A Test to Destruction (38 page)

Quite a nice day for it, really. Not a cloud in the sky. Now for the high jump——

“Lieutenant,
acting
Lieutenant-Colonel
Phillip
Sidney
Thomas
Maddison,
The
Gaultshire
Regiment
——”

Swallow saliva, proceed—proceed—stop. Right turn. Wait for the King to turn before saluting.

Blue eyes almost naked with weariness within creased pouches of skin held his gaze. He found himself saluting automatically from booted brittleness upwards.

The blue eyes came out to him, giving a feeling first of endearment, then of calm self-possession, of modesty which prompted him to lower his eyes before that weary blue gaze. The King turned, looking down upon the dark blue velvet tray upon which lay the cross of white enamel embossed with a gold crown on a green mound. The King turned it over with gloved fingers, and Phillip saw green and red on the enamel of the reverse side, below the deep cerise glow of the riband enclosed within bars of cornflower blue.

The King took a step forward, coming close to him, so that the beard with its streaks of grey was below his downward glance as he stood there, pressing slightly forward to aid connexion between riband and pin. Then the King, stepping back, said in a deep, slow, throaty growl, “Are you gettin’ on all right now?”

“Yes, your Majesty!”

Pause. He felt that he was holding the weary blue gaze in the modesty of his own regard.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-three, sir.”

The King turned to the Queen, and said something, of which the only word he caught was ‘David’. She smiled, and her face was suddenly kind and gentle. The King’s gloved hand came out to him.

“The Queen and I are glad that you are gettin’ on well.”

“Thank you, sir!” he said, and stepped back to salute in jubilant relief. A turn to the left, a ripple of clapping, he was walking away on air. Across the courtyard the order was lifted off, and put in a case, then the pin was removed, and the closed case given to him. A slow salute from the Grenadier major, he responded as slowly, and went quietly to sit down in one of the back rows. There he saw Colonel Vallum, Major Henniker-Sudley and 2nd-Lt. Garfield. Vallum came over to him and murmured congratulations.

“You’re expected to join us at the Café Royal for luncheon, you know. Colin and the others will be here soon. Wonderful day, isn’t it. I’ve just heard that we’ve made a big advance in France, and there’s a good chance of gettin’ through the Hindenburg Line, and finishin’ the war this year.”

“By Jove, that’s good news!”

After a pause he said, “I wonder if there’s any chance of my getting out to France again, as a subaltern.”

“I doubt it. You’re back in B2, aren’t you? But I can tell you that officers of the rank of captain and under are wanted to serve in India. In fact, it’s already gone out to Eastern Command. I think the engagement terms are for two years after cessation of hostilities. Your adjutant will have details when you get back to Landguard.” The idea of remaining in the army made him happy. But this feeling left him when, with five others of the Regiment, he walked through the gate, and saw Mother, Grandfather, Great-aunt Marian and sister Elizabeth looking at him, as they stood beside a man with a camera, obviously from some newspaper.

*

While Hetty had been waiting there, fetched with the others by her father because there was a better view through the railings, she had thought of her brother Hugh, and of Dickie—and, by contrast, how wonderfully her son had succeeded in life. The world of the spirit, which flowers through success after tribulation, was upon her as she watched her son before the King, so confident and upright as he stepped back to salute, to be joined by two officers who, said the policeman on duty, were holders of the Victoria Cross. Her son, on whose behalf she had suffered and hoped so much, protecting him from the weaknesses of his character which at times had seemed more than she could bear—now he was a success before all the world.

She awaited him, smiling and tremulous, a little anxious lest she say the wrong thing, and admit her pride to others, and telling herself that she must not attempt to kiss him in public. Elizabeth stood beside her, prepared to defend her ‘little Mother’ should Phillip criticise her by look or word. On the other side of Hetty stood Thomas Turney, wondering if his grandson now had the character, reinforced by his experiences in command, eventually to take his place in the family business, to be the one he needed—at times desperately when he felt death to be very
near—to carry on the firm of Mallard, Carter, and Turney. His other three grandsons were dead, and Joey, his son, had no aptitude to manage even a department, let alone the ability to meet and reorganise for the new conditions which would inevitably arise after the hostilities were ended. How boyish Phillip looked, walking unsteadily—poor fellow, he still looked a bit shaky, and thinner than ever, his eyes staring like a hawk’s as he came towards them. Then the boy stopped, and said something to one of his companions, who wore the hat of a Staff officer.

