The Pandervils (48 page)

‘Yes, isn't it?' said Frensham. ‘Give us a song, Smiff, there's a good lad.'

‘Oh damn songs!' put in Nicky. ‘Let's hear you sell your papers, Smiffy.'

Smiff grinned happily at this invitation, and the next instant he was the newsboy again, calling his wares in an English street: ‘Late Final. Century by Jessop.' His shrill voice held its own gallantly against the rumble and crash of the bombardment —the piping of a bird in a thunderstorm. Everyone listened with bright eyes and a heart full of civilian memories.

Corporal Harris, grinning wistfully, gave utterance to the general sentiment. ‘It don't 'arf take yer back, don't it! Good old Smiffy!'

Nicky, outwardly taking part in this merriment.
sat alone in himself and waited, waited. Across the chasm of separation he saluted, humbly and with love, the bright spirits surrounding him: Frensham the lawyer, who like himself had been Grant's friend; Harris, once a decent steady-going drayman, now a conscientious soldier; and Smith, the lad this moment entertaining them; illiterate and gay and innocently foul-mouthed. Nicky felt that he knew these three men with a profound intimacy: in imagination he detached them from the war and set them against the background of their former so different environments. Frensham he respected for having lived on the fringe of that literary world which he himself had once longed to enter (but he, Nicky, had done with that nonsense: all he wanted now was the home he had left, precisely as he had left it, nothing altered; and he dared not, even in his thoughts, ask for that). Harris, a married man of forty, was as simple as Frensham was sophisticated. Sometimes he talked of his wife and children, who were, it was easy to see, the cardinal facts of existence for him, the motive force behind three parts of his activity; and sometimes he talked of the French brothels which —for you never knew where you'd be to-morrow— he seldom failed to visit when the chance offered, being (it seemed) blissfully unaware of any inconsistency; and so, thought Nicky, making a sudden discovery, there
isn't
any inconsistency for Harris; he's innocent as a babe, old Harris is; his sins are of the flesh and trivial. Not like that gloating swine Godden! And Smiff, with his
sharp-featured impudent puckish face, was like a terrier with its tail always on the wag; and when he, emulating Godden, began talking of the girls he had ‘gorn wiv', the effect was richly diverting: Ariel—a Cockney Ariel—pretending to be Caliban. The rest meant little or nothing to Nicky. Goodwin was habitually morose: a clerk born and bred, a clerk by habit and by inclination, he would never smile again till he could wear striped ‘trousering' and a pen behind his ear, and say to the Teashop waitress: ‘I want a nice cup of coffee, please miss!' knowing well that all coffee came from the same urn. Macdonald was a square-faced taciturn Presbyterian Scot; and Godden was Godden, a mere part of war's incidental beastliness.

And still, under these thoughts and recollections, Nicky was waiting. The boom and hiss of the enemy's fire, the rumble and crackle and shriek— these sounds drifted away and died down, till at last they seemed but the echo of a distant warfare. The earth ceased shuddering, and it became difficult to decide whether what one heard was external or merely remembered. The spirit of Nicky Pandervil crouched in its form like a hare: not frightened, not hoping, not moving, but alert and listening, awaiting the invisible event. Disregarding this silence within him, his random thoughts ran on. If there
is
a God, why doesn't he get a broom and sweep us all away? Such a mess as we are. Or clap strait waistcoats on the lot of us? When Satan heard about this war they say he just turned sulky. Hi Satan, says God, what are you
doing there you idle scamp! Me, I've packed up, says Satan; them Christians o' yourn are doing
my
job: 'taint fair. He's seen better days, Satan has; a bit rough in his speech now; not quite the gentleman. But the same good chap at heart. Him the Almighty Power hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky. But it was only a sham fight— charades to fool the children with. Meaning us. After it was all over they met round the corner and had a good laugh at our expense. The poor gulls, they said, the poor silly gulls! They're singing hymns to me now — do you hear 'em Satan? Hosanna in the highest—that's a good 'un, that is! And God nudges Satan and Satan winks at God and this dear bloody little war goes on. As flies to wanton boys, ti-tum ti-tum ti-tum, they kill us for their sport. That bit's right anyhow. They kill us for their sport.… But, said Nicky to himself, sobering a little, there isn't Anyone—at least not to matter, not that we know of. There's no one even to laugh. That makes it worse somehow; lonelier. I wonder why dead bodies get so swollen? It must be gas. Like a damn great balloon it was—as though it was trying to be funny. And succeeding, what's more. How the chaps laughed!—at first: afterwards they didn't laugh. Fancy people doing
that
to each other— Shakespeare and Beethoven failing to agree. Just a little quiet discussion conducted with machine-guns and what not. To convince you of your mistake, Shakespeare, I'll have a bang at you with this nine-pounder. To make my meaning clearer,
Beethoven, I'll stick this bayonet through your musical guts. Poetry putrefaction music and maggots, and God Save the King. The argument's over and honour's satisfied—what a stink! That's the worst of this warm weather: honour won't keep.

