How Dear Is Life (10 page)

“That’s the aftermath of syphilis, as you know, Dick. Apparently he got it when Viccy was pregnant, in the time of the Boer War.”

“Hush, Hilary—not so loud, my dear fellow.”

Startled, shocked, repelled, Richard recalled the red-haired demi-mondaine in Leicester Square who had said to him, as she passed,
My
word
if
I
catch
you
bending
;
with horror he relived his temptation to reply. Thank the Lord he had not given way to erotic impulse! A few moments afterwards he had watched George Lemon raise his hat to her, and the two had gone off together. Syphilis! And now, General Paralysis of the Insane!

“Just like Hugh Turney, Dick old man,” said Hilary, and stopped, surprised at the expression on his brother’s face. “Why didn’t they take precautions, that’s what beats me. Viccy is shattered, as you can well imagine.”

“What is her position, Hilary?”

“None too good, I fear. George’s financial affairs are in a mess. He went to a quack, instead of telling a proper doctor, when he first got it. Well, Viccy’s the one to be considered now. She’ll have to leave Epsom, of course, and find a smaller house elsewhere. At her age, it’s not easy to have to give up the friendships of a lifetime. Rotten bad luck for George, too——”

“I call it worse than that, Hilary!” replied Richard. Hilary saw, for the first time, the resemblance between his brother and his sister Victoria. He had been perturbed at her attitude towards her husband: she had refused to see him, saying she was done with him, he had disgraced her, he had disgraced the family. And now, in Dick’s face, he saw the same expression. Richard was pale. He recovered himself, and said with a show of affability, “Well, I shall say no more, Hilary. Thanks for looking in, old chap. Give my kind regards to your lady wife, won’t you?”

With a hesitant half-wave of his hand, he turned away towards his desk, his mind forming the word
blackguard
as Hugh Turney’s abhorred image replaced that of brown-faced George Lemon. He deserves what he has brought upon himself, that’s all I can say, he thought, with a kind of petrific glee, as he got, rather shakily, upon his stool.

That night Hetty had to pretend to listen to the danger of the Germans building Dreadnoughts as a direct challenge to British Naval Supremacy, and the Idiocy of the Liberal Government in reducing the Army Estimates. Then, looking at his watch, “Where is your best boy tonight, I wonder? Gadding about on the Hill, as usual? I consider that he should be in by half-past
nine every night—the Hill after dark is no place for a young chap, you know. I smelt a whiff of drink in his breath the other night—although I did not say anything at the time. I shall have to speak firmly to Master Phillip.”

“Oh no, Dickie, he is not on the Hill. He went out on his bicycle to the woods, with Desmond.”

“H’mph. That’s what
he
says.”

*

But Phillip had two proofs of his visit to the bluebell woods, when he returned home,
viz
.,
a black eye and a fat lip. Desmond, too, showed damage. They were jubilant as they reviewed their fight with the louts who had been stripping the woods around Cutler’s Pond of wild hyacinth and pussy willow.

For it was once again the time of renewal of the ‘Mother’ of the western hemisphere, the earth, the soil, and in response to Spring the human tide was flowing from the darkness of the town to the countryside, eager for light and beauty. Wheels hummed over drying sett-stones, woods were invaded. Hundreds of thousands of white stalks left their bulbs with sappy squeaks, hundreds of blue armfuls quivered by bending backs.

“Why don’t you leave them where they are? Soon there won’t be a bluebell left! Anyway, who gave you permission to come into these woods?”

“If I don’t take’m, someone else’ll, so why shouldn’t I? What’s it got to do with you? Mind yer own biz!”

“You vulgar cads, it is my business! These woods are private!”

“They aren’t your’n, you can’t kid us!”

“They belong to the Cator Estate, if you want to know. You’ve no right here.”

“No more’v you, you sprucer! Fancy yourself, don’t you, as the owner? Well, you ain’t, see? You’re only a nosey parker.”

“You clear off!”

“I knows ’im! ’Is ole man flies kites on the Hillies! Slosh ’im, boys!”

After the Battle of the Bluebells Phillip swore to Desmond that he would learn to box, without fail, at the School of Arms after Easter. He gave away his tobacco pouch and pipe to a tramp, as a preliminary to hard training, but took back the Civic, on second thoughts. It had been a glorious fight, before they were forced to retreat before superior numbers.

