The Golden Virgin (7 page)

It was obvious what the old man was driving at.
His
eldest son, Uncle Hugh, had died of syphilis, which he had got after being sent down from Cambridge. As though he would be such a fool as to go with one of those awful prostitutes he and Desmond had heard about in London! Gran’pa was old-fashioned. And who wanted his money? If he ever left him any in his will, he would give it away to the nearest hospital.

He thought to throw the letter on the fire, but something stopped him. Somehow it was like hurting poor old Gran’pa, to do that. Putting it in his pocket book, he lay back, feeling himself to be drawn once more into the flow of empty Time. The image of Helena floated before him, her face under her fair crowning hair shining with the sun, her eyes blue and frank as the sky. It was all over now, he had deliberately destroyed his ideal on the night of his return from Loos, after the Zeppelin raid, when he had gone into the sheepfold on the Hill with cousin Polly. Henceforward his ideal was dead to him; dead, dead, dead.

Such was life; everything passed away; the fields and woodlands of boyhood became built upon; streets and pavements and lamp posts arose where warblers and willow wrens had sung; nothing ever remained the same. All the dead lying at that very moment upon the battlefield of Loos were slowly becoming part of the chalky soil—the chalk that was one vast tumulus of shells, aeons of shells of the salt, salt sea. Each shell had once been a house of life, born but to die, each in its dying to add to the salt of the sea, or the soil of the earth. So it was with men. And nothing could ever be done about it.

He lay still, floating through time; he thought of the sadness of Mother’s face, as he remembered it before he could walk, before he could speak; he recalled Father’s angry voice, the fear of himself and his sisters, sitting still under Father’s pale-blue-eyed anger, his voice thin as a fret-saw—poor old Father, he had never had a chance, from what Aunt Belle used to say about his early life at home, with
his
angry and often tipsy father. What a grind his life had been from the start: how many thousand times did Father say he had walked over London Bridge to the office, that very office which he himself could never return to after the war,
if
he lived until after the war? Father taking long strides
over London Bridge, on the same worn paving stones, thirty thousand times was it? Without a friend in the world—Father who had once spoken so happily, Mother had said, of having a friend in his son. And what a son: selfish, cowardly, a liar, deceitful: better if he had been killed.

He lived again the glassy, beyond-fear feeling of the attack on that Sunday, the second day of the battle, across the Lens—La Bassée road, when most of the Cantuvellaunian crowd had copped it. Poor old Strawballs, Jonah the Whale, O’Connor, and all the old faces that had ragged him after he had set fire to the Colonel’s
Times
during one guest night, for a joke. It had not been the drink he had taken, for he always knew much clearer what he was doing when tight than when he was sober. What a bounder they must have considered him. Now, like cousin Bertie, they were all dead on the field of honour.

What did it
really
mean,
on
the
field
of
honour
? Father spoke of honour, as though it was part of life, his own life, for instance. Well, if living like that was honour, he was quite content to remain as Father had often told him he was, lacking in all sense of honour.
Field
of
honour
—that ghastly mess at Loos!

“Bring me another spot of old-man whiskey, will you?” He would wait until the winter was over, and then apply to go back to the Gaultshires. He lay back in the armchair, eyes closed, legs crossed at ankles, hands folded on chest, resting himself in the terrible beauty of gun-flashes filling the darkness with light.

On the following Saturday morning Phillip’s company commander, a quiet elderly captain, asked him if he would care to take him to Southend-on-Sea in his motor. Captain Kingsman explained that he had to go on duty, to inspect a detachment of the company, and the cost of the journey would be borne by an allowance of threepence a mile, recoverable from Eastern Command
via
the Orderly Room.

“You may as well have it as a hired driver,” he said, “and if you care to spend the night at my place about a dozen miles away from the salubrious mud-flats, you’d be most welcome.”

Phillip hesitated, for he had been imagining himself driving up Hillside Road, in the glory of his motor car, and perhaps daring to ask Helena Rolls to come for a ride with him. Then Wigg across the breakfast table said, “May I propose myself for a lift as far as Southend, Captain Kingsman? I’m on leave since last night. Or would three be a crowd?”

