The Power of the Dead (29 page)

“Yes, do. Edward Cornelian’s the man to spot talent.” Then saying “Au revoir, my pilot”, he left Anders to his pile of letters and walked down the Strand to Savoy Hill to call on Piers Tofield.

It was a hot afternoon. He found Piers in a morning coat and trousers worn with a soft shirt open at the neck. He had been to a wedding; thrown upon a chair was a stiff winged collar, tie, slip, spats, and shirt with starched cuffs.

“I’m going home now, but will be back next Monday, Piers.”

“Do come and stay if you’ve nothing better to do. We’ll dine and go on to Channerson’s party. One more won’t make any
difference
, since it’s a bottle party. I must leave you now,
unfortunately
, to prepare the first news bulletin. Archie Plugge was asking after you, he’s down the passage, third door on right.”

Ever since the first meeting Phillip had been awaiting a letter from Plugge, about broadcasting. He had thought out an original programme. Now was his chance.

“My dear Phil, I met a friend of yours the other night at the Game Pie, who knew you in the war.” Plugge beamed through
his enormous round glasses, awaiting a smile of recognition on the other’s face as he announced, “Bill Kidd!”

“Bill Kidd? The only Bill Kidd I knew is dead. He was a Black and Tan, and ambushed by Sinn Feiners near Cork in nineteen twenty.”

“This Bill Kidd told me that you served together in the second battalion of the Gaultshire regiment in the spring of nineteen eighteen.”

“The last time I saw him he was standing outside a moviehouse in Leicester Square, advertising the film of
Shagbag
the
Tailor
, wearing a turban and the long white robes of a desert sheik. He was either the star, or the commissionaire in disguise; you know what British films are.”

They were still laughing when the editor of
The
Wireless
Times
, a tall, thin young man, came in, was introduced, and left at once, murmuring ‘Conference’.

“Horowitz says he is going to write a play around you. It’s about a soldier killed in the war who comes back into ordinary life and tries to tell the truth, but finds it isn’t wanted.”

“Why, that’s the theme of my new novel,
The
Phoenix
!”

Plugge appeared to have forgotten about the broadcast.

*

London was exhausting, the pavements hot underfoot. He took a taxi to St. James Street, got his bag and went on to Paddington, where he had half an hour to wait. He sat on a bench near the clock, and started to make notes for a novel of scenes in Flanders in the late autumn and winter of 1914; but the face of Bill Kidd kept coming between him and the paper; Bill Kidd at his
whisky-worst
, arrogant, rude, refusing to obey the order to withdraw to the Peckham switch, resentful of having been passed over, as senior captain, for the command of the battalion after the March decimation. The withdrawal was a Corps order; Armentières had fallen; Bailleul in flames; Messines gone; the vital Hazebrouck railway junction almost within reach of the German heavy guns; and there in the Staenyzer Kabaret sat the half-drunken idiot, refusing to obey the order to withdraw, climax to near-
insubordination
ever since he, Phillip, had been in command. Through a chain of circumstances from Bill Kidd’s whisky heroics ‘Spectre’ West had lost his life.

Bill Kidd dead during the past eight years had been a
heroic-braggart
figment in the imagination; Bill Kidd alive was—
destruc
tion
of the character for his book. He sat there, the visual
surroundings
of the station unseen as he heard again the soft
floo-er-er-er
of yellow-cross gas-shells falling on Byron farm; the sudden
swish
of one striking at their feet; the crack of ‘Spectre’s’ legbone; everything flaring, fading out as a spray of mustard gas met his face, his
eyeballs
burning red above a rough remote feeling, followed by infinitely faraway silence while he wondered if his face was blown away and he unable to feel it. The world had vanished, the earth pressing on his face through eyes clenched tight, face ragged in big knots burning in a world on fire.

*

Among his letters at home was one from Miss Corinna Arden telling him that the award was to be presented by Thomas Morland, O.M. Enclosed were half a dozen invitation cards for his friends. He posted one to Lord Satchville, who promptly sent a subscription for a copy of the limited edition of the book together with a letter.

