The Phoenix Generation (2 page)

After an hour he recovered sufficiently to open the top of the tonneau cover and drive slowly west until he found the Uxbridge road to Acton Vale and so to Ealing Common. Felicity was spending the night alone in the house during her mother's absence. She helped him into the bedroom and took off his shoes, while he sat shuddering on a chair.

“You're icy cold. Oh, Phillip, I should have been with you, to look after you. Come into bed, darling, and I'll warm you.”

She moulded herself against his body. Gradually he ceased to tremble, and turned to enter her. She lay still, suffering because he did not make love to her first; he never wanted to kiss her, or do more than fondle her breasts. She understood this from what he had told her about his childhood: a mother forbidden to ‘make him a nambypamby' by comforting him when he cried: a father who had insisted that he sleep in a cot, and at one year old had taken away the part of an old silk petticoat his mother had given him as a comforter. Had this warped him, driven him into himself? Had he made love, ever, to his dead wife, Barley, whom she pictured in her mind as perfection? Oh, would Phillip never be entirely hers? He had turned away, he lay still. She remained quiescent beside him. After awhile he rolled over and, putting an arm around his own neck, settled to sleep.

For some time she lay without movement, hardly breathing. The muscles of her stomach became hard with frustration. When he was asleep she got out of bed and swallowed four aspirins.

*

Phillip arrived home by train the next day with Felicity, after sending a telegram to announce their arrival. Both had made new resolutions to make a success of this second attempt to work
together
: not to see one another before noon, when he would have finished the morning's writing: not to ask nervous-foolish questions about office details while he was by the river, observing and taking notes. He must be clear to write at regular hours every day, and finish at certain times. The afternoon was free. After tea, until supper, he would write his war novel. Every morning he would write his book on the life of a trout. That was the programme.

On arrival at Skirr Farm, Lucy told him that Piers had
telephoned
and left a message.

“He asked if we'd care to go with him to the Yacht Club on Saturday, and dine afterwards with Captain Runnymeade.”

“Well, Saturday is to be a whole holiday—relaxation—no writing. Can you leave the children with Felicity?”

“I didn't know you were coming, so I told Piers that I'd have to look after them, as Mrs. Rigg has Saturday at home.” She hesitated. “Yes, I suppose I could leave them with Felicity.”

“No,” he said. “Not after last Christmas.”

Felicity had been left alone with the children on Christmas night, when he and Lucy had gone to a party. She had only recently arrived to work for him, and had told them she would be quite happy alone; but overcome by melancholy and finally despair, she had written a letter to her mother describing her loneliness, and in an unhappy attempt to prove her feelings for Phillip, had brought her mother's reply to his writing room. He had glanced at it, but read no further after
My
Darling
Girlie,
How
dreadful
for
you
to
be
left
all
alone
on
Christmas
night
of
all
nights!
I
was
most
distressed
to
read
your
letter
——

“But she was new then, wasn't she? Anyway, I'll be quite happy to remain here. Why not take Felicity? Piers said he wanted two more to crew him.”

“She's never sailed, and I don't know much about that sort of racing yacht. I'll go alone.”

“I wrote down the telephone number. Piers is not staying at his home, apparently, but at an hotel in the New Forest.”

“I'll telephone now.”

He thought that Piers was with Virginia, his wife, and he kept back his surprise when another voice, which he recognized as Gillian's, cut in and said, “Do bring Felicity. She's such a pet. I haven't seen her for simply ages.”

He imagined Gillian with an arm over Piers' shoulder until his friend's voice said, “Get off the line, you bitch. Are you there, Phillip? That girl's listening from the bedroom.”

“How's that adorable Rosebud?” the voice continued. “And those too, too sweet calves?”

“Oh, they're quite happy together.”

“Do come,” continued the voice, liquid-sloppy with drink. “I do so want to see Felicity. She's a pet.”

“Yes, come,” Piers cut in.

“I haven't got a car, I'm afraid.”

“What's happened to your Silver Eagle?”

