Post of Honour (78 page)

‘Well?’

‘I daresay this sounds hopelessly sentimental but . . . would you have a photograph of my mother at home somewhere?’

The question startled him so much that, for a moment, he was too occupied controlling his emotions to reply. He had come down here prepared to be persuasive, angry, contemptuous even, but he had not expected to be ravaged. The boy might be thirty-two but when making that request he looked no older than on the day they sat side by side on a log near his school in 1917 and he told him of Grace’s death in France. Simon was sensitive enough to give him a moment or two to recover and looked out across the harbour so that finally Paul managed to say, ‘I’ve got several. Studio portraits and early snapshots. I’ll pick the best of them and send them if you like.’

‘Thanks!’ Simon said and they shook hands, and after that Paul could not be gone quickly enough. He glanced in the mirror as he drove back along the littered quay and there was Simon, his raincoat fluttering in the stiff wind, his mop of dark hair, the same texture as his mother’s, streaming out like a black pennant. Paul thought, ‘God help us all, will I ever see the boy again? I very much doubt it, for it seems to me he’s been heading for this all his life, before he was born even! In some ways I’m damned unlucky with my children!’ and he drove into the rain, pressing up the central road of the peninsula at twice the speed he generally travelled. The open country on each side shared his deep depression, and he remembered the last time he had driven across Bodmin Moor, nearly three years ago, when little John was being born and he was half-way through that uncomfortable interlude with Claire. Well, that had turned out well enough, so perhaps this would in the long run. He badly needed a drink but decided not to stop and waste driving time for, as usual, he felt lost and lonely out of range of the Valley and almost envied Simon the companionable squalor of the forecastle of the
Hans Voos
.
‘At least he has someone to share his convictions,’ he thought, ‘and that’s more than I have, or have had since old John Rudd died! Claire and Mary are all very well but they’re women and can’t really understand, whereas Rumble Patrick, who comes closest to my way of thinking, is another generation and can’t range back far enough.’ The struggle, it seemed to him, was too long and too demanding. One ought, by now, to have entered upon an era of serenity, with little or no risk of switchbacks ahead, but the long hauls and the steep dips that succeeded them were becoming more frequent every year and used up far too much of a man’s nervous energy. What was even more depressing was a conviction that, week by week almost, the struggle was enlarging, itself, so that a man now had to worry about factors entirely outside his control, like this damned war in Spain, and the creeping tide of barbarism in Europe. He thought about the span of years before the world ran off its rails in 1914—‘The Edwardian Afternoon’ people were already calling it, as though it had been a marathon garden-party but had it? There had been the pleasure of working and planning within settled terms of reference but even then one needed the resilience of youth to absorb the shocks and disappointments of life. Grace had tinged his days with sadness and the element of strife within her seemed to have clung to Simon ever since. Then, when he had survived that breaker, the war had rushed down on them, and after that the stresses of the ’twenties culminating in the slump. One accepted personal tragedies, like the death of young Claire, and with them the ransoms of time, like the elimination of old friends and old partners, but lately—just when they seemed to be adjusting themselves to the post-war pattern—fresh shock waves came out of nowhere and a man was flat on his back again if he didn’t keep looking over his shoulder! People like Henry Pitts and Smut Potter seemed to ride them without much trouble, and Claire had acquired the knack of bracing herself to meet every new cross-current but he couldn’t, or not indefinitely; unlike them he was burdened with a sense of involvement that was at once a curse and an inspiration.

His sense of isolation joined forces with the wind-driven sleet that rushed at him across the open moor and he pressed on over the border like a tired fugitive on the run.

