Beowulf Page 6

  England had changed. It was less familiar, certainly less friendly, than the Continent. There were still the old colours in the fabric; people stood up nightly to the raids as if they were merely thunderstorms, but there was a new, ugly, bureaucratic class without guts and without what he called “empire imagination.” They laughed at his fifty years of service as if he had been some petty tax collector. He was still fuming over yesterday’s interview. “I don’t understand, sir, why you returned to London,” the official had said, pursing his lips as if he nibbled a pencil permanently. “You have been domiciled abroad ever since you left India and you are well over military age.” Colonel Ferguson had not even troubled to reply, “To offer my services.” After half a dozen young men in as many different Ministries had turned him down in varying tones of boredom and icy politeness, the logical part of his mind was saying “Why?” to himself.

  It would be different this afternoon. Finally Ferguson had unearthed Harris, his old chief. With Departments evacuated all over the countryside, his letter had gone to a dozen places before it had reached its destination. Harris himself was marooned in Yorkshire but had sent him an introduction to a London colleague who would be sure, he wrote, “to fix you up at once.” Ferguson was seeing the man at three, and tomorrow, or at latest next week, he would be back, surely, in harness?

  There were no children in the park, not even an old maid with her dog. Along the entire row there were only himself and a French soldier, walking towards him, looking frozen and miserable. For a moment Colonel Ferguson felt tempted to speak, to say, “I don’t feel at home here myself,” but his French was rusty and the fellow might not have understood him. How they must miss the sun, the funny shutters with the paint scratched off, not with nails but with light, the clusters of … what did they call it … glycines, that were so formal in spite of their abundance, and reminded him of grapes in an architectural drawing. It was all very well to make speeches, but imagine the landing that these men had had, struggling up the salt-stained steps of some West Country port, with everything lost, no news, and nobody to welcome them. Two wars in a single generation asked too much of any race.

  The trees reminded Ferguson of the brooms in a shop that he had just passed. It was not their stiffness, for they were soft against the autumn sky, but their tiny, bristling edges made just the same patterns as the brushes against the glass window. A piece of parachute silk fluttered from a branch near the explosive circle of a new crater. Patches of grass were corroded as if by acid, a piece of broken railing stuck out of the earth. The whole landscape had the bare, haunted loneliness of the moors in Lear; only a fretful succession of necessary acts, eating, sleeping, getting warm, differentiated life from nightmare.

  It was strange how impressions returned, as if they were no isolated events but had separate echoes vibrating along memory. Lausanne was a blur in his mind; it was coming home, that final day in Paris, that he could not get out of his head. He saw himself (it must be meeting that French soldier) walking up the Champs Élysées under absurd catkincoloured little clouds whilst the different faces brought back the journeys of his life as if it were farewell, not to France only but to all the harbours of a long experience.

  Ferguson had had the whole afternoon in front of him and no friends to visit. There had been fewer taxis but nearly as many cars, most of them unmistakably civilian, racing powerfully towards the Bois. The wind had been sharp in spite of the April colours, and because he was a little tired after the long night in the train he had drifted into a spiral of people waiting outside a cinema. He liked a good picture now and again though it was hard work to find one. For a moment he had seen an earlier Paris, carriages drawn by grey and roan horses, children in pinafores holding the hands of governesses in big, feathered hats. Nothing changed really, he had thought, except environment; it was easier to develop some years than others. There had been the usual bourgeois couple in the queue, the wife in black, with a square, shiny handbag tucked under her arm as she clung to her plump husband’s rather rumpled sleeve. Why was it that French materials seemed to crush immediately? Froissé, it was a better word than creased but unsuited to the texture of English, either language or cloth. They were discussing the price of butter, the Colonel thought, though it was easy to miss a phrase after the leisurely sung Vaudois. A Senegalese was staring at the poster whilst a soldier slouched beside them in a grease-stained tunic and the worst military boots that he had ever seen. Of course, the French could improvise, but wasn’t there also something to be said for English smartness? Perhaps he had listened too much to his neighbours in Lausanne; they were always showing him photographs of sunburnt faces under steel helmets. There was one picture of tanks crawling round a road in a gigantic question mark that had haunted his mind for months. Morale was more important than machinery and yet, Colonel Ferguson looked up suddenly at another ribbon of silk flapping beside a dead, solitary leaf, in that moment of memory he had seen personified in a single soldier the story of an end of France.

  It was too cold, too lonely; even if the war ended in an hour, there would always be a rift, a sense of loss. History repeated itself, but in each age there was something as ephemeral as these autumn reds and russets that no reconstruction could replace. The bright ochre leaves rolled away into the gutters, and under a scarred tree that had half its roots in the air the pathway was littered with small branches and green twigs. Death is not dissolution, the Colonel thought, turning towards the park gates; it is the moment when humanity needs our services no longer. He must not be foolish, however, just because the morning was so desolate; there were years of work in him still if he could only get a job. An old lady, waiting at the corner, looked up at the sky; the sirens began again, shaking the air and picking each other up among the buildings until he thought of wolves, answering from hill to hill. “That’s the second alert this morning,” the conductor grumbled as he boarded a calm but half-empty bus. “Wouldn’t you think, sir, that they could find something better to do?”

