How Dear Is Life Page 14

  Edgar returned, breathless.

  “All papers sold out, sir! I tried four pitches, sir!”

  Edgar’s hair was smarmed smooth with oil. He would be sixteen on the morrow. Phillip determined to buy another sixpenny ounce of mixed cigarettes for Edgar’s birthday.

  “I thought this might do instead, Mr. ’Ollis.”

  Proudly Edgar put a copy of John Bull on the counter, and, under it, Mr. Hollis’ penny.

  “Good God! That rag!”

  “I thought you might like a read of it, I bought it wi’ me own money, sir. There’s your penny back, under it, sir.”

  “Oh,” said Mr. Hollis, his voice becoming winsome. “How very civil of you, Edgar! Thank you indeed! So you follow Horatio Bottomley, do you, eh?”

  Edgar smirked in his sudden importance.

  “H’m,” said Mr. Hollis. He opened the middle pages. “‘To Hell with Servia’. Well, that’s frank, anyway.” He glanced a few moments, then folded it again and put it on the counter. “Thank you, Edgar!” He gave a nod to the messenger, who stood by the counter. “I think,” he went on, as Edgar did not move, “that perhaps your periodical would be better in your drawer, Edgar.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Edgar, returning to his corner.

  “This is a respectable office,” said Mr. Hollis, sotte voce to Phillip. “Between ourselves, Horatio Bottomley is one of the biggest rogues out of gaol, and that’s putting it mildly. He’s escaped the penalty of dubious finance again and again, solely owing to his knowledge of the intricacy of company law. He’s a witty devil, too, in his way. This story is vouched for by my father-in-law, Carlton Turnham, the civil engineer, you know. Bottomley called one day on someone called Chumley, spelt, of course, C-h-o-l-m-o-n-d-e-l-e-y. To the butler he said, ‘Is Mr. Chol-mon-deley in?’, ‘No, sir, but Mr. Chumley is. Have you an appointment, sir?’ ‘I have,’ replied Bottomley. ‘Who shall I say has called, sir?’ ‘Oh, Mr. Burnley.’ Ha-ha-ha, you see the joke, of course.”

  Phillip laughed as he closed a shiny black reference book, and said, “Very good, very good,” while wondering what exactly the joke was.

  A newspaper boy’s shouting came down the Lane.

  “No, not now, Edgar, I have to go out.” To Phillip, “Where is Howlett, does he ever do any work? If he’s not back inside five minutes, I shall leave you in charge of the office, young feller. So for God’s sake don’t start playing jokes on anyone who may come in!”

  “Certainly not, Mr. Hollis.”

  To Phillip’s disappointment, Mr. Howlett arrived back a few moments later.

  The senior clerk, with a glance at his gold watch, said to Edgar, “Fetch me a taxi, quick as you can, my lad! I have a business appointment and must not be late.”

  “Yessir!” said Edgar, dashing out once more into Fenchurch Street.

  “I thought you were going out to lunch with young Roy Cohen,” said Mr. Howlett, mildly, taking his pipe out of his mouth.

  “I am; but I could hardly leave young Maddison in charge here. Where the devil is Downham? Is office routine at this Branch to be taken seriously, or is it not?”

  “I should say that the office routine is liable to considerable upset, judging by the latest news,” replied Mr. Howlett, quietly.

  “Oh?” said Mr. Hollis, pausing as he brushed his jacket with the office brush.

  Phillip saw that Mr. Howlett’s face looked quite different from what it had ever looked before. It seemed longer; the eyes larger. Mr. Howlett’s manner was so serious that it seemed to add to his height. The creases were not noticeable in his trousers. He looked strangely unlike himself in this new quiet seriousness. Mr. Hollis responded to this new Mr. Howlett. Mr. Hollis’ appearance of always being in a hurry, which had always seemed to amuse Mr. Howlett, left him. Mr. Hollis awaited what he had to say, brush in hand. Movement was suspended for perhaps two or three seconds; but to Phillip it seemed, while it lasted, to be for ever.

  Mr. Howlett said, in a low voice, “The Czar has ordered general mobilization. I’ve just come from Lloyds, where they rang the Lutine bell.”

