The Power of the Dead (32 page)

“Will you find yourself a seat at the edge of the gangway about half-way down the hall,” he said to Phillip. “And come up to the platform when your name is called?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“A press photographer for an evening paper wants to take some photographs of you now, with Thomas Morland.”

Phillip repressed his anxiety about Lucy; and afterwards, his sight dazed by the camera flash, entering the hall, with its red upholstery and clusters of electric light bulbs, he made out Pa and Ernest seated with his mother and Spica about a dozen rows from the back; and there was Lucy in the second seat from the gangway.

“I’ve kept the end seat for you,” she smiled.

“How thoughtful of you.”

She replied, to his slight disappointment, “Oh, it was Spica’s idea. She thought you might like to be free to go forward when your name was called.”

Many people were now passing down the aisles. Among them, striding briskly, entirely buoyant, was Margot Asquith, with a beautiful, fair-haired young woman.

Spica moved to the back of his seat. “Well, my dear, I have always known this day would come.”

He turned to see her brown eyes steadily upon him. What was she thinking, Could you but have trusted me? Or was this an idea from his own thought-grievance, distorting her simple gesture? He felt her brooding upon him; it was a relief when she moved back beside Mother: she cared too much, like Mother.

Now the platform was being crossed by members of the
Committee
. Was his regimental tie straight? Should his jacket be loose, or held by the middle of the three buttons? And the bottom button of the waistcoat undone? But he had nearly forgotten to twist the signet ring Uncle John had given him!

The round part must be inside the palm, the ring twisted as he
had worn the ring given to him for his 21st birthday. He had reversed it before leading the raid into the German front line near La Boisselle in early June, lest the flat circle give a glint in the light of flares as they crawled to the wire.

People were clapping. Thomas Morland was walking to the centre of the platform, holding a sheaf of typed papers in one hand. Holding up his chin, he began to speak clearly, throwing his voice to the back of the hall, every word like a dart at a dart-board. He was speaking of the novels of Hardy, the work of W. H. Hudson, and Gilbert White of Selborne, and their concern for the
preservation
of wild life. A woman just in front turned to her companion and said, “I thought it would be a book about the sufferings of animals when I heard he was to give the prize.”

Now he was for it. Morland was speaking about the book. Whatever was he saying … “The theme of
The
Water
Wanderer
is that the elements conspire together, on the face of the waters, to produce the species, with the force of love, to produce beauty: that wild animals are pure and heavenly, confined as they are within the limits of their instincts, that they are entirely loyal, thus preserving their pristine beauty; while Man, as the vehicle to contain the Imagination, is capable of flights of the greatest generosity, or descents to the most profound villainy and degradation imposed upon himself, his fellow men, and in the destruction of the essentially innocent species. This book is a work of stupendous imagination fortified by endlessly patient observation.” The woman turned again to her companion and said, “I’ve never heard of him, have you?” as his name was called and he was on his feet and
gliding
down the gangway past side-turned faces and up the steps and across the platform behind the seated Committee to where Miss Corinna Arden was standing to give him an envelope, to shake his hand, and he bowed his head and thanked her, and still grinning went back the way he had come. As he recrossed the platform a hand stayed him; there was a whispered question from the dark lean man of the Committee,
Would
you
like
to
make
a
speech?
He knew that this was more than a suggestion, but now he was less than ever himself, and the ‘stupendous imagination’ was grief, despair, and longing to join her in the life beyond. They were clapping; they expected a speech; he must either speak or move away, not stand still, so he said ‘Thank you’ again to Miss Arden, who had moved to her chair, and was hesitating, and ‘thank you’ to the audience of hundreds of pink faces; and then he hurried away to
the steps against a scatter of clapping and jumped down from the middle step and went back to his seat three-quarters of the way down the hall.

Miss Arden was now filling the hiatus, stemming the feeling of anti-climax among the audience: why, why, why didn’t someone tell him before that he would be expected to make a speech. The fluttery voice of Miss Arden was speaking of a ghostly otter
following
ghostly salmon up an immortal river and it was all over.