“It's in London with the firm that sold it to me. As you know, I had it vetted, before buying, by the Motor Association Engineer. He said the engine would be all right if the excessive oil
consumption
was put right. The salesman said it probably needed the
oil-flow
adjusting. I bought it on the understanding that it would be.

“I'm pretty sure one of the cylinder bores is badly worn, by a loose gudgeon pin on the piston.”

Piers, bored by these mechanical details, said:

“We'll pick you up.”

He never touched a spanner. His Ulster 1½-litre Aston-Martin was serviced by a mechanic who had a converted Mews stable near Piers' South Kensington flat.

“How long will it take us to get to the yacht club?”

“Forty minutes. I can take you and Felicity if you don't mind rather a tight fit. We must be there not later than four. The race starts about an hour before high water. Right, three o'clock tomorrow.”

“Hold on, Piers. Lucy wants to say something to you. Oh, she says, will you come to lunch here?”

“Love to. One o'clock tomorrow, then.”

“I like Piers,” said Lucy.

Phillip warned Lucy not to mention Virginia when Piers arrived with Gillian. “One never knows about wives or girl-friends these days.”

After luncheon they sat in the sunshine by the Longpond, and Phillip told them that he would have to look for another house to live in. The War Department was taking over the land, which his Uncle Hilary had sold, at midsummer.

“It will be hell with all the Tank Corps hutments going up. I'd like to be somewhere nearer the sea.”

“Are you giving up Fawley?”

“Oh no. I've invited my parents to live there, in one of the flats. I shall perhaps let the other two.”

“Officers' families,” suggested Piers.

Trout were rising to the surface of the Longpond. A hatch of duns was drifting.

“The trouble is, to write my book about a trout I must be near water. And when the army comes, this brook will be poached to death.”

It was time to leave for the coast. Piers' car had two bucket seats only.

“Would you care to drive? Gillian and I can sit on the hood.”

Phillip, feeling this to be a courtesy offer only, replied that he was looking forward to seeing the view from the back. So Felicity sat in front beside Piers, and Gillian got up behind the driver, fitting her right foot with difficulty in the narrow space beside Piers' seat. Her left leg was bent back to be sat upon, while she supported her body with spread fingers. It was a precarious position, and higher than the top of the windscreen. When Phillip tried to adjust himself beside her there was no room for his legs, so Felicity took off his shoes and tucked a foot under each of her arms. She felt her warmth flowing into them as she hugged them to her body. Darling Phillip.

Lighting a cigarette, Gillian said, “Piers, you won't blind, will you? I'm hanging on literally by my fingernails.”

With a crackle of exhaust they were off, watched by the entire village, it seemed, at cottage thresholds. Piers drove slowly at first, until the two perching behind said that they were all right; but he never exceeded 35 m.p.h. He slowed up and changed down well before corners, so that brakes were not needed. The wind blew Gillian's hair about her eyes, she laughed at Phillip and shook it out, while he supported her with an arm behind her woolly coat, feeling the warmth of her thigh pressed against his own.

“Very matey, isn't it?” she said to Felicity. “Are you most frightfully tired, holding us down, darling?”

“Oh no.”

“It's too, too heavenly up here, Piers. One can see over the hedges.”

The car swerved to avoid a bicyclist. She clutched Phillip, and laughed. “Do you mind if I put my arm round you?” holding her face close to his, while her air tickled his forehead. “Aow, now I want to scratch.”

He tried to work the loose strand under her Norwegian ski-ing cap, conscious of what Felicity was feeling as she sat with the hug of his legs relaxed. They drove beside a river.

“Piers, may we stop a moment?”

The car drew in under an avenue of lime trees. Phillip climbed the tarred railings, and was in a park. He strode to the bank. Water flowed glass-clear. Bines of crowsfoot lifted and swayed in the current, their white flowers sometimes drowning but to
reappear
. Beyond, among trees, was the long thatched roof of a house. He went on to look at it, leaving the others leaning over the railings.

In the garden of the thatched house an elderly man and a woman were playing croquet. Both wore faded panama hats. He determined to return, when he had his Silver Eagle, and explore this country.