III

S
imon wrote within the month, giving a Madrid address but no personal news beyond the fact that he was well. For progress of the war Paul had to turn to the newspapers and one needed a good’ deal of ingenuity to thread the maze of prejudice implicit in the reports. Even the names of the antagonists were interchangeable. To Right-Wing journalists Franco’s Moors were ‘Nationalists’ and the elected government ‘Reds’; to others, who shared Simon’s dress-rehearsal theory Franco’s side were ‘The Fascists’, or ‘Insurgents’, and their opponents ‘The People’s Army’. Paul hardly knew what to make of it and was still trying to puzzle it out when, in common with everyone else in the Valley who read newspapers or listened to radio bulletins, he was caught up in a different kind of civil war, one of words raging around the bachelor King whom everyone had assumed would replace his father in the days when there was still a real, personal relationship between Monarch and subjects. Here was an issue, he thought, that did not require Fleet Street guidance and Paul came down heavily in favour of the morganatic marriage to Mrs Simpson (whoever she was) and was mortified to find himself in the minority when the topic was discussed in the Valley. Only Henry Pitts and Smut Potter proclaimed their allegiance to ‘The King’s Party’, whereas people like Marian Eveleigh, Thirza Tremlett, and even the former Potter girls (whom he would have thought could be relied upon to take a tolerant view) ranged themselves alongside Baldwin and the Pharisaical Archbishop of Canterbury, Violet Bellchamber declaring, ‘Us dorn want the likes of
’Er
for Queen, do us? ’Er’s been divorced twice and if he can’t do no better’n that then he should bide single and vind his bit o’ comfort where he can, zame as King Teddy did!’

At first Paul found this attitude amusing, especially when it was adopted by women who seemed to have forgotten their own carefree youth but as the crisis mounted, and the cleavage of opinion became sharper, their intolerance exasperated him and Claire, sensitive to his moods, called him to task when he admitted losing his temper with Harold Eveleigh’s wife on the subject.

‘You’re getting everything out of proportion these days,’ she told him bluntly, ‘and if you don’t watch yourself you’ll develop into a real old griper in your old age! What on earth does it matter to you whether he marries Mrs Simpson or not? You never had much time for royalty in what you’re now pleased to call the Good Old Days just because they’re behind you!’

‘I had a lot of time for him!’ he countered, ‘and it makes me vomit to hear people discard loyalties like sweaty socks! Damn it, there was a time when that chap was the most popular man in the world, and unlike most of his kind he bloody well earned it, traipsing all over the world advertising the damned country! I remember him in France too! He wasn’t like all the other Brass Hats, warming their fat backsides at a fire at Supreme Headquarters. He did everything he could to get up to the front and the chaps loved him for it! Now, because he happens to fall for a mature, intelligent woman, everybody suddenly becomes a bloody Sunday School superintendent! I tell you, it turns my guts sour!’, and he flung himself out of the house and took it out on the skewbald in a breakneck gallop across the dunes where, as luck would have it, he ran into Maureen driving her ancient Morris up from the red-tiled bungalows in Nun’s Bay. Maureen had news that took his mind off the troubles of the King and Mrs Simpson. She braked and hooted the moment she saw him and shouted:

‘Hi! Hold on there! I’ve just heard a rumour that will set tongues wagging! Sydney Codsall is flat broke and resigning his seat. Have you heard anything to confirm it?’

It was not quite true but had elements of truth, as everybody between Whin and Sorrel soon learned. Sydney’s business associate, Tapscott, the builder, had gone bankrupt for what seemed to Valley folk the astronomical sum of £28,000, but it soon leaked out that Sydney, although partially involved, had saved his bacon by withdrawing capital before the crash. It was true that he was resigning the Parliamentary seat, won in 1931 but this, it seemed, was due to domestic rather than financial difficulties for his wife was suing for divorce on evidence gathered by a private detective, so that the Valley soon found itself in the Sunday newspapers for the first time since the wreck of the German ship off the Cove, in 1906. It made, as Vi Potter declared, ‘tolerable gude readin’ ’, particularly in one of the Sunday papers that featured a picture of Sydney’s alleged mistress and horsefaced wife side by side, under the banner headline,
‘MP flees Love-Nest by Fire Escape’
and below,
‘Nude Woman hits Photographer with Table Lamp’
.

In the resultant scramble for details the King and Mrs Simpson departed for France almost unnoticed and Paul, never a malicious man, nonetheless commented to Claire that weekend, ‘Well, he’s been sailing close to the wind twenty years and was due to capsize! I wonder if Tapscott would be interested in an offer for what’s left of High Coombe? It would be a feather in our cap to get it back, don’t you think?’

She could not be sure whether or not he was joking so she temporised, ‘What would you do with half a farm if you got it? They’ve already built all over Eight Acre and Cliff Warren. I don’t suppose there’s more than a hundred acres left of the original.’

‘Periwinkle was smaller than that to begin with,’ he said, rubbing his hands and looking so pleased with himself that she felt ashamed for him. ‘There’s no harm in getting Snow & Pritchard to put out a feeler!’ and he left the table whistling between his teeth so that she thought, a little ruefully, ‘He’s hardening up! There’s no doubt about that, and I’m not at all sure that I like it!’