So soon was it all over! People were getting up to go out. Then Spica over his shoulder was telling him that a famous war-poet was sitting just behind him; he sat still, hoping that the poet would not hear her words. When at last he looked round, as though casually, the poet was, to his relief, walking to the exit.

Then, seeing his old Colonel standing under the platform head and shoulders above all others, Phillip went down to thank him for coming. Lord Satchville moved to him to offer congratulations, saying from his great bearded height that he had managed to break away during an interval from the debate in the House of Lords to share in the honour paid to the Regiment. His cousin, the Duchess, he said, was much interested in wild life and he had given her a copy of the otter’s story, and perhaps he and his wife would pay him a visit during one Saturday to Monday when he would take him over to Husborne to renew acquaintance with the Duke as well.

“Is your wife with you, Maddison? Perhaps you will introduce me to her?”

Phillip fetched Lucy; and while she was talking to Satchville his mind was a kaleidoscope of mind pictures—the summer of 1918 at the Duchess’ hospital, blinded by mustard gas and walking in the park with his guide Lady Abeline; then it was the summer of 1908, and with his sisters and Mother, his cousins Polly and Percy and Uncle and Aunt, he was walking under tall fountains of gnats down a long grassy ride between lofty holly hedges, watched by keepers in brown livery and brown bowler hats. He saw again the lodge-keeper in his black claw-hammer coat and tall silk hat with the cockade at the side, opening the great iron gates through which they entered to see fallow deer and emus down the glades, gnus and emus and golden pheasants, and in the park the herd of bison and beyond them were very small deer, Père David deer, near the yaks, and Uncle was telling them that the domain wall was twelve miles round the park …

And he did not want to go back, to stay with Colonel Satchville, it could never be the same again, now that he had changed, and had begun to think; but he said, “Thank you, Colonel, it will be jolly to see Husborne again. I suppose all the hutments have long since been removed from the park?” No, no, he thought, I must not go back, never, never, never.

*

When Lord Satchville had gone a familiar voice, curt with a donnish minimum of lip movement, said in Phillip’s ear, “I had no idea that you were on familiar terms with the greatest rowing blue my College has produced,” and turning, he saw Martin Beausire, carrying as usual a pile of review books under one arm and, as usual, in a tearing hurry. “I’ve got to get back to my office to write a leader for my paper—walk with me down to Piccadilly where I’ll get a cab—both Fifi and I expect you at Worthing tonight—bring Lucy if she’s with you—you know theaddress, it’s in the telephone book. What are you writing now—I hear you’re farming near my old stamping ground. Then why aren’t you writing about the Great Plain instead of writing about the Great War? All the articles I’ve seen of yours are about nothing except the war. Very good of their kind they are, too, but who cares a hoot about the war when your animal and country stuff is only as you can do it, you prize ass. Here’s a taxi. Get in.”

“I can’t come tonight, Martin, thanks all the same, Lucy and I are staying with the Morlands.”

“Then come as soon as you can. Fifi is always saying, ‘When are we going to see Phillip and Lucy again’,” and banging the taxicab door he cried “Fleet Street—
Daily
Telegram
——” and off he went.

Returning to the hall, Phillip saw Archie Plugge, who came across an empty row of seats as though invisibly being impelled by a tall dark woman with brilliant dark eyes and red mouth. “First of all,
do
let me congratulate you, Phillip! Now may I present you to Zorinda—Mrs. Nembhard la Guardia. Zorinda wants to ask you how she can get a tame otter. Now, alas, I must leave you, if you’ll forgive me. It
would
be press night for
The
Wireless
Times
at Watford, and I simply mustn’t miss the van——”

He hurried away, leaving Phillip with the tall woman and her sparkling gaze upon him. “Yes, you
are
just like your book. I knew it. It is too, too divine. I
must
get a cub for a pet. How
does one go about it? Archie has been telling me that they live in your river.”

“Well, I’ve never actually seen one in the brook, but otters do roam about a good deal, I fancy.”

