A Solitary War Page 5

  Phillip discussed it with Penelope, the family friend who lived alone in a house across the river.

  “I seem to be living with two minds in one brain, Penelope. Thus I’m always regarding Lucy as someone frustrating me—unintentionally of course—and yet I’m really appalled by the thought of her leaving me. Yet it is entirely my own idea that she shall go. I suppose it’s like this war—I’m part of its shadow, its confusion, its dead still alive, its ghostly silence. Not a shot yet fired on the Western Front! I’m afraid you’ll think me stupid——”

  “Go on, Phillip.”

  “The survivors of the Great War are dead, like the captain and crew of Wagner’s Flying Dutchman. My life ever since the Armistice has felt unreal. I came alive for a while, with Barley, my first wife, but when she died I returned to the battlefields—my true home. I’m sorry to be so egocentric.”

  Penelope listened, her face open and kindly. Then she said decisively, “Well, for one thing, Lucy has far too much to do. So taking it all round, it might be a good thing.”

  Phillip was apprehensive, remorseful, optimistic, mournful again at the idea of parting. At times he was downright afraid.

  “How about Mr. Pinnegar? Will you be able to get on together, d’you think?”

  “Teddy Pinnegar, according to his letters, has been a business man, building up his own business from nothing after the war. And he says his woman friend is a good organiser.”

  “Anyway, it would be best to see them first,” concluded Penelope, adding that she would like to meet them.

  *

  Captain Pinnegar and his friend drove down from London in a sports saloon. Lucy cooked the two pheasants which Phillip had shot in one of the woods. There was also a ham on the sideboard. They had a quiet dinner with a bottle of Burgundy and another of Pa’s vintage Cockburn port to follow. A couple of cases of this wine had been left behind by Lucy’s brother Ernest when he had gone to Australia before the war, to join his brothers Tim and Fiennes.

  Since a wood fire in the open hearth of the farm parlour was impossible, owing to smoke, the room was warmed by the two electric heaters from the bedrooms. Pinnegar’s voice was soft and pleasant as before, his cheeks and figure were fuller, but not much; his ripply hair was grey. He seemed good-natured, knowledgeable, and considerate—the old Teddy Pinnegar Phillip had known.

  After a look round the farm the next morning, Phillip agreed to give the idea a trial. He knew that Lucy, though always loyal in every aspect of her nature, was looking forward to the relief of being unencumbered and free to do what she wanted to do, in Tim’s new, hire-purchase house. The furniture would be familiar to her, since it was from her old home. It had been removed by Phillip and Ernest, after Pa’s death, to the loft of the Gartenfeste, Phillip’s dug-out in his South Devon field, named after a German pill-box in the Salient. Before the war the furniture had been handed over to Tim—gun-cupboard, guns, books, bookcases, family portraits, beds, tables, carpets—everything had gone to Tim. and the new house in a suburb of Gaultford.

  Penelope had approved of the two visitors. Mrs. Carfax was a country woman, the widow of a landowner in Shropshire who, among other activities, had kept a pack of foxhounds.

  “Now it’s up to you, Phillip. You must be business-like. You can’t afford to muddle along as before, with all those others who have come here to help you.”

  The matter of talking over terms with Teddy and Mrs. Carfax, whom he called ‘Yipps’, was not an easy one. Phillip, determined to have everything on a business-like footing, asked Lucy to be present, to give him moral support, and as a witness of what was said.

  “It must be considered to be your cottage, Lucy, as you have a mortgage on the farm. So you must at least state your terms. Be firm. This will give me moral support. I hate discussing money.”

  “Oh bother,” said Lucy. “I’m supposed to be at a Red Cross Meeting at the Point in the Old Manor in ten minutes. Well, I do hope they look after the hens and turkeys properly. The turkeys especially need proper attention. They’ve been doing well, so far.”

  “What rent will you let them the farmhouse for? It’ll be part-furnished, of course. One guinea a week, do you think? Teddy Pinnegar says Mrs. Carfax is going to let her London house furnished, if she can. And she’s got five thousand acres in Shropshire, according to him. She’s a widow, by the way.”

  “I suppose they’ll want my linen and Aunt Ada’s silver,” murmured Lucy, thinking of the delicate and worn Caroline spoons and forks.