S
INCE
Phillip had been going to the City, Hetty to her happiness had observed that he was becoming kinder to his younger sister, giving her butter-scotch, and once inviting her to the Hippodrome.

“How kind of you, dear. Of course Doris will be quite safe with you to look after her.”

Hetty had heard stories, from Mrs. Feeney, of occasional rowdiness outside the new, red-brick music-hall. Hughie had frequented such places, in the Strand and elsewhere.

“You won’t get into any more fights, will you, dear, or go through the Recreation Ground, but come straight home afterwards.”

“If I came straight home, it would mean knocking down houses, trams, and wading the Randisbourne.”

Phillip, after several occasions at the School of Arms, felt equal to any roughs who might be lurking in the Rec.

He and Doris sat in sixpenny seats of red plush in the upper circle. He explained the turns to her, as befilled his rôle of habitué. The stars were David Devant the Magician, Fred Karno’s Mumming Birds, an American comedienne who sang
The
Broken
Doll
and
You
made
me
Love
you
,
and a long-haired musician in a black velvet suit called Van Diene who played on the ’cello what Phillip thought was the most hauntingly beautiful and sad
Broken
Melody.

Doris, fourteen, sedate in uniform of the Grey Ladies, responded to her big brother’s friendliness rather shyly; she could not get over a feeling that she was unwanted by everyone, except her mother.

Delighted with the new kindness between her children, Hetty arranged with her cousin Liz Pickering for the two to spend the Whitsun holidays at Beau Brickhill. Mr. Howlett agreed to let Phillip have the Saturday morning as one of the six due to him in the year. He told Phillip that, as Hollis always took the Saturday before Whitsun, he and Downham would take care of the office on that morning. When later Downham asked for the Saturday, he was furious, after Mr. Howlett had gone upstairs, with Phillip for getting leave first.

“It’s like your damned cheek to ask behind my back! Who the hell d’you think you are?”

*

Beau Brickhill had always been a lovely place. It was so free and easy, never any cross words in Uncle Jim’s house. There were lots of interesting things to do; the billiard table for competitions; duets with cousin Percy; the walk to church on Sunday was an adventure, the service with harmonium, the old fat beadle in his uniform.

Doris was staying on after Whit Monday. Phillip had intended to leave on the night of Bank Holiday, but he did not do so, owing to an attraction to Polly, which led to a private agreement with her during the return from a long walk over the fields in the afternoon to visit Great-aunt Hepzibiah Turney.

The four cousins, Percy and Doris, Phillip and Polly, had looked for nests on the way there. A white owl had flown from a hollow hedgerow elm, but the hole was too high up to be climbed. O, for a young white owl to take home and tame! More excitement—out of another elm a kestrel had flown, uttering its plaintive cry as it soared in circles above. There was an old carrion crow’s nest high in the crown, obviously in use by the hawk. He climbed up, despite his fear, and tremblingly saw four white-fluffy eyesses staring at him with full brown eyes that held an expression between anguish and decrepit fear, behind which burned the spirit of ageless blood. Should he have one? Would it pine, away from its wild sky? Quivering because of the height, and
remembering tales of talon-strikes at eyes, he decided not to risk it.

He felt quite pleased with himself after the climb, as they walked on to the village of Conquest Moretaine. Aunt Hepzibiah lived in a very old cottage, and made lace on a pillow for a living. After tea they said goodbye, Phillip’s mind on the 7 o’clock to London. Time was short: it was several miles to Brickhill. Polly strode on in front beside him. He thought she was a sport. Seeing her red cheeks, so pretty with her black curls, he decided to forego the evening train and catch the early one in the morning, if she—would she? Polly would.

Thereafter they strolled home, Polly and Phillip well in front, Percy and Doris following a field behind. Free of time, they went a longer way round, and as a memento of the walk put some oak-apple sprays, tied to brass wire, in the Satchville brook, whose waters after a year or so would turn the sprays to stone.

There was an exciting event in the water-meadow: a stoat running with a missel-thrush in its mouth, bounding along, head high, long body rippling, tail like a bit of frayed rope with a black tip. Phillip chased it. The stoat chattered, and turned at last to run at him. He kicked it with a lucky kick and broke its neck. It took some time to die. The missel-thrush was dead.