  “Good God!” exclaimed Mr. Hollis, putting down the clothes brush. “In that event the fat is in the fire with a vengeance!”

  Phillip felt a cold shiver pass through him, and then the fearful longing for war, like a dark spectre.

  He remained in the office after Mr. Hollis had left in the taxi. When Downham returned he was supposed to go upstairs, to continue the typing of policies; but when Downham did come back, he followed his impulse and without a word walked out into the sunshine of Fenchurch Street. He must be free of the shaded Lane, and his dark thoughts, for a moment or two.

  The usual traffic of heavy horse drays was passing up and down the street, but now it seemed as though all movement was half-dissolved, insubstantial in the brilliant summer light, which was somehow part of the news. He walked towards Aldgate, drawn by the brilliant feeling of light, away from his usual self, to be separated from that life. He felt on the verge of finding that something which had always been shut off from ordinary living. He remembered how he had first felt this something when singing to himself as a small child, left alone for a few moments in a tepid bath in the kitchen, by Minny his German nurse—the gas jet very low and blue—and singing to himself in a minor key. It was a strange sort of happiness. He had felt it later in the Backfield; and in the loft under the roof of his home; and later still in moments of Whitefoot Lane, and in his “preserves”. It had been strong during the holiday in Devon, high upon the moor in the burning sun. It was another life. He, the Phillip that lived at home, the Phillip seen by others, by himself in the mirror, was for the moment left behind, like the skin of a mayfly after it had flown.

  It was much more than sad feeling, the lonely tepid-bath gas-jet singing feeling of childhood; it was more than an alone-feeling; it was a state in which he could know things without thinking—not the kind of thinking the Magister urged the boys at school to do—he could almost feel things themselves, rather than theorems.

  He surprised himself by this sudden thought; and found he had come to Aldgate Tube station.

  Newsboys were shouting. Men in top-hats, straw-hats, bowlers, cloth-caps—everyone except orthodox Jews with tallow faces and black whiskers and hair under rather high black felt hats—clustered to buy papers.

  While he was looking at The Globe on the corner of Mark Lane, he saw Peter Wallace. He had seen Peter once or twice in the Lane, and at London Bridge; but they had never spoken, only nodded, until now. Peter, hatless too, also had a paper.

  “Do you think that war will come, Peter?”

  “My gov’nor says it’s inevitable between Germany and the Slav States. For one thing, there are no more Central European wheats or barleys being offered on Exchange now. Our agents say that the Germans have bought the lot. No British government can permit that interference with normal trade.”

  “How do you mean, Peter?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, surely. The City exists on trade, and trade exists on free markets. Free markets exist on the freedom of the seas. Grain is a fundamental commodity. The Germans have virtually closed the Baltic. So we’re bound to be at war within a week. Q.E.D.”

  Phillip was greatly impressed. He remembered that Peter had got First-Class Honours in the Oxford Senior—“Oh, I see! Well, I must go now. When are you going to camp, with the first or second lot?”

  “I’m with the first contingent.”

  “I’m with the second.”

  Peter Wallace turned on his heel. Phillip felt that Peter had never liked him since the day he had called him a coward. If only he had learned to box! He hurried back to Wine Vaults Lane; and went through the door quietly, a little apprehensive.

  “What’s the latest?” asked Downham.

  “The German Government has sent a twelve-hour ultimatum to Russia, to stop mobilization. And a friend on the Corn Exchange told me what is not yet in the papers—the Germans have closed the Baltic. So we’ll be
at war within a week.”

  “Closed the Baltic? What, here in the City?” scoffed Downham. “How did they close it? Padlock the door?”

  “That’s right,” said Mr. Howlett’s voice from upstairs. “The Germans are stopping all grain leaving Danzig and other Hanseatic ports.”

  “Well, sir,” Downham called up the stairs, in his flattering voice, “Wallis, of the Accident Department, our company Colour-sergeant, telephoned to Regimental Headquarters just before I left Head Office, and they said that the camp is still on, so it looks as though only the Navy will be involved. For the present, at any rate, sir.”

  “Ah,” said the voice of Howlett, from the roost above the stairs.

