! Now don't bilk this time, Phil—just be your charming self.”

He leaned out of the window and called out gaily, “Hullo-a-lo-a-lo! Didn't we meet at the Cesarovitch? Or was it the Polusky Brothers at the Tottenham Palace of Varieties? Seriously, do you know the Green House, it's somewhere here.”

Phillip saw this name painted on the gate. “I've got a two-seater Swift for sale, cheap, I come from Freshwell's garage. My card,” he held one out between two fingers, and then got out of the car.

“Well, this is the Green House, but we don't want a motorcar, thank you.”

“Good,” replied Monty. “Business is so boring, isn't it? Let me introduce myself.” He twiddled his straw hat expertly like a top. “My friend—Sir Phillip Longshanks, generally known as Tubby.”

To Phillip it was a marvellous adventure, as he sat on a sofa, drinking coffee, and listening to the gramophone. Then the eldest girl, with red-gold hair, played Chopin, after which her sister sang
Three
Hundred
and
Sixty-five
Days,
and other musical comedy songs. The odd thing was that Monty had guessed the place where they came from, Green Lanes, Tottenham, right first time. The eldest girl, who was twenty-one, had just married, and owing to their parents' fear of Zeppelin raids, her two sisters had come to stay at her cottage.

“Do you believe in fate?” asked the married girl, coming to sit by Phillip, while Monty and the other sisters were in the kitchen, making more coffee and sandwiches.

“Well, yes and no,” replied Phillip, regarding the reply as a kind of insurance.

“I do,” said Fairy, smiling.

“Oh.”

“You are a funny boy. What is your name really?”

He told her, and where he lived, and other details of his life. She seemed greatly interested.

“You seem so young to have been to France, Phillip. May I call you that? Or is it cheek?”

“Good lord, no! I'm highly honoured. I'm sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Everyone calls me Fairy. I suppose it is because I am so thin.”

“I'm pretty thin, too, but I'm quite strong, you know. You don't look thin.
Petite
,
yes—but sylph-like I would say suits you better.”

She looked at him with a happy face. He could see a pulse in her neck beating. He thought she was quite different from any woman he had ever known. She was shy, but also frank and outspoken, in a nice way. The shape of her face was pleasing, she was quick, a sort of nice foxy face, red-gold hair and eyelashes, a few freckles, very nice shaped ears (like Mavis') and a good little chin. The roast-beef sandwiches made him realise how hungry he was; and also that he had forgotten to sign-off for mess-dinner, having met Monty by chance outside Godolphin House as he had driven past, and jumped in beside him.

“Very nice wimps,” remarked Monty, as they drove back. “I heard all about Fairy, your bird, when I was in the kitchen. She married to escape from her old man, who's a bit of a tartar, and jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. She can't bear the chap she married to touch her. He apparently did the cave-man stuff in the bridal chamber straight away, before even his coat was off. She's been married two months, and he's gone to Egypt with the Territorials. What more could you want, old horse? I like the sister, the fair one, I bet she's a
casse-noisette
, she quivered when I put my arm on her shoulder, friendly like. That cave-man stuff is no good, you know. Begin gently, make 'em laugh, leave 'em alone at first, that gives 'em confidence in you. Though my bird won't want much working on, if you ask me.”

Phillip was repelled by this attitude towards what generally he regarded (except, of course, cousins like Petal and Polly, who didn't really count) as the holiness of love and female beauty. He did not know what to say: so once again sat silent beside Monty.

The Studebaker was the latest model, with electric headlights; and they were approaching the railway bridge by a big chalk quarry on the left when Phillip saw a figure on horseback in front of a column of marching soldiers coming over the bridge.
Immediately Monty turned down a lane to the right, drawing up as he switched off lights.

“Better not risk being told off for using headlamps,” he said. “The military are getting hot now, since Zeppelins are about. I have thought of joining the R.N.A.S. They won't be sent abroad, or have any fighting to do. What do you think?”

“I think you're right, Monty.”

“Their headquarters are in the Belvoir Hotel, you know.”

“Yes, I've seen them there.”