A voice like tearing iron called from above: ‘Pandervil! Smith!'

‘Here, Sa'ant!'

‘Here, Sa'ant!'

The voice had jerked them to their feet. ‘Double up, lads!'

‘Come along, Smiff!' said Nicky. ‘The gallows is ready.'

He scrambled up into the trench, Smiff following. Others were waiting in a whispering bunch for them. ‘All present?' said the Sergeant. ‘Now listen here.' Nicky listened to the instructions with but half his mind, though he easily mastered them: the other half was occupied with its own affairs. He must do this and that, and on no account the other: his brain responded instantly, as with a click: everything being arranged he moved forward with mechanical precision. I'm a clockwork man, he thought; and I wonder how long we shall last once we're through the wire. The night's not dark enough for this job, blast their eyes!

With that oath, the first and last of his panic fear was expelled: there remained only a taut-ness of the nerves and a fierce cold concentration on doing what must be done. I must get through this job, he thought; but his thoughts dared not
give the reason for this imperative. And now they were through the wire and crawling on their bellies towards the enemy lines. The grass smelt like Coppett's Piece; the wet earth was fragrant; and a cool autumn wind, with a delicious hint of wood smoke in it, came to meet him. Someone coughed in the far distance: friend or enemy? A light shot up into the sky, hovered and splayed. The world seemed suddenly ablaze with light, and Nicky felt as though he were transfixed upon a table with a thousand knives poised above him and a thousand pairs of eyes hating him. He gulped back his heart, and lay very still, and waited. The field grew dark again, but he did not move. I'm still alive, how extraordinary! There was no intellectual gall left in him now; that talkative self, that anger, was peeled away, leaving his spirit exposed. But, pressing his belly closer against the ground, he felt fear draining out of him and a host of silly little thoughts came pattering in. His eyes were wide open to the darkness: like a rabbit, he thought; and he remembered how often he had stood and watched the little beasts squatting outside their warren and had wished that he needn't bother to shoot them, and, wishing so, had wavered in his aim—stupid waste of shot. He lapsed into a state that was more than half dreaming, from which he was presently recalled by a crackling noise. The machine guns were beginning. Someone's getting excited, he thought, grinning hysterically into the grass; we're putting the wind up 'em. He crawled slowly on, hardly knowing
why. Backwards or forwards, it made no difference which way. He could hear the bullets dropping all round him, and he pictured the air as a grey veil being torn to shreds. The crackle suddenly ceased; he felt warm blood oozing from his ears; the ground rose up and flung him into the air. Christ O Christ they've got me … There was nothing left in the world but pain. If it gets worse than this I can't bear it. But it got worse and he was still alive. Worse and then worse; and then he was somehow a little detached from it and thinking of other things. He closed his eyes and drifted … and when he opened them again the sky was reddening. I'm in a shell-hole; it's morning. He noticed presently a pool of rainwater. Have I bled all that?—the same question as he had asked once, in childhood, of his father, feeling important and rather proud. He remembered that time. Venturing to move his head a few inches, there's been a scrap, he said; and recognizing a friend he tried to say aloud ‘Hullo, Smiffy!', but the effort made blood gush out of his mouth. Smith stared blankly with a surprised comical grimace; and made no response, his head and one shoulder being all that was left to him. They've made a mess of you haven't they; and Nicky closed his eyes again. It's apple-harvest at home, he thought. He was very tired. Jane I want you. He had never been so tired before. I say, Jane, just look at what they've done to old Smiff.