“You must ask Maddison, it’s his motor,” said Kingsman.

“Yes, certainly,” replied Phillip, “there’s room in the dickey. And thank you for your offer of hospitality, Captain Kingsman.” He felt depressed at the prospect.

It was a fine morning, and when he brought the Swift up the drive, a fourth man was waiting beside the other two. He wore an eyeglass, and was bending and straightening a whangee cane as he stared straight before him. Phillip recognised the red pug-face and pale eyelashes and hair of Cox, with whom he had been on a three-weeks’ course at Sevenoaks when first he had been gazetted, in the spring.

The presence of Cox, waiting with the others, made him shy. He remembered the way Cox had scorned him, after an unsuccessful walk (for Cox) up and down the main street of Sevenoaks, Cox rattling his whangee cane at girls, to attract them. Cox’s irritability had increased with his non-success, which he had said was due entirely to Phillip’s presence ‘putting the birds off’.

“I don’t suppose you remember me, you one-piecee bad boy?” Cox said, with defensive challenge.

“Oh yes I do,” replied Phillip. “You had no success with your wood-pecker rattle, remember?”

“I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking of.”

“That Shanghai custom you told me about. The Rattle!”

“You’re still quite mad, I see. This one-piecee bad boy——” said Cox, to the others, “filled the night with groans and yells in the room I shared with him at the Royal Oak, until I could bear it no longer. He hurled boots about in the darkness, thinking they were bombs.”

“Seriously, Cox, don’t you remember our walk down the hill to the Picture Palace and back?”

“You’re making it all up. Besides, when did
you
do any walking? When you weren’t attacking the enemy by night, you were chasing him, apparently, in clouds of dust. This one-piecee bad boy——” went on Cox, “had about half a dozen stink-machines, one for every day of the week.”

“I was testing various motor cycles, as a matter of fact.”

“At any rate you’ve got a decent vehicle now. Can you find room for me? My wife’s staying at Southend-on-Sea, and I want to bring her back here, as I’ve found lodging in the village. We’ll come back by the train, of course.”

Phillip saw the reason why Cox had shut him up about Sevenoaks. He did not want to be reminded of his past.

“If you don’t mind wedging yourself in the back with Wigg——There aren’t any steep hills, I hope——”

“The very thing for hills,” said Cox, taking some white balls from his pocket. “They never fail. Drop them into the petrol, and they put life into the oldest crock. Remove all carbon from piston tops and cylinder heads.”

“What are they?”

“Speed pills. Also they increase consumption by fifteen per cent.”

Phillip sniffed them. “They smell like moth pills to me.”

“Speed pills,” replied Cox. “My contribution to the petrol supply. Quite frankly, I’ve got to support a wife on my pay——Speed pills will do the trick. I always used them in my Studebaker in Shanghai.”

Phillip had read, in
The
Boy
’
s
Own
Paper,
of camphor propelling small wooden boats, so it might possibly do the same for an engine. But might it be a practical joke of Cox’s. After all, sugar dropped into petrol turned black as treacle, and clogged the carburettor jet.

“Are you sure you aren’t ragging, Cox?”

“Do I look like the sort of person who hurls boots at hotel room walls at one o’clock in the morning? That’s settled. No more talkee-talk, Wigg and I will ride in the dickey.”

“Moth balls are harmless,” said Captain Kingsman, quietly; and Phillip dropped them into the tank.

“I’m glad this car isn’t a moth, Cox! I say, mind the paint, please. The step up is this side, for next time.”

Cox had mounted on the mudguard, while Wigg had used the step. Phillip swung the handle, and seated himself at the wheel.

“Camphor has a very low flash-point, and burns with a smoky flame, while tending to decrease the speed of the detonation,” said the quiet captain. “So it has a use in preventing knocking, when the spark is well advanced.”

“Are you keen on motor cars, sir?”

“Very; but don’t call me ‘sir’. My name is Kingsman. I’m
a barrister by profession, and an amateur racing-driver by inclination.”

“Have you raced on Brooklands, Captain Kingsman?”