Phillip took this letter with him to Down Close the next morning, but before showing it to Pa he asked Ernest if they would care to go with Lucy and himself to London for ‘a rather special occasion’.

“In confidence, Ernest, I’ve won the Grasmere Memorial Prize.”

“Ah,” said Ernest.

“It’s to be given in three weeks’ time in London. I’d like you and Pa to be my guests, if you don’t mind staying at the Adelphi Hotel just off the Strand for the night. Do you mind if we all go in your car? I’ll pay for the petrol and oil, of course.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Ernest was deep in a problem of making a model of a crown wheel in mahogany, from which to cast, in yellow metal, a new wheel. The broken original belonged to an ancient
Delauny-Belville
tourer which had broken down in the lane outside the Works. Ernest had observed the motionless car through the window and gone on with his work, which he had reluctantly left when one of the men had asked him how they could get to the station, and
might he leave the vehicle under cover in his garage. The
Delauny-Belville
was pushed in, after which Ernest had driven the six men, on an outing with the driver, to Shakesbury railway station in his own car.

A week or two later he had set about taking down the broken differential. The various parts of this gear now lay neatly on a bench, with the chewed-up crown wheel exactly restored in mahogany.

“I suppose you’re going to send that away to be cast?”

“I am.”

“I can see you’re pretty busy.”

“You are right,” said Ernest. “I
am
busy.”

“It will only be one day up, and one day coming back, Ernest. Will that make much difference to this job? I mean, have you a delivery time to work to?”

“Not particularly.”

“How about Pa? Would he like to come to London? It’s a pretty good thing, you know, the Grasmere Prize for Literature.”

“I don’t know about Pa. At the moment he is watching his tomato plants for signs of potato disease.”

“We’ll be there and back within thirty-six hours. Will a plague be likely to spread in that time?”

“I—don’t—know.”

Phillip examined the ancient motorcar, upholstered in red Russian leather; but the body had been repainted in yellow and brown. It stood high on the concrete floor. Within the open body was a litter of paper and a number of dry ham sandwiches.

“Looks as though it were owned by a publican on an outing, Ernest.”

“Ah.”

Phillip went into the garden. Pa, having found his spectacles, read Lord Satchville’s letter. “Ha,” he remarked, giving it back. Then throwing up his head he said genially, “I’m quite willing to make the journey with you and Lucy if Ernest is.”

“That makes two cards. Here’s yours, sir.”

“Ah, Grasmere Memorial, hey? Well done.” Pa had read the otter book, and considered it somewhat fanciful.

“Who else have you sent invitations to, may I inquire?”

“Oh, I thought one to my Mother, one to Mrs. Chychester, one to Colonel Satchville, one to my Uncle Hilary, and another perhaps to the Duke of Gaultshire.”

“H’m,” said Pa. He reflected, then, “I suppose you know the Duke well?”

“Not very.”

“Well, you’ve got one member of that family represented already, haven’t you?”

Phillip took the hint. “No Duke. Thanks for the advice. Now I must be off, to revise the climax of my novel by Monday morning. Then I must take it up to London; there’s not much time to be lost if it’s to be published in the autumn.”

“Ah.”

“I’ll be back in plenty of time for our visit to London, sir. I’m going up to meet Channerson, the war-painter.”

“Ah. Well, I must spray my teddies with copper sulphate, I suppose.”

Phillip delivered his packet at Satchville Street, and having a couple of hours to spare, went to the Tivoli cinema in the Strand; and thence, at 6.15 p.m., to Savoy Hill. Piers had left, so he walked to Blue Ball Yard, to be told by the porter that Mr. Tofield had asked him to give Mr. Maddison his apologies, but he had been called away unexpectedly and would Mr. Maddison dine with Captain Fox, Mr. Tofield’s brother-in-law, at seven o’clock at the University Club and afterwards see Mr. Tofield at Mr.
Channer-son’s
party. Mr. Tofield was expecting to be there about 9.30 p.m.

“Not to bother about a bottle, sir, Mr. Tofield will bring one for you.”