  It was possible to catch a glimpse of the street through small diamonds cut out of the splinter netting across the windows, but they altered the perspective strangely and gave an illusion of speed. Ferguson’s neighbour went on reading his paper. He had read it, no doubt, for twenty years in the same manner and, raid or no raid, the habits of a lifetime were not easily broken. An old lady in a brown fur jacket that hung shapelessly to her waist clasped a hamper containing not parcels but a Pekinese. The bow of her grey felt hat stuck up like an ear. “They have got some really good bath towels, dear, at Barlow’s,” she chattered, “an absolute bargain. I got a dozen yesterday, and three little striped bathing ones for Woggles. Darling,” she glanced at the black rose resting on the rim of the basket, “he will get his toes so wet.”

  “But do you think in these days it is right to buy anything?” Her friend’s face was almost green with terror and she gripped a black handbag tightly with both hands.

  “Of course. You should be a fatalist like me. Besides, if you are really nervous, you can always send a trunk to the country.”

  “I wonder you haven’t evacuated Woggles.”

  “He doesn’t seem to mind. If it is very noisy, he barks.” “Pekes always were good watchdogs in spite of their size, but do you suppose he realizes the danger?”

  The gunfire slackened in the distance. “Barlow’s,” the conductor shouted. Most of the passengers stood up. How extraordinary people were, Ferguson thought, getting up with the others, armoured against defeat with this sublime stupidity. They had ignored all warnings only to be ready to fight to the last dog for some unpredictable reason of their own that, born here though he was, he was unable to analyse. Woggles, released from his basket, sniffed a piece of shell and his mistress smacked him. An old man went on gravely painting white lines along a row of sandbags. Nobody had even thought of going to a shelter; and, looking up at the grey, dismal sky, Ferguson was almost sorry for the Germans.

  4

  ADELAIDE SPE
NSER PAUSED in front of Barlow’s plate-glass windows less to inspect the carpets than to admire her hat. It was essential today not to lower one’s standards. Thomas had been quite impossible last night; but then, poor dear, though he would not admit it, he did not really like raids. He had been so rude at dinner that Kate had given notice and it had taken hours of patient listening to her grievances before Adelaide had contrived to smooth things over. As reward she had spent the last hour trying on models that sat upon forlorn stands, simply crying to be bought and worn. Normally she would never have purchased anything so obvious as this tricolour ribbon, but in an autumn when people seemed to welcome drabness with a sort of gaiety, the bright blue and scarlet cheered her up. If her husband were to accuse her of extravagance she would quote the words to him that he had used about stocking up the cellar: “It will be double the price that it is now, next year.”

  The central display was not a still life of those amazing waxlike figures with impossible dresses and a parchment smile but a large piece of glass covered with torn and dirty netting. “In spite of a bomb dropping in the immediate neighbourhood,” a notice said circumspectly, “there was no splintering.” The shop windows themselves had been fitted with a device resembling a spokeless wheel. The bright green gloves arranged above a minute black handbag looked infinitely brave or absurdly anachronistic according to one’s mood. A driver put his brakes on suddenly and she looked up at the screech, thinking that it was another warning; but the skies were clear and the sound passed into the ordinary rumble of wheels.

  It was a good thing that she had asked her sister-in-law to meet her at the Warming Pan, Adelaide thought, as she crossed the road and turned into a side street. Poor Alice never knew, with her diets and her ideas, whether she was eating toast or the plump breast of a partridge. Anything other than “good plain food” would be wasted on her, so difficult in these days when luxuries could be obtained with ease but eggs had almost disappeared. She must remember to stop at Parke’s on the way home and get some more canned fruit. Mrs. Spenser had begun stocking her larder directly after Munich when any fool could have seen that there was bound to be a war. Alice had had conscientious scruples. Adelaide could still see her sister-in-law’s blue eyes, which must have been faded before she was out of school, and hear the excited voice, “Oh, Adelaide, isn’t Mr. Chamberlain wonderful? I knew if we prayed enough we should have peace.”

  “How does being an ostrich save one from disaster?” Adelaide had wanted to reply, having already ordered sixty pounds of marmalade; but arguments were bad for the complexion and the best way to deal with relatives, she had found out by long experience, was to sit quietly, say nothing, and treat herself to a good dinner afterwards.

  The marmalade had proved invaluable. Mrs. Spenser had locked it up in the tall cupboard where she had formerly kept her summer clothes, doling out an occasional pot as if it were gold in substance as well as colour. She had bartered five pounds of it for eggs; it made such a difference both to Thomas and his temper if he had his usual breakfast. Yes, it was amusing to reflect that she was probably responsible for his recent promotion. When his colleagues had been evacuated, he had realized so well the horrors of a country billet that he had fought for a transfer and got his Department. Dear Thomas, he was so proud, he thought it was merit!