Old William Smart, who had recently caused scandal by changing wives with his brother and appearing to be none the worse for it, called to have a chat with his neighbour Pandervil one bright autumn morning, and to warn him of what that dratted government fellow was a-doing. Egg leaned on his yard gate enjoying the sunshine; William Smart sat at ease in his pony-cart holding the loose reins.

‘Has he bin to see you, Mr Pandervil?'

‘Not yet. What should he want with me, Mr Smart?'

‘Want?' Mr. Smart chuckled. ‘What won't he want? He'll want to run y'r farm for you, that's all he'll want.' Mr Smart seemed to think this a prime joke. His china-blue eyes shining, his face creased with merriment, he was a pleasant-looking old scoundrel. It's a pity, thought Egg, that he leads such a bad life with his drinking and worse. ‘Run y'r farm, that's all,' repeated Mr Smart.

‘Oh, will he indeed!' said Egg. ‘I don't know as I shall be so easy about that. This is my son's
farm, Mr Smart; my son Nicholas. He's in France, is my son, fighting to keep a whole skin on this young jackanapes of an inspector and the like. What's
he
doing out of khaki?'

‘He's doing what I say, sir. Whoa Topsy! Stand still, my lass! What's he doing? Showing us old 'uns how to grow corn. And
where
to grow corn, what's more. D'ye know what I did last week? You don't?'

Egg shook his head, hoping to hear nothing he'd have to disapprove of. You never knew with William Smart. Not content with doing wicked things, as likely as not he'd tell you about them and expect you to enjoy the story as much as he did. A genial fellow and an amusing companion: no one disputed that. But the impudence of him! The impudence of his expecting decent people to have any truck with him at all, and him a man who behaved as though he didn't know what sin was! That he was a regular churchgoer made his conduct the more infamous: it provided dissenters with an excuse for being publicly thankful that William Smart was not of their persuasion. To the saintly it was a wonder, not to say a scandal, that the Lord had not cut him off long ago; they were hard put to it not to declare outright that the Lord was unpardonably lax in this affair. Egg, though innocent of malice, liked to keep abreast of current gossip; he knew pretty well what was being said of old Smart, and he was doubtful whether to encourage him to tell any more.

‘Well, what I did last week was this. I'll tell
you, neighbour. I took and ploughed up the Vicarage lawn.'

‘What! That fine old lawn! You never did, surely!'

Mr Smart was pleased with the effect of his news. ‘Yes, Mr Pandervil, a fine old lawn it was. You're right there. But I ploughed it up, and double ploughed it up, and the Vicar stood by smiling like a Christian martyr.'

‘He dint prosecute you?' Egg was puzzled, though not nearly so puzzled as he looked. He liked to amuse himself with a little benevolent hypocrisy. ‘He dint try to shoo you away?'

Mr Smart laughed joyfully. ‘Not at all, neighbour. He thanked me.'

‘Thanked you!'

‘What's more, he
paid
me.'

‘Well well,' said Egg, in mock despair, 'wonders will never cease, they say. Now whaddid he want that fine lawn ploughed up for? Wants to grow his own bread, eh?

‘Just so. Patriotism, don't you see? Each and all we must try to do our bit, Mr Smart, says the Vicar to me. Each and all, Mr. Smart. This is
my
little bit, and I hope the example may be followed throughout my parish. The country needs food. The country needs more corn … That's what he said, or near enough. But not all, not by a long way.'

‘Indeed? What more did he say?'

‘Told me a thing or two he thought I ought to know. No matter. No matter.' Mr Smart smiled
at a memory, and eyed his neighbour wistfully, as a man will who wants to talk indiscreetly and is not sure of his audience. ‘How's yours keeping, Mr Pandervil? Mrs Nicholas and the grandson.'

‘Eh, thank you. Pretty well.' Egg's eyes shone. ‘He's a fine strong boy. Full of life he is, and beginning to take notice of things already. Always got a smile for his grandpa.' This was Egg's special subject, and he couldn't leave it. ‘You should see him hold out his little arms when the candle comes near, or anything o' that. Of course he can't
hold
anything yet, in his fingers I mean, I don't mean he throws back, not more than's only to be expected. He can't, I mean,
catch
hold of things: he drops 'em. But that's to come. I remember my son Nicky was the same. Dessay they all are, but I remember noticing Nicky. But sharp as sharp. He won't miss much I'll wager. A good head on him, the very spit of his dad.'