“May I dress here?”

“I’ll show you to Mr. Piers’ chambers, sir.”

He waited until 8 p.m. at the University Club and then left, to eat eggs and bacon in the Café Royal; and afterwards got a ’bus to Haverstock Hill. He arrived at the painter’s studio, which was behind a public house, at 9.20 p.m., and waited by a laurel hedge until Piers should turn up.

Half-past nine became a quarter to ten. People were arriving every few minutes. They came by taxi, and all were in evening dress.
Should he go in and look for Anders? Or go back to London. He imagined that a crisis had come about, between Piers and Virginia.

While he stood there, hearing a subdued hum through the curtain’d windows, a Rolls-Royce drew up, followed immediately by other cars, out of which sprang nondescript men with cameras. Magnesium lights revealed two men wearing opera hats and cloaks, with two ladies, one of whom wore a tiara and a white fox fur round her neck. They waited to be photographed again, while by the open door stood a man-servant in a white jacket.

Phillip followed the gay party, and gave his hat and coat to another servant after the flat opera hats and cloaks had been taken. Meanwhile the host—Phillip recognised his face from newspaper photographs—was waiting expectantly beside a young woman with a round smiling face and bobbed yellow hair. Channerson smiled broadly as he took the hand of the woman with the tiara.

“Ah, Princess!” as he kissed her hand. “Delighted you could come.”

Other greetings; then it was his turn.

“I wonder if Piers Tofield has arrived? He was to have brought me here.”

The painter said as though deliberately, “Really?” while giving him a keen look. “And who might Piers Tofield be?” The fair young woman beside him said, “The Crufts are bringing him. Virginia telephoned she’d be late, Dikkon. You must be Mr. Plugge?” she smiled.

“I’m afraid not. But I’m also a friend of Archie Plugge. My name is Maddison.”

Channerson, smiling broadly, was now greeting other arrivals. Phillip moved away across a large room which was, he thought, the painter’s studio. It was fairly full. He moved through groups of talkers to stand against a wall whence to keep watch on the door.

In front of him was a large table on which stood a surprising number of bottles, ranging from magnums of champagne to a solitary stone flagon of schnapps. The bottles covered the table as closely as troops assembled for an attack; behind the shock troops were the reserves: fat, thin, tall and squat bottles, rising from the back of the table on what appeared to a bookcase. Would they all lie sprawling after the battle? By the un-Bohemian looks of the guests—no. More and more people were now arriving; none carried bottles; perhaps they had been sent on in advance.

So this was post-war London semi-Bohemian society—face after face familiar from newspaper and magazine, faces patrician and elegant, bronzed male faces beside slender young women with extremely fair hair and straight, almost severe gowns; laughter and grace. He began to feel the ache of loneliness, and with relief saw the profile of Plugge bending over the table to examine the labels on the bottles. Archie’s face was pink, as though
much-washed
by carbolic soap, above his tall white collar and thin white tie. His thick hair, inclined to kink, was brushed back and held in place by a mixture of oil, scent, and gum arabic. His dark eyes, enlarged by his horn-rimmed spectacles, showed delight on meeting Phillip’s gaze.

“How good to see you here! I was only at this moment thinking of you. Have you seen Piers?”

“No. Have you?”

“Not since the 6 o’clock news bulletin. He told me he was expecting you later on at his flat.”

“I was supposed to meet him there, but the porter said he had been unexpectedly called away.”

“Did he say where?”

“No.”

“Oh, my goodness. I think I need a drink. May I get you one?”

Plugge squeezed his plump body, with many winsome apologies, to the edge of the table and returned with two glasses and a bottle of champagne. They drank.

“The last I heard of Bill Kidd was that he had been shot
outside
Cork, after setting fire to a farmhouse, Archie.”

“He told me he had to die officially, before he could do special work with Ironside’s Force in Russia against the Reds.”

“I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because I had good reason to dislike the real Bill Kidd.”

“I found him a little alarming myself, I must admit.”

“He was a frightful bloody nuisance, and quite impossible when tight. But sober, he could be a very kind person, with his boyish enthusiasm. I’d rather like to see him again, come to think of it.”