“Occasionally.”

Phillip began to enjoy the adventure. The engine, too, responded to this amazing information by an audible sucking in of breath. The carburettor began to whisper hoarsely as it fed to the cylinders the juice of the speed pills. Had Captain Kingsman given them to Cox? Faster and faster turned the engine, with a pleasing double thrust of its twin connecting rods.

Phillip was so exhilarated that he was over a cross-roads before he saw them, causing a boy on a bicyle in panic to wobble and a pig being driven by the boy to stop a couple of inches off the front wheel, get into reverse, shudder, and bolt squealing into the boy, pitching him and bicycle into the ditch.

“A miss is as good as a mile!” Phillip said to Captain Kingsman, who was thoughtfully stroking his moustache.

“That is an epitaph as good as any.”

While Phillip was wondering what he meant, Captain Kingsman said, “Is this a particularly favourite route of yours to Southend?”

“No, I’ve never been here before. I thought that perhaps you knew the way.”

“Well, one can get on to the road by the next turn to the left, about two miles ahead.”

The road was narrow but straight, with an occasional thatched cottage along it. To show off the Swift’s paces, Phillip kept the pedal pressed to the floorboard. It might almost have been a steam-engine under the bonnet, he thought, so smoothly did it thrust away at the crankshaft with its nine iron horses.

Captain Kingsman spoke again. Phillip said he was sorry, he could not hear. Captain Kingsman shouted, “I fancy nine hundred R.P.M. is the safe limit for this type of engine, with the unmodified flywheel.”

“I see, thank you,” Phillip shouted back, his foot still hard down.

Captain Kingsman shouted, “Your engine is now doing almost eleven hundred revvs!”

Phillip looked over his shoulder and shouted, “I think there must be something in your speed pills, Cox, you old rattler!”

Captain Kingsman tugged at his moustache. He was about to ask Phillip to stop, when a yellow whangee cane rapped the driver on the shoulder.

“Not so fast, one-piecee mad boy!” yelled Cox. “It’s horribly bloody cold at the back.”

“We’ll stop at a pub and get some hot Irish whiskey soon, boys!” shouted the driver. “Olley-Olley-Olley!” he yelled, as he pressed down the accelerator.

Captain Kingsman was now crouching up in his seat, hand covering moustache and mouth, as though meditating a problem—or ready to roll himself into a limp ball. His eyes were fixed on the glass cylinder containing the oil-drip. Then he tripped the switch and unscrewed the oil regulator, so that the drip became a stream; then it ceased to fall.

“Don’t declutch! Keep her in gear! Close the throttle!” He switched on. “Now declutch and let the engine idle a few moments, to get the oil circulating!”

The car came to a standstill. The water around the engine was boiling.

“Switch off, but don’t touch the radiator cap!”

Clouds of steam arose from in front. They waited until the rumbling ceased. Then Captain Kingsman said, “May I look under the bonnet? Ah, as I thought, your oil tank is empty. Another few seconds, and your big ends would have run their white metal. Have you a spare oil can? Do you mind if I look? Ah, here it is.” He poured out a little, rubbed it between finger and thumb, sniffed it, decided it was thick enough, and said, “Shall I fill your tank?”

“Thanks. I’d forgotten about the oil. Very careless of me, I’m sure.”

“This will do until we get to a garage. There’s one of sorts near Horndon-on-the-Hill.”

They got back under the scuttle.

“Not so fast this time, one-piecee mad boy,” said Cox, rapping with the cane.

The driver kept the needle at thirty-five. “How’s that for you, Rattler?”

“Bloody awful cold.”

The needle dropped to thirty. “How’s that?”

“Damned cold.”

“We don’t need a speedometer when Cox is aboard,” said Phillip to Kingsman. “At forty he’s horribly bloody cold, at thirty-five he’s bloody awful cold, at thirty, damned cold! Let’s see what speedometer says at twenty-five.”

“How are you feeling now, Cox?”

“Still cold.”

They were approaching a straw stack beside the road. The driver stopped again, and getting down, gathered an armful, which he stuffed between puttee’d legs and the interior of the dickey. Cox’s face had a bluish tinge, and the eyeglass seemed to have cut more into his flesh.