“Yes, of course!” said the Staff officer. “We’ll see you later! Au revoir!”

Phillip saluted him stiffly, and turned towards his people with a forced smile.

“I am so sorry I didn’t get you tickets——”

His sister looked at him sceptically. He was reduced by that look to his old life; there was change, ‘Spectre’ used to say, but never progress in human affairs. The soul, and the body, were evolved to their peak. He remembered ‘Spectre’ quoting Spenser, ‘
For
soule
is
forme,
and
doth
the
bodie
make
’
.

“Well, Phillip, how do you feel after all that?”

“Oh, much the same, Mother.”

“May we see the medal, dear?”

“It’s an order, Mother.”

“Yes, of course, how silly of me.”

He opened the case, and gave it to her. “Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” She could not stop herself from saying, “You have made me very, very proud, my son.”

The deliberate tone of voice, less fluttery than he had dreaded, was touching. “Well, Mother, such things are really a tribute to the men, you know.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Thomas Turney. He seemed shaken, and sighed, before saying, “Phillip, I must congratulate you. I am an old man——” His voice stopped.

Phillip had not seen him like that before. “Thank you, sir.” He felt almost gay.

“You’ll be coming to luncheon with us, m’boy?”

“Yes do, Phillip,” put in Aunt Marian. “It will make us all so happy if you will.”

“Mother, the photographs——”

“Oh yes, I almost forgot, Elizabeth. Phillip, do you mind if the man takes some?”

“Oh, Mother, you haven’t been saying anything about me, have you?”

“Of course not, dear. He’s from the local paper, the
Borough
News
.”

He felt relief. If it appeared in the London papers, it would be bound to be seen, and perhaps O’Gorman would be interviewed, and then—— “All right, so long as it’s
only
for the local rag.”

“Oh yes, of course, Phillip. I shall buy some prints afterwards, and send some away, to Aunt Dora and others in the family.”

The photographer came up. “Would you mind, sir, a family group? I won’t detain you long. First, I’d like one of you standing between your mother and sister, holding the case, and showing them your medal, sir.”

“Well——”

“It won’t take a moment, dear.”

“Oh go on, Phillip!” said Elizabeth, as he hesitated. “Don’t pretend to be shy!”

The photographer arranged the three figures. “Could you and your mother hold the open case between you, and the medal in your hand, as though you’re offering it for the inspection of this young lady. It’s the usual pose, sir, I’ve taken scores like that. I might place one in
The
Tatler,
and other weeklies, so if you don’t mind I’ll take one or two poses.”

Phillip looked at his mother, saying with his eyes,
Only
the
Borough
News,
Hetty?

Four different poses were taken. To Phillip, depressed after the strains of the morning, it was a disaster from the roots of his being. The hopes for a new life, desperately maintained at times, were discarded as he resolved to go straight to the War Office and ask to be sent to the front immediately. The shadow took the place of the impostor, a shadow arising from an event which, while not forgotten, had as yet no connexion in his mind: an event which had appeared to lay darkness evermore around him when, after the mumbling of Father’s voice coming up through his bedroom floor had ceased one Sunday evening when he was small, his mother’s red tarn o’shanter above her overcoat had come round the door, in the twilight as he lay in bed unkissed, Mother weeping as he watched her standing there, all his life dulling away while he lay still and heard the whisper,
Your
father
does
not
want
me
any
more,
so
I
am
going
away
for
ever,
Sonny.
Then
she had gone away down the passage and he had heard her footfalls on the stairs, the front door had closed quietly. He had waited for her to return, lying still, his eyes wide in the darkness. Mother had died, his feeling was deeper than tears. Without knowing it, from that night the four-year-old child had gone forward into life always a little apart from his mother, as he had already departed from his father.