  “Oh no. They’ll bring their own. I think the cottage should be theirs. Billy and I will be paying guests. After all, Mrs. Carfax is to have the running of the proposed new household. I’ll propose that they rent the farmhouse, for a nominal rent, so that, when I enter it, it will be as a guest. Billy and I can sleep in the cottage next door when I’ve got the brick-layer to lay the new waterproof floor—I’ve got all the floorboards stored down at the premises, with the concrete blocks and drum of bitumen. Or Billy can have the bedroom above the children’s room, where he sleeps now. And we’ll both be paying guests of the Pinnegar-Carfax household.”

  The four met on the triangle of grass before the Corn Barn, where it was agreed that Mrs. Carfax should rent the farmhouse, half-furnished as it stood, for fifteen shillings a week. She and Pinnegar would bring in any extra furniture of their own that they required. The household expenses were to be divided proportionately, according to the number of heads at the table. If Phillip invited a guest, after due notice, he would pay for that guest. It was further agreed that the accounts were to be kept by Teddy or Mrs. Carfax, to be settled in cash weekly. Mrs. Carfax would be in charge of what was to be called the Combined Household. The Combined Household would buy what it required from the farm—milk, wood, game, bacon and hams, eggs, chickens, and vegetables—at cost price, this being reckoned as wholesale price.

  Finally there was to be a month’s trial, after which either party could declare to the other that they wished it to end, as being an unworkable partnership. When all these points had been agreed, verbally, Phillip felt easier.

  “By the way, Phillip,” said Pinnegar, as he and Mrs. Carfax were about to drive off, “can you possibly manage to let us have some petrol from your underground tank? As you know, for ordinary folk like us it’s rationed, and ‘Yipps’ says she hasn’t enough to get back to London. You’re a lucky dog, having a tractor with a petrol engine! You get bags of juice, I expect, don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s only for farm-work, you know. I get more than most farmers, because my tractor has a petrol engine. Then there’s a little allowed for the lorry,” he said as he filled their tank from the pump. “So I’m afraid petrol won’t be available for your car when you come. I must make this clear in order to avoid misunderstanding, for I’m allowed only enough for cultivation.”

  “I see.”

  “And the shooting is reserved. That has nothing to do with the Combined Household. You’ll shoot by invitation.”

  “That’s okay by me.”

  “Teddy, I’m afraid all this is a bit tedious, but you do understand that the open hearth in the parlour smokes badly, don’t you? It’s got to be rebuilt sometime, but I can’t guarantee that it will be done. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but I don’t want you to feel you’ve been misled about it. And, as you know, the water is hard, full of chalk.”

  “Oh, we’ll be all right, don’t you worry. We’ll manage somehow, won’t we, ‘Yipps’? Don’t you worry, Phillip, things will be okay. We’ll be back in six days’ time, as agreed.”

  They drove away in the approaching dusk, leaving Lucy and Phillip standing by the Corn Barn.

  “Well, I suppose I must see to the chickens and turkeys now,” said Lucy. “I’ve missed the Red Cross Meeting. Oh well, I’m leaving anyway.” She sighed. “Now I’ll have to attend to the packing of our things, and leaving the place tidy for them. I’m glad they took such a fancy to Billy. He needs someone to whom he can expand, and feel apprecia
ted.”

  “But don’t I appreciate him?”

  Lucy, moved beyond her normal complacency, stopped and faced Phillip. “To be absolutely honest, I don’t think you do. I think you might let him know that you do, anyway. He’s very sensitive, you know, just like you in fact, and is inclined to be a little afraid of you.” Ameliorating at once, she went on, “There now, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I know you have a lot to think about, especially nowadays. And don’t think me judging you, but sometimes it does appear to those who try to help you that they can’t do things the way you want them done. However, now that Captain Pinnegar is coming, perhaps you’ll find it easier, since he is used to business methods. Anyway, I hope it will turn out well.”

  “Why can’t you always speak out directly, as you did just now? If you did, we shouldn’t have had half the unhappiness we’ve had!”