Before they went on, he asked a villager who lived in the house: to be told 'twas the Colonel and Mrs. Gott, and they was leavin' come Michaelmas.

“Do they own it, d'you know?”

“‘Tes the Lord's. 'Twas once the steward's house, but 'a ban't livin' there no more.”

“I suppose you don't know if it's to be let?”

“Us ban't heard nothin', sir. But then us doan't hear nought about the gentry's goins-on.”

“Who's the owner?”

“'Tes the Lord's, zur.”

Phillip went back to the others with this information. Piers said, “It belongs to George Abeline.”

Before they went on Gillian insisted on changing places with Felicity. “The view is too, too wonderful darling.”

So Felicity sat beside Phillip, who put an arm round her waist.

“Are you happy, Felicity?” he whispered.

“Oh yes! I love the wind on my face.”

From their perch they saw masts and rigging as they drew nearer the port. Hulls of yachts, tarred schooners, and small coastal steamers were moored at the quay. Beyond was a row of white Georgian houses, one with pillars which was the Customs House.

They stopped farther down the quay. There was a view of sea and distant trees across a broad bay. Nearer, a low
green-painted
house was set back behind a stone wall. A flagpole was visible. They entered by an iron gate into a garden, where elderly men and women in blue jackets and yachting caps were sitting at tables having tea.

“There's ‘Boy' Runnymeade,” said Piers.

Captain Runnymeade sat at a table by himself. He held a large tumbler of whisky and soda in one hand. Two trays stood on the table. One covered by a white cloth held teapot and cup, a plate of rolled bread-and-butter and another of cakes. Beside it was a silver tray with decanter and syphon of soda. The handsome face held a slightly mocking look as it regarded the newcomers. Then the pepper-and-salt suited figure, wearing brown-and-white
golfing shoes, half-rose to say to Piers, “How are you, m'dear fellow? Glad you could get here in time for the race.”

Captain Runnymeade, seated once more, with a half-careless wave of a hand indicated the empty chairs around his table. Then beckoning a young waiter in a white jacket he said, “Jerry, take this stuff away and bring some tea for my guests,” after which he drained his tumbler and put it on the silver tray. “And give me a whisky-and-soda. Piers, have a drink?”

“Not for the moment, thanks. I must see about my boat, if you'll forgive me.” Gillian went with him.

“Will you have a drink, Maddison?”

“Not at the moment, thanks.”

The young waiter filled the tumbler, placed it within reach of his master, and took away the tea-tray.

“We met at the Election party the other night, Captain Runnymeade.”

“So we did. You are a farmer,” replied the other man, with an air of amused scorn as he looked about him. “Are you sailing?” he said to Felicity.

“Oh no, Captain Runnymeade.”

“Then perhaps you'll be so good as to pour out tea for me when it comes.”

Piers returned to ask Phillip if he would crew him, as someone had telephoned to say that his car had broken down on the way.

The breeze was stiffening with the tide; it might mean sickness; at the same time, to be left with Runnymeade, who looked to be the sort of man who drank to escape the depression of a false nature, might be worse. While he hesitated an unexpected report shattered the air. From behind a tamarisk bush the lanyard of a small cannon standing with two others on the sea-wall, had been pulled by the steward.

Seeing the hesitation on Phillip's face Piers said, “That's the fifteen-minute gun. Come with me to my locker. I'll see if I can fit you out,” and in the dressing room he said, “If you don't want to go, I'll take Gillian, she has crewed before. Only I thought you might be stuck with Runnymeade.”

Phillip remained away from the table while Piers and Gillian went to change. Two boatloads of men and women were being rowed to the yachts at their moorings. The 10-minute gun had gone when the two returned, dressed alike in blue jerseys, serge trousers, peaked caps, and carrying oilskins and kapok life-belts. Phillip saw them into a praam below the slip, and watched them
while they boarded their yacht, to set about hauling up main and foresail. Last to be run up was a little triangular flag at the top of the mast.