A Test to Destruction (34 page)

He did not read all of this, but glanced at the sheet of paper, before dropping it on the table; then recovering his manners he offered it to Miss Shore, saying, “I don’t deserve it. The man who wrote that is dead, owing to me.”

When he had told her part of the story, she said, “I, too, have lost dear friends, and reproached myself afterwards that, if only I had known what I knew later, I might have been able to help.” She yearned with sympathy on the
chaise
longue.
“But you are so
young
!
Do,
please,
believe me when I say that Time will heal the memory—meanwhile, I ask you, most sincerely, not to be too hard on yourself!”

“Miss Shore, do the others know about this?”

“I have told no-one. Oh dear, I thought you would be
so
glad, and proud, to learn that you had been paid such a wonderful tribute! And at your age, how splendid!”

If only he had gone down with Westy.

At two o’clock on that Sunday afternoon, having drunk seven double whiskeys in the Pier Hotel by himself, he walked out at
closing time and knew that he had only a short while before he passed out. He managed to get to the Sithney’s side-door, and with a feeling that all below his head was without weight turned the handle and, with the door safely shut behind him, gained enough hope to haul himself up the stair-rail to the landing, where, locking himself in the lavatory he knelt down and all dissolved in his mind except the remote need to remain on his knees waiting until froth and nausea gave way to further need to hide. Time went by without knowledge of its passing. At last he got up, shuddering with cold, and made his way to Editha’s bedroom, where he crawled under the bed and became unconscious.

When next he was aware of himself he heard the sister saying, “Oh Phil, how
could
you, and on Edie’s birthday?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he managed to say.

“They know already. Edie came in, and I heard her cry out before she fainted.”

He crawled out, and got on his feet. “It’s no use saying I’m sorry, I know, but I
am
terribly sorry.”

“Why did you do it? And on a
Sunday
——”

“I don’t know. I’ll go. Oh yes, I must first apologise to your parents——”

“I don’t think that would mend matters. I’ll tell them that you have, though.”

“Is Edie very upset?”

“Yes, very!”

“Might I see her for a moment?”

“What good would it do, Phil? You must never see her again.”

“Very well, but please tell her I am truly sorry.”

Under the tan of summer her face was almost as pale as his own. “Goodbye, Phil. I’ll come and let you out——”

“No, I can do it. Really——”

“No, I must make sure that nobody will see you.”

She peered into the street. It was quiet and empty, people were at their tea. “You realise that you’ve made it quite impossible, don’t you, for you to see Edie again?”

“I always seem to make things impossible. Well, thank you all for your kindness to a rotter.”

When he got back to the house he avoided the room where they were having tea, and, creeping upstairs, locked himself in
his bedroom. When Nurse Goonhilly knocked on a panel, he lay still on the bed.

“I know where you’ve been! And a nice way you chose to celebrate your success! The whole town knows of it! What did you want to do it for? Come on, open the door, and drink this warm milk!”

When he would not open the door she went away; and returned with Miss Shore, followed by other footfalls. He heard Swayne suggest a ladder to the windows. Coupar capped this by saying, “How about fetching the Fire Brigade, Miss Shore?”

“Oh dear, do you think he might set fire to himself? I have heard of such things happening.”

At this he got up and opened the door.

The next morning Miss Shore told him that he would have to go away. She could not risk a recurrence of what had happened, she said. He listened to an earnest and embarrassing lecture on the evils of drink.

“I had a very dear friend, he was very dear indeed to me, when I was young, but he drank, Colonel Maddison, and today he is holding the heads of horses! No, I am afraid we cannot give you another chance. In any case your time is nearly up. Dr. Bull has arranged for you to be transferred to Devonport Military Hospital. You will be leaving this afternoon. I have asked Jack to take your bags in the governess cart to Flushing, and a taxi is to meet you on the pier and take you to the station. I will say goodbye, now. You will
try,
for your mother’s sake, to overcome your—your terrible propensity, won’t you?”

“Yes, Miss Shore. And thank you for all you have done for me.”

*

Devonport Military Hospital. Patients allowed out 2 p.m.–7 p.m. daily. Prison-like high walls; small area of garden divided off from a smaller area in which the venereal cases were isolated and totally enclosed.