“He kept referring to you as ‘My Mad Son’. I must get another bottle while the going’s good. Do forgive me.”

Plugge returned with more fuel. “I say, I say, I
am
enjoying this party, aren’t you?” Plugge was looking round. “I
wonder
where Virginia and Piers have got to? I expect you’ve heard about them?”

“Piers took me to see them last week, when I was up, and we played cards.”

“I suppose Piers has told you how Tony and I met Virginia Helston-Hood at Eleanor Metfield’s party in the
Polaris
, and introduced her to Tony Cruft?”

“No.”

“But
surely
you saw their wedding photograph in
The
Tatler
last November, didn’t you?”

“No, I haven’t been to my dentist for eighteen months.”

“Ha-ha-ha! Let me fill your glass, my dear Phil. This
is
fun, isn’t it? I say, I am glad you’re here.”

Glasses were refilled. Plugge became most confidential.
“Surely
you know about the bogus marriage?” he almost whispered.

“No.”

Plugge hunched his padded shoulders, and moved nearer to Phillip’s ear. “Now where shall I begin? Well, about a year ago, it was last June, in fact, Tony asked me if I’d care to go with him to Eleanor Metfield’s party in the
Polaris
. You know, that ship moored along the Embankment? Tony was then ‘feeding’ the Society columnist of
The
Daily
Trident
. It was his first
entrée
into Society, and when he saw me in a dinner jacket he refused to take me. We went in a taxi to Cahoon Bros., you know, that firm who run a night service during the London season. It may be worth knowing.”

“Did you go to the party in
Polaris
?”

“Yes, as I was saying, having got myself fitted out, with these broad padded shoulders—they had only bandleaders’ outfits for hiring out at ten o’clock—Tony gave me a lesson on how to pronounce certain key-words, as he called them.”

Plugge paused before saying, with a conspiratorial air, “Tell me, old boy, how do
you
pronounce the word ‘1-o-s-t’?”

“The cockney way.”

“Have you noticed how cockneys and those in Debrett often have the same pronunciation?”

“Both resist compulsory education.”

This set Plugge laughing loudly.

“Everyone spoke the same way in London until genteelisms arose among the superior middle classes, and their children were taught to pronounce words as spelt.”

“I’ve never thought of it like that before.”

Plugge looked as though he had received a revelation. “Now
isn’t that interesting! Well, Tony certainly gave me a lesson in pure Cockney, to correct my middle-class pronunciation! The key word, he assured me, was ‘girl’. Not ‘gel’ nor ‘gal’, which was Middle West American, he explained, but the ‘gi’ should be pronounced with the tongue close to one’s upper back teeth, ha-ha-ha!”

Faces were beginning to turn in their direction. Enthusiastically Plugge emptied his glass, and having refilled it, continued, warm with his story.

“Well, as I was saying, I found myself sitting in a taxi on the Embankment, in an actor’s hired dress suit, being rehearsed before the gate-crash. I kept thinking what a funny shot it would make in a film. ‘Go on,’ Tony said. ‘Say it! Gir—, not Gur—— Say it after me, Archie. Let your tongue lightly rest on your upper back teeth. Say it with your mouth partly spread, the position of the tongue is the same as when pronouncing the word ‘cheese’.”

Across the hot and crowded room came Channerson’s hearty laughter. Phillip turned slowly to observe him. Channerson was about thirty-six, with prematurely grey hair above eyes which remained hard during his laughter. The laughter sounded hollow; behind the eyes which had looked at him at the door had been caution, irony, even despair.

“I suppose Channerson has had a fairly grim time. Most people loathed his paintings of the war—or did when he first painted them.”

“He suffers from a simply frightful persecution complex, I’m told. On three occasions when he drove Tony to London, he stopped his car outside the Slade and cursed Tonks. I say, there’s Virginia. Will you forgive me if I leave you? I must have a word with her. Well, I have so enjoyed our talk. You’ve simply made my evening.”

“Before you go, Archie, what did you mean by
cheese
?”