“A clobster!” said Percy. Phillip wrapped it in his handkerchief, with the bird, intending to skin them both when he got home. He intended also to wake up in time to catch the early train in the morning, but slept on; and when eventually he turned into Wine Vaults Lane, the face of the office clock showed the frightful hour of a quarter to eleven. Four other faces confronted him—Mr. Howlett, Mr. Hollis, Downham, and Edgar.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to all the faces at once. He took the stoat from his pocket, with the bird, and put them on the counter. Then, as though in explanation of the corpses lying there, he said to Mr. Howlett, “My train was late, sir.”

“We were beginning to give you up for lost, Maddison.”

Phillip saw with a sinking feeling that Mr. Howlett did not smile. Downham had his eyes fixed upon him. Mr. Hollis said, “Where the devil d’you think you’ve been?”

Phillip looked on the ground, waiting. The musky smell of the stoat began to steal into the air. Edgar grinned from the corner, where the stuffed bittern, on stiff varnished legs, stood with a ticket marked 10/6
d
. round its neck. Edgar had collected it from the taxidermist’s in the Strand.

“What the blazes do you think this place is, the Natural History Museum?” said Mr. Hollis. Phillip lifted the stoat to stand on its hind legs, hoping the sight would change the subject.

“Well, don’t let it happen again,” said Mr. Howlett, quietly, as he went upstairs.

Hardly had the door shut when Downham said, suppressed violence in his voice, “It’s like your blasted nerve! And you had Saturday extra, too! Haven’t you the decency even to apologise to Mr. Howlett? You take advantage of his generosity! You’re nothing but a cheap skunk yourself! And there’s another thing! You’ve been helping yourself to the tablets of Pears Soap in the basement, haven’t you?”

“Steady on, Downham,” said Mr. Hollis. “All the same, my lad, let me tell you that it is hardly cricket to impose on Mr. Howlett’s good nature. If there were anyone else here, you would
not get off so easily, I can assure you! They are not so easy-going, you know, at Head Office. There, you’d be right up on the carpet before the General Manager.”

Phillip tried to look humble, as he put stoat and missel-thrush in his desk. After skinning the bird, he might fry it with bacon, and offer it to Mother. Zippy the cat could have the stoat, when skinned. He had a book on how to stuff and mount birds and animals.

Edgar winked at him. He did not wink back; better to look chastened. Would he be sent to Head Office? What a fool he had been, not to return the night before—it hadn’t been any good, anyway, with Polly. Head Office would be awful, men working silently in big rooms, nothing free and easy, as in Wine Vaults Lane, no going out to lunch in the Market, and looking at the wildfowl in the poulterers’ tiers. If you did anything wrong at H.O. you were liable to be sacked at once. There was the case of Joe Flack, who had been summarily dismissed with six weeks salary for coming back half an hour late from outside lunch only the week before Easter. And he had had only a little bit extra to drink, Mr. Hollis had told him. Joe Flack had a wife and three children. Because he had passed forty, he had little hope of another job, Mr. Hollis said, and in any case nobody would employ a man without a reference.

“You watch your step, my lad!”

“Yes, Mr. Hollis, I will.”

“Take my advice, and don’t mix big-game hunting and business another time.”

Phillip laughed at this sally, hoping thereby to keep Mr. Hollis on his side, in case the matter of his lateness was not yet settled.

“What are you, setting up a taxidermist’s shop, or one of those gamekeeper’s gibbets you told me about?”

“Both, Mr. Hollis. Would you like this clobster when I’ve stuffed it?”

“Good God, no!” cried Mr. Hollis. “It smells like—well, never mind what it smells like.”

When he came back from Head Office luncheon that day, Phillip hung the stoat from the map above Edgar’s gallery of portraits. His vermin pole!

*

The thought of leaving Wine Vaults Lane kept recurring: and when, about four o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Howlett opened his
door and asked him to come up, Phillip went up as though his heart were of the same lead as the stairs. He must keep a stiff upper lip. Be like the Spartan boy, with a fox under his cloak.

Mr. Howlett sat at his desk. There were photographs of his family on it, in silver frames, among them a girl in white, with long hair, playing the ’cello.

“I had a conversation with Head Office today,” began Mr. Howlett; “apparently all policies will have to be made out in future on the typewriting machine. Would you object to such work, or rather, machine?”