“Anyway, it’s a damned sight better than being in a flooded trench, Rattler. Here, take my British warm.”

“Don’t you want it yourself?”

“I’m inured.”

Nothing could ever be so bad as the Diehard T-trench.

Cox took the wool-and-camel-hair coat and put it over his knees, ramming it down beside his legs, watched anxiously by Phillip, who was proud of his neat coat, with the gilt stars on the shoulder-straps. He felt the more uneasy when Wigg tugged up one side of the coat to cover his knees. Cox tried to pull it back. Wigg held on. They bickered.

“Steady on, you rookies!” cried Phillip. “I think it’s no good, really. Half a mo’, I’ll get some more straw. That will be much better, like thatch, cool in summer and warm in winter.”

“But the wind will blow it away, without your coat.”

“All right, do have it, but please leave it in one-piecee.”

During this time, Captain Kingsman had sat unspeaking, looking to his front, a slightly amused expression on his face.

The engine took a lot of swinging before it would start. When it did fire, it kicked the handle, and raced backwards, as though on a spring.

“Damn, the timing must have slipped!”

“Too much aphrodisiac,” said Wigg.

“What’s that?” asked Phillip, preparing to swing the handle again.

“Speed pills,” said Cox.

“Do be careful, one can easily break one’s wrist,” said Captain Kingsman. “It’s sometimes advisable to hold the handle with the other hand. May I show you?”

He got out, and having seen that the switch was off, stopped to fill the cylinders with gas by pulling the engine over twice with his right hand; then half turning round to hold the handle with the fingers of his left hand, said “Switch on!” and gave a sudden jerk. The engine fired.

“One doesn’t risk breaking one’s thumb that way.”

“Thanks very much for the tip, Captain Kingsman.”

Phillip had been driving for a few more minutes when Captain Kingsman remarked, “There’s another tip I learned in racing—to hold the wheel at four o’clock and eight o’clock, elbows well into ribs. In that position, if a driver has a burst front tube he is in a position instantly to control a wobble.”

“Like this?”

“That’s the position. And in turning, if one passes the wheel from hand to hand, keeping the elbows down, one is in position to control the steering if one has suddenly to turn away.”

Phillip thought that Captain Kingsman corrected a fault in a way unlike that of any other man he had known. He did not say things directly, to snub you or to tick you off, but said them without putting himself between you and what you were doing.

The dull day was now being transformed; sunshine broke through the clouds, colour became alive.

“Would you like to take a turn at the wheel, Captain Kingsman?”

“I would!” cried Cox immediately. “I’ll change with you.” He heaved himself out of the dickey, while straws flew back in the eddy.

Phillip hid his feeling of being put upon as he got in beside Wigg.

“Do you mind stopping at Horndon-on-the-Hill,” said Captain Kingsman over his shoulder, to Phillip in the back. “There’s a thirteenth century wooden belfry on the church which might be worth your while to visit.”

They came to this at the beginning of a village, where stood a church with a squat belfry, in shape like the crown of a Puritan’s hat. It was being re-roofed on one side; ladders led up to scaffolding and a plank platform. No-one was about, so while Cox and Wigg went to find a pub, Captain Kingsman and Phillip climbed up.

Standing near the apex, Phillip saw shipping upon the leaden reaches of the Thames extending away to the west where the horizon of smoke and sun in haze upon London enclosed the green prospect. A finger’s breadth to the south of west was a glint in the haze, a flicker of hard bright light as of a heliograph uncertain of its message.

“I say, isn’t it simply wonderful! I’d no idea the Thames estuary could look like this. I wonder what that flickering comes from.”

“I rather think,” said Captain Kingsman, “that must be the Crystal Palace.”

Phillip felt subdued. Once he had thought that north-west Kent, now south-east London, was quite the best place to live, particularly Wakenham and the Hill, with its view of the Crystal Palace and the wonderful firework displays on Thursday summer nights, the whites of strolling tennis players glimmering in the twilight, and best of all, the real country only a few minutes’ bike ride away.