“How perfectly fascinating. You tracked your beastie
everywhere
, Archie tells me. How does one see wild animals? Do tell me, is there an hotel near you, where one might stay? I wouldn’t dream of suggesting myself, knowing how busy you must be,” she said, her dark eyes open wide behind lashes sticky with
lampblack
. “The West Country must be simply heaven now.”

He was wondering how to extricate himself when he saw Lucy. “This is Mrs. Nembhard la Guardia, a friend of Archie’s,” he explained. “My wife,” he added, vaguely. “Do forgive me. I’ll be back in a moment——” for he had seen Plugge beckoning him at the back of the hall.

“I’m most frightfully sorry, but Zorinda insisted—— What I wanted to say, although I couldn’t for obvious reasons say it while she was there, was that my summer holiday begins next week, and as I’ll probably be staying a few days with Piers, might I drop round and see you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You will forgive me, I know, but I simply must rush away to catch the press van. Don’t for God’s sake let on to Zorinda that I’m coming to you.”

Phillip went back to the two women, arriving in time to hear Lucy saying, “Oh, we don’t live in Devon, but Phillip has kept a cottage there.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t consider letting it for a period? One simply
must
get away from the mad rush that London is nowadays.”

“It’s rather damp,” said Phillip. With relief he saw Spica approaching. She nodded cheerfully to the woman with Phillip, then said to him, “Some reporters from the evening papers want an interview with you. They say there isn’t much time left if they’re to catch the final edition.”

“I don’t awfully care for interviews.”

“But you were once a reporter yourself, don’t forget.”

“Where are they?”

“Waiting at the back of the hall. I’ll show you.” She led him away. “Who’s that awful woman trying to attach herself to you?”

“An object of mixed feeling to an undecided acquaintance of mine. I’ve never seen her before.”

“Take my advice, and don’t see her again.”

Four young reporters, one of them Felicity Ancroft, stood in a row together. The man, speaking for the others, said, “Mr. Maddison, please will you give us a story?”

The three young women remained attentive. Felicity, he noticed, wore her hair in a different style: she looked like Barley about the brow, with two waves of fair hair growing back from the widow’s peak. Conscious of her gaze upon him, he replied with ease, “I wonder if I waited so politely when I was on space with
The
Sunday
Courier
? There’s not much of a story, I’m afraid. I left Fleet Street to live in a labourer’s cottage in South Devon after the war—I lived with dogs, cats, and various birds. There was also—towards the end—a tame otter.”

“Was that Lutra?”

He drew a deep breath. “One night he got in a rabbit trap, losing two claws of a front paw before I managed to release him. Then he ran off in fear. It took some months to track him, up and down the rivers of Exmoor and Dartmoor. I came upon him at last, towards the end of a hunt. He got down to the tide-head—salt water, as I expect you know, carries no scent, so hounds could not follow. That’s the last I saw of him.”

“But in your book the otter is killed by hounds. Was there any symbolism involved in its death?”

When he did not reply the reporter took another line. “Would it be true to say that you met your wife in the search for Lutra?”

“Yes.”

“And she is a niece of Lady Kilmeston?”

“Well——”

“And since your marriage you have farmed an estate in
Wiltshire
?”

“I’m a farm pupil.”

“Does that mean that you will write no more books?”

“I can’t really say. However, I’ve managed to complete another.”

“May we know what the subject is?”

“A novel about an ex-soldier who rebels against accepted ideas.”

“Would it be correct to assume that it is autobiographical?”

“I appear only as a minor character.”

They thanked him, and three of them moved away. Felicity Ancroft remained, twisting white cotton gloves.

“I used to be diffident when I had to interview people,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, looking up at him. “I hardly like to say it—but—well—may I write to you about coming down to see you for an article on your work? I’m a freelance.”

“Yes, you told me. I’ll give you my address.”

“I know where you live. I’ve actually bought a one-inch Ordnance Survey Map of your country. I mustn’t keep you. Goodbye, and oh yes—congratulations.” She went away.

He looked around for Spica. She was sitting alone in the last row. Moving down the aisle, he repassed the young man with feathery yellow hair who said, “I’ve just heard Sir Godber Hollins say, ‘I discovered that young man’, after receiving
congratulations
on being your publisher.”