  He remained there while a spectral Lucy moved through the late autumnal dusk carrying a pail towards a number of hens running to her from down the hill. Behind them a flock of turkeys, with headgear slightly reminiscent of Polish cavalry, was bearing down on her with long strides and bubble-jockery cries. He stood and watched them among the broken stalks of thistles and nettles that covered the grass. When she had gone he walked slowly across the bridge, seeing the rebuilt Old Manor half hidden in mist, as he followed a path through the gardens to the coastal road, and so to the farmhouse, to be greeted by the expectant faces of Billy, David, and Jonathan.

  “Dad!” said David, “has Mum told you? We’re going to stay with Uncle Tim!”

  Some minutes later Lucy said, “Has Dad come in?”

  “He looked in, and left without a word,” said Billy.

  *

  The Choir School in London where Phillip’s second son Peter was being educated had, on the outbreak of war, been evacuated to a village in Kent. Peter was a small, sensitive, and equal-minded boy. He had been serene as a baby, and had remained so throughout his childhood. He had a pleasant voice, and with other boys wearing Eton collars and surplices sang for weddings and funerals at various London churches for a shilling and sixpence the occasion. The fees at this school were seven guineas a term, which included everything except the price of second-hand school books.

  A faithful reader with whom Phillip had exchanged letters about twice a year for the past decade had mentioned in one of them that he was the headmaster of a Choir School; and almost by return of post the problem of Peter’s education had been solved.

  No sooner had Peter’s schooling been settled, in the spring of 1939, when the question of Rosamund’s education had arisen. This too had its solution, for in Lady Breckland’s house, following Sir Hereward Birkin’s Imperial Socialist Party meeting at Fenton, Lucy had met a woman living on the edge of the great central heath of the country. Mrs. Richard Cheffe had invited Phillip and Lucy to go over and see the school she had just started. The school-house had been made expertly out of the stables, the house was in beautiful surroundings. Mrs. Richard Cheffe had agreed to take Rosamund at half-fees, and there in due course the small girl had gone.

  Lucy planned to call at the school and see Mrs. Richard Cheffe and Rosamund on the way through to Gaultford, which lay a hundred miles south. Phillip was to transport them in the Silver Eagle drawing a small trailer loaded with what was required for the new life with brother Tim at No. 2 The Glade, Gaultford.

  *

  Two days before Lucy was due to leave, Teddy Pinnegar and Mrs. Carfax unexpectedly arrived in the yard by the draw-well. The springs of the saloon motorcar were loaded down with trunks, suitcases, bags of golf-clubs, tennis racquets, gun-cases, shooting-sticks, riding boots in boxwood trees, travelling rugs, a wireless set, and several other oddments, including the skin of a leopard made into a sort of loose leather hold-all, and the feet of two elephants.

  Mrs. Carfax was at the wheel. Beside her sat an aged golden retriever bitch. Pinnegar was also wedged with this animal on the front seat.

  For a moment or two Phillip stood still, while they continued to sit unmoving inside the saloon car. His heart sank with the springs when he saw what they had brought; but he recovered himself and opened the door. Stiffly Mrs. Carfax lifted out first one leg then another leg within jodhpur breeches. The upper part of her body was covered by a riding jacket over a yellow polo jersey. She wore a fawn-coloured felt hat with a Jock Scott salmon fly pinned in front.

  “Have you had a good journey?”

  “Not so bad, a bit crowded,” said Pinnegar, crawling out. He added, “We were fed up with waiting, so we thought we’d come along.”

  “I’ll find Lucy,” said Phillip. “Won’t you come in?”

  In the kitchen Lucy looked at Phillip unsteadily for a moment. “They’ve come two days before I arranged with Mrs. Carfax,” she said, slowly, almost heavily, as though she had been hit. “Now the place won’t be clean for them. I’ve asked Mrs. Valiant to come and clean it today and tomorrow.” She leaned a moment against the sink. “Oh well, I’ll manage somehow.”

  “We’re staying the night at Crabbe, and coming out in the morning,” said Teddy Pinnegar. “You won’t mind letting us have a gallon of petrol, will you, Phillip?”

  They had tea in the parlour and stayed to supper despite—or perhaps because of—a bottle of Algerian wine (which, although twenty years old, and warmed before being drunk, could fill one with pessimism).