Phillip thought, with sinking heart, that this was Mr. Howlett’s way of getting rid of him. To be a typist was much lower than being an Insurance Official. Yes, Mr. Howlett must have given Head Office a bad report on himself.

“To work a typewriter, sir? I have never done any before.”

“You may have noticed the small room, or rather compartment, beyond the glass screen behind you, as you came in. I was thinking we might have our new machine, when it comes, on the table in there. I expect you’ll soon pick it up. The other companies are all installing them, I understand. By the way, when would you like to take your holiday this year? I shall be away during August, Hollis wants the first three weeks in September, and Downham is having the first fortnight in July. Any other time you may care for is yours. We choose in order of seniority, of course. Well, let me know when you have decided.”

“Yes, sir!”

He was not to be sent away from the Branch after all! In future he would go entirely straight. How had Downham known he had helped himself to a packet of Pears Soap from the shelf in the basement? Then there were the brass ash-trays which had remained over, gifts to agents and others, at the bi-centenary of the Moon Fire Office. After all, he had sort of used them to get new business, in a way, by giving them as Christmas presents to Mrs. Neville, Gran’pa, Uncle Jim Pickering, and Great-aunt Marian. This last he had taken away again and given to Bertie, without Aunt Marian knowing.

Going downstairs with his new resolutions, Phillip was a little relieved to be accused of something he had not done, by Mr. Hollis, who had just come up from the basement.

“Now look here, my lad, this is a respectable office! We don’t leave plugs unpulled in the Moon Fire Office!”

“I haven’t been there today, Mr. Hollis, really.”

“Then it must have been your damned bittern.”

The door above the leaden stairs opened.

“Oh, Maddison. Just a moment.”

Once more his heart bumped with apprehension.

“I’m sorry to keep you so on the move,” said the manager, in an affable voice. “I meant to ask you just now if you were any relation to the Theodora Maddison who is prominent in the Suffragette Movement? You read the paper, I suppose?”

“Yes, I do sometimes, sir.”

Lloyd George’s new house on Walton Heath had been partly burned down; the portrait by Sargent of Henry James, the novelist, hacked by a meat-chopper in the Academy; the Rokeby Venus similarly damaged in the National Gallery—but these details had meant little or nothing to Phillip. It was his Aunt’s name that mattered.

Seeing the pink colour rising in his junior’s cheeks, Mr. Howlett hastened to say, “My dear boy, please do not think, for one moment, that I am suggesting the least reflection on yourself! Nothing is farther from my mind! In fact, I should not really be asking such a question, my only excuse is my interest in you. Of course all families are made up of diverse temperaments. Personally, I believe in certain responsible women being given the vote, though present ways and means are bound to antagonise many who otherwise might be sympathisers. I won’t, of course, repeat anything you may care to tell me. It is only curiosity on my part, and I should not really ask the question.”

Phillip thought that Mr. Howlett would regard him in a better light if he told the truth in this case.

“Yes, she’s my aunt, sir. I was hoping to spend my holiday in Lynmouth in her cottage, but I don’t know if she will be there.”

“Ah, the Cat and Mouse business!” Mr. Howlett’s tone became very friendly. “If I remember rightly, didn’t your father spend his holiday at Lynmouth during his first year at Head Office? I was in the Town Department when he came to us from Doggett’s Bank, you know. You were born just about that time, weren’t you? When did you think of going?”

“In the second fortnight of July, sir, if that is convenient to everyone, sir?”

“That will be all right with me. And I hope you find all
well by that time! Apart from the deplorable tactics, one can’t help admiring the courage of those women. But they are going a little too far, don’t you think?”

Phillip replied in what he hoped was a manly voice, “Yes, sir, I do.”

“Now about the question of typing. Will you be willing to learn?”

“Yes, Mr. Howlett. I will do my best, sir.”

“I’ll tell them at Head Office, then.”

“Please sir, may I ask a question?”

“Certainly, my dear boy.”

“Does it mean—the typewriter I mean—that you will have another junior?”

Mr. Howlett laughed. “God bless me soul no! I think one donkey boy is quite sufficient! Now, don’t mistake me, my dear boy! I did not mean it unkindly, not in the very least! I have had an interest in you since you were born, you know. Yes, your father and I sat in the same department at Head Office in the ’nineties. My little girl, born about the same time, was delicate too. That is she, in the photograph there. Fortunately we, too, found the right food. So do not look so worried.”