The photographer was writing down Hetty’s address, for specimen copies to be posted, when Thomas Turney got the idea that he and his grandson should be photographed together. In the course of time, he thought, such a record might well grace the walls of the Board Room of M., C., & T.

At last the posing, clicking, and spool-winding was over. “Now we’ll get a cab to take us to Simpson’s. I expect you could do justice to a good meal, Phillip? Mustn’t deny the inner man, y’know, as Napoleon knew very well.”

They sat at one of the tables along the wall, with tall wooden partitions between each table. It gave a feeling of privacy, almost of intimacy, with the rest of the world shut away. The trolley with shoulder of mutton and vegetables came round, kept hot by spirit flames; the chef, all in white from tall starched hat to apron extending to his boots, carved the meat, with its browned skin covering a layer of fat, into thick slices, while a smart boy, bony of head and thin with quickness, in similar laundered white uniform spooned on each plate red currant jelly, a braised onion, and three small boiled potatoes—a delicacy allowed in any restaurant or hotel only one day a week by order of the Food Controller. Hetty had her ration books ready, one meat coupon each for the meal, but after Thomas Turney had tipped the chef with a crown piece these were waved away.

“I’ve ordered a bottle of claret, will you tell the wine waiter——” Tom Turney was saying to the chef, when Phillip said quietly, “I rather fancy that he’s waiting just behind you, sir.”

The ritual of smelling and tasting was observed; the wine was not corked. Hetty said, “Just a little, please, only a little”; Phillip thought, All the more for me; Aunt Marian put her hand firmly over her glass, thinking of her lumbago; Elizabeth asked for half a glass only, being afraid that it might bring on one of her ‘attacks’; Thomas Turney said, “Fill it up”, not wanting his grandson to get the taste of too much liquor. Then, tucking one
end of his napkin into the top of his ‘weskit’, the old man proceeded with one of his four main enjoyments of life—food, reading before his fire, daily walk and talk in the shelter on the Hill, and his evening game of picquet or bezique with Hetty. Once there had been sleep; that was now broken, and through the breaks came the twin torments of the night, the senses of past failure, and regret.

“Excellent saddle, Marian. Oxford Down and Hampshire cross, more substantial than South Down, I fancy.”

Blackberry and apple tart followed, Thomas Turney eating his portion with a slice of cheese, in the country fashion. No coffee; it was mainly roots of chicory and dandelion, ground up, he declared, going on to propose a visit to the factory in Sparhawk Street. “I’ve told Hemming that we might be coming along.”

Hetty looked at Phillip. “Will there be time for you to meet your friends afterwards, dear?”

“Oh, I don’t think I shall go now, Mother.”

After his first glass of claret he had felt easier, almost at home with them, a feeling marred by the thought that he had behaved badly by cutting the Café Royal luncheon. He could hardly turn up just as they were leaving. It was always the same: he could never keep to what he had made up his mind to do. The Bill Kidd fiasco at the Staenyzer Kabaret from which so much had followed, including the gas-shell outside Byron farm, up to his presence at that very moment in the eating-house in the Strand, was but one sequence in his aimless, ragged living. He should have accepted definitely for one party or the other, instead of falling between the same old stools.

“I must go back to the office,” said Elizabeth. “I’m supposed to be in by two o’clock.”

They took a taxi to Holborn Viaduct, where Thomas Turney, having paid the driver to take his grand-daughter on to Hay-bundle Street, led them up Farringdon Street.

“You look tired, Phillip,” said Marian Turney, when they had climbed the steps to High Holborn. “You must not do too much yet awhile, you know.”

After the visit to Sparhawk Street they had a cup of tea in an A.B.C. shop and caught a tram on the Embankment by Blackfriars, and so over the river and down the dreary streets to Camberwell—where Thomas Turney remarked sorrowfully on
the changes which had taken place since the ’eighties, ‘when your dear Mother and I set up our little house together here, Hetty’—and southwards to the Obelisk and the familiar stop at Randiswell road. At least there would be Mrs. Neville, Phillip thought, as they walked slowly home.

“I think I’ll just drop in and see her, Mother. Thank you, Gran’pa, for a most enjoyable time.”