  When they had driven away to the hotel in Crabbe, Lucy started to pack. She finished packing a few minutes after two a.m. Phillip had no heart to help load the trailer which stood in the yard shackled to the towing bar of the Silver Eagle. Memories of previous loadings, unloadings, reloadings of the lorry in Dorset with Lucy’s brother Ernest were too painful. Lucy, who had witnessed those past loadings, said that she and Mrs. Valiant could manage very well if they were left alone.

  As the two women were tying the canvas cover over the trailer at 10 a.m. next morning Pinnegar and Mrs. Carfax arrived. They had already deposited their heavier luggage in the parlour, the fore feet of the elephant standing beside the open hearth.

  While Phillip was trying to start the Silver Eagle the newcomers disappeared inside the farmhouse to look around their new home. The starter of the motor was liable to jam in the teeth of the flywheel. Would this mean that the damned thing would have to be pushed back in top gear, to free the cogs? Then up the slope of the yard to the road, and down the hill to Horatio Bugg’s yard? Thank God the engine fired. He put up the hood. It was a raw, grey day. The back seats were stuffed with packages, bags, bedding, and the remains of a rusty tricycle. It was not easy to fit the two small boys into all this clobber, but at last they were packed in. During this operation the part-ruined tricycle had to be taken out and replaced several times.

  With leather coat buttoned up, Phillip prepared to squeeze his way into the driver’s cockpit. Two small faces side by side peered forth from the eiderdowns and suitcases behind him. Having lifted in one limb after another followed with his body, he got out again to examine the split-pin of the towing bar. As he had imagined, only one bifurcation of the split-pin was through the hole in the tow-pin. He must never again leave such a safety detail to anyone else. Would the engine re-start? The self-starter, to his immense relief, gave its raucous cock-crow. The cogs were, as Luke would say, coggin-in. The engine fired.

  “Well, goodbye, Billy, write sometimes,” said Lucy to her stepson standing silently by the car.

  “All right,” Billy muttered.

  “Look after your chilblains when they come, and wear gloves in the cold weather, won’t you?”

  “I suppose I will,” he said mournfully.

  “Oh, do try and speak brightly and alertly,” Phillip cried, while thinking remotely, Poor Billy, oh if only Barley had not died. “Sorry, Billy.”

  “It’s all right, Father, thank you.”

  “Don’t worry, old boy,” said Teddy Pinnegar softly and kindly, to Phillip. “Have a good time, and when you come back, things will be ve
ry different, I assure you.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been looking round the bedrooms. They’re absolutely filled with dust and dirt. No wonder you have felt as you have.”

  Lucy heard what was spoken, but said nothing.

  “Look after Billy until I return, Teddy. God, if we were only going over the top at Cambrai, Skipper. How simple life was in those days.”

  “You’re telling me, old boy.”

  They shook hands. Phillip worked himself back into the seat and they drove away through the drab village and along the narrow winding road to Crabbe, turning under the railway bridge for Great Wordingham.

  They passed a threshing scene: draggled straw and ragged smoke and filled sacks standing by a lorry; then a shooting party, keepers leading black retriever dogs, beaters sticks in hand and sacks on shoulders.

  Farther on, labourers were sitting under a hedge eating their dinners, bottles of cold tea beside them, horses feeding from nosebags made of old sacks. It was the same unfeeling countryside he had known for nearly three years. Seldom a sign of war, which to the labourers meant 38s. a week instead of 34s. and their Union asking for 50s. The labourers had no feelings about the war; they used themselves naturally every day in a slow rhythm of the everlasting war with and against nature. They were used to doing what they were ordered, and if they were ordered to report to the regimental depot they would go without complaint, endure what was before them and if ‘lived and spared’ would return to the decrepit flint and brick cottages of their forefathers and work as before until they were too old—‘all wore up’—with no substantial complaint.

  Chapter 4

  NO. 2, THE GLADE

  Three-quarters of an hour later they drew up outside the manor house wherein Rosamund was at school. And there stood dark-haired Roz, large-eyed, self-possessed, already changed from the little gabbling maid who had gone to the village school. There life had been raucous and competitive; here they were learning to be self-contained. Mrs. Richard Cheffe worked with, and led, her staff.