“You know, surely? The debutante’s smile of greeting,
cheese-
cheese-cheese
all the way, but never before the camera.”

*

Phillip watched him working a way towards the door, where Mrs. Cruft stood, looking around her without the least appearance of seeking anyone in particular. She was dressed in a tight gown sewn all over with silver sequins. Her lips were parted; her regular, white, elongated teeth were held ready to form the unspoken word
cheese
at the first sight of any known face. She had not yet seen
Plugge, whose padded shoulders remained politely fixed in the press of bodies, waiting until some restless individual, seeking a face more interesting than those around him, allowed a few inches of progress.

With the arrival of the last of the theatrical and late-dining people, the human density of the room was now at its greatest. Suddenly Phillip saw Felicity Ancroft standing by the door. He moved towards her. Young actresses gave him helplessly amused glances as he insinuated his way past them, only to find himself wedged in among elderly painters, musicians, actors, and Georgian poets (to judge by their austere, aloof faces)—figures closely
cohered
all the way to the open double-doors leading to the adjoining studio.

While he awaited a chance to move on, Felicity Ancroft saw him. She waved a hand, and came towards him; in one flowing
movement
they met and clasped hands, he led her back to the
comparative
privacy of the wall where he had been standing.

“Will you have some champagne, Virginia?”

“Oh, thank you. I heard you were coming, Phillip. May I call you Phillip? My name is Felicity, by the way.”

“Of course. I’m so glad to see you. Are you at Savoy Hill?”

“I’m not on the staff, I’m a free-lance. I write things for the Children’s Hour.”

“Do you live in London?”

“Well, fairly near. But I want to live in the country.”

“Hullo, here comes my literary agent.”

Anders Norse was pushing his way towards them.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Phillip. Honestly, I’d rather see your face at this moment than any other face in the world. Hullo, Felicity. I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“I’m waiting for Piers Tofield. Apart from Felicity, Archie Plugge and you, I don’t know a soul here.”

“Why not go and introduce yourself to Channerson? He’d be proud to know that the winner of this year’s——”

“Let’s all have a drink!”

By the look on Anders’ face Phillip thought that he had been drinking with friends in the Barbarian Club.

“I’ll have a scotch. Have you told Felicity yet? Let’s all drink to the great news! Let everyone drink to it!”

“Oh please, Anders. I don’t suppose anyone here has ever heard of me.”

“Then the sooner they know who’s here, the better! Don’t you agree, Felicity? After all, Phillip has won the——”

“Please, Anders!”

“But why not tell everybody?”

Alarmed by the other’s earnest persistence, Phillip began to move away. “Do forgive me for a moment, I must speak to Virginia Cruft. She looks just like a mermaid. Perhaps she knows where Piers is.”

At the far end of the room he saw Virginia looking about her. He moved on, leaving Felicity Ancroft by the wall. Anders, following, said, “Come and meet Anthony Cruft’s wife, Phillip. Do you know Anthony Cruft’s work? He’s going to make a big name for himself, like you. Come on, Felicity!”

“Doesn’t Mrs. Cruft look just like a mermaid?” repeated Phillip, allowing Anders to get past him; and then changed direction towards the door. There unexpectedly he met Plugge, who had worked through the press to intercept him.

“I say, Virginia is in a state. She thinks that Piers may have gone to Dover in his Aston-Martin, to cross by the night boat.”

*

Anders reached Virginia, standing alone.

“Phillip Maddison says you are like a mermaid,” he said. “If you’re a mermaid, he is certainly an otter. Let me introduce my friend, Phillip Maddison. Phillip, let me—that’s funny. I swear he was here a moment ago.”

“Hullo, Anders,” said Virginia. The skirt of her gown lay upon the floor, having formed itself into the semblance of an argentine fluke. “My dear, I am quite unable to move,” as she put a delicate small hand on his sleeve. “What an idiot I was to put on this ancient frock.” She smiled with sudden brilliance; she spoke, despite the awful doubt upon her diaphragm, in the clear, direct voice of a self-assured young woman.