  It was half-past three by the clock on the wall. Phillip thought of Willie’s train arriving at Waterloo in about twenty minutes’ time. He had been trying, all day, to bring himself to ask Mr. Howlett for permission to leave early, in order to meet the train; but ever since his late return after Whitsun, he had, as Mr. Hollis had advised him, been watching his step.

  *

  “Well,” said Mr. Howlett, who did look like an owl as he spoke, peering round the frosted glass door where, amidst much muttered indiarubbering, Phillip had spent the Saturday morning before the tall Remington typewriter. “Well, Maddison, I suppose when we meet next, on Tuesday morning, our fates will have been decided. I’m closing the office now. You’ll appear here on Tuesday, I suppose? Are you staying at home for the Bank Holiday?”

  “Yes, sir.” As he got up, he said, “Mr. Howlett, do you think war will come to England?”

  Mr. Howlett removed his pipe. He was the serious Mr. Howlett of the previous afternoon.

  “Between ourselves, I think it will be a miracle if it does not. The Telegraph here”—he tapped his folded newspaper—“says that we cannot stand aside if Germany marches to attack France through Belgium. The present Government attitude, you know, is only to guarantee the Channel Ports. But if we stood by while France was beaten, it would only be a question of time before our turn came. That, at any rate, is the argument, and I must say I agree with it. Only a miracle, in my opinion, can now avert war. If the worst comes to the worst I suppose Hollis and I will have to carry on as best we can, without the help of Downham and yourself.”

  Mr. Howlett said this so sincerely that Phillip wished he had worked harder. He lowered his eyes before the kind, owly gaze. The dark fear came over him. Why had he wished for war to come? Now it might be too late to un-wish it.

  “Well, we must not meet trouble half-way, Maddison. If you and Downham are mobilised, I shall have to apply for someone from Head Office. It’s a good thing for you you took your holiday when you did, for it looks as though none of us will be able to have ours. I cannot possibly leave for Cromer to join my wife and family this afternoon, as I had arranged.” Mr. Howlett put on his panama hat. “I shall remain at home until I know what is going to happen. By Tuesday, as I said, things will probably be decided one way or the other. By the way, did your cousin arrive yesterday without mishap?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir.”

  “I suppose he will be starting next Tuesday?”

  “Yes, Mr. Howlett.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Willie’s seventeen, sir, a year younger than me—I mean I.”

  “It would be rather curious, wouldn’t it, if you were mobilised, and he came here to take your place? Don’t look so alarmed! I am not suggesting for one moment that anything like that might happen! But if there is General Mobilisation, quite half Head Office staff, and the branches too, will have to go, you know. By the way, have you any news about your uncle, George Lemon? I was so sorry to hear of his trouble.”

  “He arrived in Australia, sir, to help on my other uncle’s sheep and fruit farm.”

  Phillip did not add that one of the first things Uncle George did upon his arrival was to set fire to the farmhouse, after which act—to secure attention to a grievance that his plans to irrigate the entire continent of Australia by pumps operating on perpetual motion from power to be supplied by the water which they were to pump had been ignored—he was removed to an asylum.

  “Ah, there’s nothing like an open-air life to bring a man back to health,” said Mr. Howlett, genially, puffing his pipe. “Well, we’ll meet again on Tuesday.”

  Palely in the narrow sky over Wine Vaults Lane floated the half moon, its grey human effigy in part obscured by the shadow of the earth.

  *

  Phillip could hardly believe that ‘Uncle Dick’ was the same person as ‘father’. He talked quite differently, like he did when in the old days he had come to visit them on Hayling Island during the summer holidays, and had played tennis with Captain Spalding at Dr. Robartes’ house. He had been proud of Father, then. Mavis and Doris looked different, too, while Mother seemed ever so happy.

  In fact, Willie was a general favourite, and had almost taken the place of Zippy the cat, whose funny face during the years had been almost the only common denominator by which tenderness was released in the Maddison household.

  “Well,” said Richard, after he poured a glass of sherry for his guest, a second for his son, a third for himself, “well, success to you, Willie!”