Tapscott was only too eager to sell and before the New Year was a fortnight old the rump of the old Derwent Farm had been repurchased, a parcel consisting of the original farmhouse, some ruinous outbuildings and about ninety-five acres between the tail-end of Tapscott’s bungalows and the north-eastern tip of Shallowford Woods. Paul got it, he told Claire, for a song—less than half the price paid to Hugh Derwent by Sydney five years before, and not much more than Paul had been paid by Hugh two years before that. She drove out there with him one windless March day and they poked about the farm and grass-grown yards, finding that the old building was still in reasonable repair, Sydney’s agents having used it as an administration centre for the caravan camp inland from Eight Acres. For all that the air of neglect depressed Claire so much that she said, pointing at the cracked and peeling paint on what had once been Rose’s stables, ‘I wish I hadn’t come. It’s revived all my anger against Hugh! I suppose we shall have to pull it down and include what’s left in Willoughby’s farm.’

‘Not a bit of it!’ he assured her. ‘I’ve got an idea but it’ll need time to work on. Anyway, I’m glad some damned speculator didn’t jump in ahead of us, for this is like recapturing occupied territory. High Coombe was always my private Alsace-Lorraine!’

He went to work at once, making an appointment with Francis Willoughby that same evening and when Francis, guessing why he had called, asked, ‘It’ll be about what’s left of High Coombe, won’t it?’ he said that unless Francis was desperate for more pasture he had a plan that required a sacrifice on the part of Deepdene and he would appreciate Francis speaking his mind, notwithstanding the landlord-tenant relationship between them.

They made an appointment and Francis was awaiting him at the extreme southern end of his land when he rode up from the Dell about ten o’clock the following morning. He looked, Paul thought, about as unlike his father, Preacher Willoughby, as was possible. The preacher had been tall and spare, with a saint’s halo of soft white hair, whereas Francis, broad-shouldered and grizzled, looked precisely what he was, a middle-aged man who had never had a thought unconnected with cattle-rearing. He was short and square, his thick calves encased in spotless leggings and a hard hat wedged firmly on his round head, as though to advertise that inside there was no room for frivolities of any kind. He was respectful, however, greeting Paul with the grave politeness that still lingered among the older tenants.

‘I came downalong to saave ’ee the journey up to the house,’ he said. ‘My two varmints are upalong in the rickyard and they stop work if I bide talking to anyone!’

‘It’s about one of your varmints I’ve called,’ Paul said, dismounting. ‘How would you feel about young Dick Potter branching out on his own? I’m sure a chap with your reputation wouldn’t have trouble replacing him.’

Francis looked blank and then thoughtful. Not given to making snap judgments he took his time answering.

‘Dick’s got the makings of a good farmer,’ he said at length, ‘which is surprising, considering the blood that runs in him but then, you can’t judge by that, or not entirely. That Potter son-in-law of yours over at Periwinkle is a lively spark and may do well once he’s outgrown his fancy notions! Where would you be thinking of zettling my cowman? On what’s left of old Edward Derwent’s plaace?’

‘Why not? There’s over a hundred acres if I threw in the sloping meadow that backs on the Big House. It’s small I know but he’d be on his own, except for a boy if he could get one and I believe he’s a good man with dairy cattle?’

‘Arr!’ said Francis, guardedly, ‘he is that! Better than he be wi’ the beef. If he hadn’t been I wouldn’t have kept him all this time!’

It occurred to Paul that this eastern side of the estate bred an altogether different kind of man than the west or south. Within living memory Edward Derwent, Tamer Potter, Willoughby Senior and now Willoughby Junior had all grown to maturity on the exposed side of the Bluff. Perhaps the eastwinds, sweeping across the Downs, had tempered them in a way that it had not tempered amiable families like the Pitts, the Honeymans and the younger Eveleighs.

‘Dick Potter, by my reckoning, is twenty-six. If he stays on with you another year or so he won’t want to shift and he’ll be a hired man all his life. I’ve already had a word with Sam, his father, and he’s desperately keen we give the lad a chance, Francis. I’d appreciate it if you’d part with him and forgo any hopes you had of enclosing High Coombe within your own borders. However, I’m not going to do more than put it to you. If you’re opposed to the idea then we’ll forget it and say nothing to him. You’ve been a first-class tenant ever since your father died and I wouldn’t want to upset you. Take a day to think it over.’