Plymouth Hoe. Broad parade whereon walked or sat seemingly thousands of young officers, of all shapes, sizes and classes; one-third of them intent on trying to get to know the few score of girls in the summer weather. A boring, arid place, until an afternoon in Genoni’s Café when a young junior subaltern across the table offered him a cigarette from a gold case. He explained that he was at Durnford Street hospital, that the case
was a twenty-first birthday present from his mother. Thenceforward they met every afternoon outside the Theatre Royal.

It was a gay summer friendship by the sea, with nothing to check mutual liking. ‘Gibbo’, from Eastbourne, and ‘Maddo’, from south-east London, ate oysters and drank stout in Jones’s Oyster Bar; they walked miles up and down Union Street, seeking interest and pleasure; joined the promenaders upon the broad asphalt of the Hoe, laughing and talking; visited Williams’ and Goodbody’s for tea, saw flicks at the Savoy, Gaiety, the Palladium, drawn by Charlie Chaplin or William Hart; they called, as time of return within walls drew near, at Nicholson’s sawdust bar for crab sandwiches, the long bar of the Royal for sherry, the Poseda for Pimm’s No. 1 stout, the Athenaeum where many midshipmen were to be seen; or descending to shadier, more attractive places, drank beer in the Golden Lion, the Post Office, the Corn Exchange, the Old Chapel, where port and madeira came from the wood at sixpence a dock glass. In one sailor’s pub they were shown the skeleton of a baby in an ebony coffin over the counter—not a place to revisit, they agreed.

Gibbo sometimes stuck on a Charlie Chaplin moustache, while wearing an eyeglass with his usual languid manner. They were photographed together, Phillip with cap on one side of his head, a lieutenant’s stars on his shoulder straps, but no ribands on his left breast—thus keeping faith with the undistinguished dead.

It was a tremendous friendship while it lasted; and it lasted all their lives—in Phillip’s memory. Soon they were to go their separate ways. In the meantime they met ‘Lux’, a young Marine who had been at school with ‘Gibbo’. The two men talked of Eton, and all Phillip could think to say was, “Did you by any chance know a chap named Swayne?” Lux and Gibbo laughed lightly and replied, “Oh Swayne! Ha-ha-ha, oh yes, we knew Swayne. Have
you
met Swayne?”

He told them all about the Algerian wine party.

“Oh yes, that sounds like Swayne, indeed yes,” and all three laughed gently, lightly, together.

Dear delightful Gibbo. One afternoon the sunshine seemed not to glitter. “I shan’t be seeing you tomorrow, Maddo, my dear. I’m being boarded, and go home by the afternoon train.”

A last toasted-tea-cake at Genoni’s, a last dozen oysters at Jones’s, two final docks of dark brown sherry at the Old Chapel;
and then the hand clasp, Gibbo saying calmly through his teeth, “Well, all the best, Maddo. I suppose I’ll be back in France this time next month.”

“I want to get back as soon as I can, Gibbo.”

“Pity we aren’t in the same regiment, Maddo. It would be fun going over the top together.”

“Yes, indeed it would, Gibbo.”

“So long, Maddo.”

“So long, and all the best, Gibbo.”

So long—for ever.

*

Phillip asked for a board the next day. One among several score of officers, all needed for the coming Allied counter-offensive on the Western Front, he was perfunctorily passed fit for Active Service, and given three weeks’ leave and a railway warrant to London. It was 19 July. The mid-day editions of the London evening papers carried thick black headlines of Foch’s counter-offensive on the Marne, with sketches arrow’d in the shoulders of the great salient left by the German drive to Paris in May, when the city had been shelled by a long-range gun, and from the Eiffel Tower at night could be seen the lights of the battlefield beside the Marne.

*

It was too early to go home, so he decided to call on Mr. Howlett, his old manager in the office, and was taken to lunch in the London Tavern.

“I always knew you had it in you, Phillip. Downham’s a colonel, too, you know, so is young Sparks of the Accident Department at Head Office. He’s got the M.C. as well as the D.S.O. I often wonder how you young fellows will settle down to office routine after the war? It can’t be long now, the Germans are very shaky over raw materials, the Blockade is having its effect. Well, I shan’t be sorry, apart from everything else, it’s been a hard grind to get through the work. We’ve lost a lot of fellows, you know, over eighty have been killed in the various branches in London and the provinces. I saw your father the other day, he always comes in to pay his midsummer premium. You have some commission due to you, I’ll keep it until you come back, shall I?”