  The two girls and Hetty, hurrying in from the kitchen, drank lemonade. After the toast, Richard faced the shoulder of lamb on the dish before him. Phillip watched him use the unfamiliar stag’s-horn-handled carving knife and fork, which had come out of the silver-plate box that afternoon. He felt rather proud that they were having dinner at night, instead of supper.

  “You know,” Richard was saying, “The Trident reported mysterious engine noises over the Essex marshes and the Thames estuary at night, a year or so ago; obviously Zeppelins come to spy out the land, and to test their instruments. I say this—and mark my words!—if England does not honour her guarantee to Belgium, it will be her turn next! Those Prussians are at the back of it all. They destroyed the old German states and principalities. They glorify war as the highest human activity. Peace, they say, rots the nation. Yet, Willie my boy,” as he handed round the plate, “you owe your very existence to Bismarck, for if he had not killed your great-grandfather and his sons, your grandmother would not have fled to England, and married your grandfather! And where would we all have been today, if it had not been for that fact?”

  “Lying fallow, sir.”

  “What? Oh, I see!” Richard was surprised at his nephew’s remark; then, “Quite right, my boy! You have your mother’s wit, I perceive.”

  So genial was the voice that Zippy leapt lightly on Richard’s chair, and opened its mouth to mew plaintively for a tit-bit.

  “Ah, Zippy knows, don’t you, naughty ickkle Zippy——!”

  Phillip did not want Willie to hear Father talking his soppy cat-talk, so he said quickly, “Oh, Father, we are planning a sort of tennis tournament on the Hill on Monday, and will you join us?”

  “Tennis, Phillip? It is so long since I played, old man. I’d be awfully stiff, and out of practice.”

  “You played jolly well on Hayling Island, when you beat Captain Spalding. Didn’t he, Mum?”

  “Yes, you played splendidly, Dickie.”

  “Oh, come now——”

  Richard looked pleased to be invited. However, he would not answer directly. He was out of the habit of being invited.

  “Let’s wait and see, shall we? Why, anything might happen between now and Monday.”

  “We’d love you to come, sir,” said Willie.

  “Yes, rather, do come, sir,” added Phillip, half-consciously imitating his cousin’s manner.

  “Oh very well, since you so kindly invite me——”

  Hetty felt she was going to cry. She went outside, ostensibly to see that she had turned out the gas in the oven. It was all so strange; it was almost sad; Dickie looked happy. She knew it was because Willie took after his mother. Poor, poor Dickie!

  Unaware of her emotion, Richard went on with the carving. The mahogany table, lengthe
ned by an added leaf brought up from under the floor, bore upon it some of the family silver, including the stag’s-horn-handled carving knife and fork. The rest of the plate stood upon the sideboard. Tea-pot, coffee-pot, jugs, and tray were massive affairs of nodulous silver, part of a set left to Richard, while still in his teens, by the will of a great-uncle. Only once before, in nearly twenty years of married life, had Hetty seen the stuff, which had been locked in the ironbound square oak box in Richard’s workroom until he had brought down some of the pieces to show her, for the second time, the previous afternoon. She and the girls—Mavis had come home early from Belgium—had cleaned them, brush and rags and saucer of Goddard’s plate powder on newspapers spread upon the kitchen table. They were heavy and ornate, more clotted and penduled than any house-martin’s nest ever was with mud and feathers: ugly and depressing as the earth’s surface around a coal-mine, with which this silver had a direct connexion, since it had been a gift to Augustus Maddison from his early Victorian partners and associates of a mining company upon the Durham family property; but in Phillip’s eyes, at least, the sight of it was pleasing. “My boy,” she had heard Richard say to him, “this will be yours after I am gone—provided the Germans don’t get it first.”

  He had unlocked the oak box the afternoon before, on coming home from the City, impelled by thoughts of what he should do with the plate if the Germans invaded the East Coast, and got so far as London. Had not Blücher remarked once, What a city to sack! (Blücher’s words after the Napoleonic War were, Was für Plunder! as he regarded the unplanned muddle of the place—a literal translation being What bloody rubbish!). Richard had a vague idea, if the worst came to the worst, of burying the box under the house. The trouble was, the trap-door in the lavatory floor was not anything like big enough for the box.