The head of the marching column halted opposite the turning. Three mounted officers moved about on the road, turning their horses. With a shock Phillip heard the voice of “Strawballs” growling, “Bloody rot! And why does ‘Crasher' have to choose a guest-night to blow his own trumpet?” Major Fridkin replied something, but it was in too low a voice to be overheard.

“Good lord!” whispered Phillip to Monty. “It's our lot! And I've cut guest-night! I forgot all about it! My God, I ought to be with them!”

“I should worry. But if you hop off, farther on, you can slip back.”

“Hell, I'm in their bad books enough already!”

Monty drove on, and stopped on the far side of the long bridge; Phillip got out, said good night, and walked back on the grass verge, then on past the rear company, walking now briskly, as though returning from a scouting mission. He found his company, and by listening to voices, his platoon. O'Connor saw him.

“Where have you been, my boy?”

“Scouting around. The flanks are not being turned. What is it, a night exercise?”

“Yes. We were in the ante-room, when the alarm rang out in the High Street, on a cavalry trumpet blown by ‘Crasher' himself. 'Twas a fine rousing sound, despite some notes wavering and others misplaced, but it made the colonel swear, for he had to mount his charger wearing slacks.”

“I suppose my absence at dinner was noticed?”

“It was, my boy. The senior subaltern keeps his eye on you as an earth-stopper watches the habits of a fox.”

Phillip congratulated himself the next morning at the nine o'clock parade when nothing was said about his absence the night before; and again when his skipping guest-night was not
mentioned by after dinner of that day. He forgot it in his next adventure, which was on the back of a horse.

*

The transport officer, an Australian, whose tutor at the 'varsity, Phillip heard, had been “Strawballs”, said at breakfast the following day, that any subaltern who wanted a horse could have one for the afternoon by giving in his name. Seeing Baldersby regarding him, while pulling as usual at his yellow moustache, Phillip said at once that he would like a hack. That was the correct term, he had recently learned.

The horses were brought round to the entrance of Godolphin House at 2 p.m. By this time Phillip was in some apprehension, mixed with a determination that he would ride off very slowly until he got on the open grass beyond the town, when he would teach himself to ride, come what may. Trying to maintain his good resolutions, he mounted a horse for the first time in his life, after the groom had adjusted the stirrup leathers to the length of his arm from pit to fingertips.

There were four horses waiting; a dozen interested faces at the open door and others by the open mess windows as the four started off. Phillip was the last to mount, on a fat white horse that from the first determined to have its own way, and follow the others stringing up the High Street. It trotted: which, translated to the rider, meant an alarming and perpetual series of hard bumps on the base of the spine every one of which seemed about to topple him sideways despite muttered requests to the animal to whoa back, good horse, stop you brute, steady boy, curse you, you swine, walk WALK! Bump, bump, bump. The horse's ears were pricked high and forward; and only when it approached the tail of the bay, its neighbour on the picket line, did it slow up and the ears become flaccid thus giving its rider a chance to sort out the four reins into a pattern of which he was ignorant, and to wonder with alarm what would happen if the horse in front, when on grass, decided to gallop. Wasn't William Rufus killed that way, in the New Forest, his chin caught on a horizontal branch?

On grass, the horse broke into a canter.

“Sit down to it, sit down!” cried the Australian transport officer to Phillip, trying his best to sit down despite the fact that the horse was bouncing him up, once a second, what seemed to be at least a foot off the saddle.

“Sit down to it! I could jump between you and the horse! Sit down to it!”

“I'm trying to,” gasped Phillip. “But it won't stop bumping me up again!” How he managed to remain on, he did not know.

“You want to go with your horse's motion. Yield to it, don't set up a counter-motion! Don't sit so stiff! Relax! Imagine you are in an armchair!”

Phillip had no more energy to explain to the transport officer, who wore enormous spurs. Thank goodness Baldersby was not there to see him. Gone was his former idea of riding over to the Green House in time for tea with Fairy and her sisters, and thus displaying his equestrian powers. It would be better to go in the open Humber motor-car which Monty said he could have out for ten shillings the afternoon.