“Thank you, Mr. Howlett. Will Downham be coming back to the Branch, d’you think?”

“I see no reason at present why he won’t be. He was in the other day. He’s commanding a Young Soldiers’ battalion at Colchester.”

If Downham comes back, I won’t literally be seen for dust, thought Phillip, imagining the new Norton motorcycle he had ordered, the first on the list of post-war deliveries. He would go down to the West Country, and live alone in the woods. This feeling came again that evening when he went down to Mrs. Neville’s flat. Seeing him, Sprat almost curled tail stump to nose; the little dog looked most unhappy until suddenly it ran up the stairs and hid under the table.

“I know how he feels, Mrs. Neville.”

“It is only for the moment, Phillip. Time restores, you know, as well as heals.”

He looked at her sharply. “Why do you say ‘heals’, Mrs. Neville?”

“Oh, no particular reason, dear,” she said gently. His eyes had a fixed remote look; the scarred skin of his face seemed stretched over nose, cheek-bones, and jaw. “Things will seem a bit strange at first, Phillip, they’re bound to.” She went on, after a few moments of unhappy silence, “I understood why you didn’t reply to my letter, congratulating you on your—award, is that the word? Also, you must have had a great many letters of congratulation.”

“Five, Mrs. Neville. One from Freddy Pinnegar, one from Mr. Howlett at the office, and one each from Gran’pa, Aunt Marian and Uncle Hilary, who asked me to get in touch with him.”

“You will, I suppose?” She knew from Phillip’s mother that Hilary Maddison had bought back family land in the West Country; and that he had no children of his own.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Neville. How is Desmond?”

“Oh,
my
son can be relied upon to look after himself, you know that! He’s guarding the East Riding against German raiders, or was when I last heard. I’ve no need to worry myself over Desmond!” She went on to ask about his parents. “I expect Father is
very
proud of you now, Phillip! I often see him going to his allotment in the evenings, wheeling his barrow-load of tools. He was very pleased to see you, I expect?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Neville.”

“Of course he was, dear! Your Mother came down here,
waving Grandpa’s
Telegraph
when you were in the papers. I can tell you, it was quite a local sensation. Did you hear that?”

The terrier who had been shivering under the table crept out, and lifting up its head, uttered a long, cooing howl. Then turning away, it went to its rug under Mrs. Neville’s bed. Phillip got up.

“Well, I mustn’t keep you, Mrs. Neville. Goodbye.”

“Phillip!” She turned in her chair, round-eyed. “What is the matter, dear? I’ve felt all the time you’ve been here that something is worrying you. Won’t you tell me? You know that you can trust me with your confidence, surely, by now?”

He dropped back into his chair, all sharp bones she thought, knees sticking out of trousers, thin wrists, neck and bony skull. She caught her breath with the pity of it.

“I wish I hadn’t come home,” his voice said levelly, behind the half-shaded face.

“You felt like that when you came home after 1914, dear. It will pass.”

“Do you know, Mrs. Neville, I’ve
always
felt more or less like this since I was a child, and Mother had scarlet fever! Mavis and I went away to stay with Uncle Hilary and Aunty Bee. When Mother came to fetch me, I hid, and wouldn’t kiss her. You know, to be truthful, I never really got back my old feeling for her again. At the time I didn’t know why I felt that I wanted to pay her out, for having me sent away. My feeling for my father had already gone by then. It wasn’t his fault, or Mother’s. It isn’t Mavis’ fault that she’s what she is. But the truth is, I can’t bear them any longer——”

She began to feel swelled with pain as she looked at him; something
had
happened to him: the old Phillip, gay and full of fun, who could always laugh at himself, was gone. She wanted to comfort him, but was impotent to say or do anything, and from the swelled feeling tears oozed, to run down her cheeks. “Sprat knows, Phillip,” she managed to say. “Look at him, the little dear, he knows what you are feeling.” The dog had crept back into the room, and was staring at his old master. “Make a fuss of him, dear!” she cried.

“I don’t want to,” he said. The dog was now hiding its head in her skirt. “I must go now, Mrs. Neville.”

“Come and see me again, Phillip. I’m always here, you know,” she managed to say, with an attempt at gaiety.