  There were no cakes in the Warming Pan window and only a small tray of pastries on the counter inside the entrance. The numerous empty seats were a sign of war. Formerly it had been so crowded at noon that shoppers had often had to share a table. Adelaide glanced round, picked out the best place by the wall, and then, knowing that Alice would be late, she opened her newspaper at the crossword page and felt in her handbag for a pencil. The only people in the room were Mr. Rashleigh, whom she knew by sight, and a few shopgirls. Normally Miss Tippett discouraged them, because it was rather distracting to sit down for a cup of coffee beside the woman who had just been fitting you with shoes; but today everybody was welcome. This part of the West End was absolutely deserted. Seeing a regular customer at last, Selina trotted up, all smiles.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Spenser, so you haven’t left London? I was beginning to be afraid that you had joined ‘the great migration’ yourself.”

  “Dear me, no! I always preferred a florist’s window to a garden, and I positively hate cows. I suppose the war has made a lot of difference to you? How are things getting on?”

  The correct answer should have been “Splendidly, thank you,” but Selina hesitated, in spite of her resolution. “We mustn’t grumble, of course, but the times are a little trying.”

  “Unnecessarily so,” Adelaide’s voice was firmer than she intended, “when you think that we could have stopped the whole affair in 1933 with a thousand British policemen.”

  “It was hard to know what to do for the best,” Selina ventured cautiously. It was an unbreakable rule, always be neutral with customers. “But I am sure that the Government meant well,” she added loyally, “all of us wanted peace.”

  But it isn’t a static thing, Adelaide longed to reply; it isn’t the name of a virtue to be copied out in coloured inks and hung in a school hall. A louse is no respecter of persons; think what a single dirty basement can do to a town. Cause and effect, however, would be rather beyond Selina’s comprehension. “How is your partner?” she inquired instead. Angelina always had such a smart haircut. “I missed her as I came in. I hope she hasn’t left you?”

  “Oh, no,” this time Miss Tippett could reply without hesitation, “I really don’t know what I should do without her. She is so very good with the Food Office. I suppose all these regulations are necessary,” she glanced up tentatively because Mrs. Spenser’s husband was in some Ministry, “but I am so stupid, somehow, about forms.”

  “Well, they have to find work for all these women volunteers to do, and besides, they love adding another straw to the burden of us poor taxpayers,” though it would be much simpler to tip the butcher, Adelaide thought—and how such a suggestion would shock the Tippett. “I’m waiting for my sister-in-law,” she added, “she went dashing off to the country last June and… it does amuse me… this is the first time she has ventured up, even for the day.”

  “I read in the papers this morning that it would take three and a half years of the present raids to demolish London; but I don’t know, sometimes I wonder if we shall have any customers left by the end of the month.” Selina could not help her anxiety showing, but Mrs. Spenser might have a little information. “Do you imagine that the Ministries will set up new departments? They took over Barlow’s in the last war, one of their buyers told me, and had over four hundred clerks there.” It would mean a steady flow of lunches even if they had to provide a cheaper type of meal.

  “Hardly in London at the moment.” It was extraordinary, Adelaide thought; one should not exaggerate but the poor old Tippett seemed to have no sense of personal danger. “Still, we have reached our level in this district, all the nervous people must have left.”

  It was another rule, never talk too long to a customer, who might get bored or, worse, too communicative. With a final “Well, we are glad to see you here again,” Selina started back towards her pay desk, stopping to greet Rashleigh as she passed him.

  Horatio had his special seat and had made an art out of taking an hour for lunch. He was delighted with the invaders; shopgirls chattered so gaily and had such smart clothes. “Don’t bother about my order, Ruby,” he would say, “serve these young ladies first. They are in a hurry and I am a vassal to Time….” Then he would hand the menu card to them with a smile and a little bow, hoping that they would speak to him, which they never did. He wished, he could never say how much he wished, that his dear wife Margaret was alive.

  “It’s cold today, I should not be surprised if we had some sleet.”

  “Cold, Miss Tippett, it’s freezing! Snow is for the young and for the artist, but at my age, well, all I can think about is summer.” Just saying the word made him see a meadow full of butte
rcups and wild parsley.

  “Yes,” Selina answered a little absently, for it hardly seemed possible that June would ever come again and—had she seen Ruby wiping a fork upon the inside of her dirty apron or was it imagination? Oh, dear, how careless the girls were getting nowadays, but if she spoke to them they started muttering about some factory. “I hope you were not too badly shaken last night?”

  “To think that I should be able to live to stand the terrible noise.”

  “Have you tried ear plugs? They do say they give relief.”

  “But if anything should happen,” Horatio objected happily, for Selina seemed to be in one of her rare conversational moods, “I think I should like to be aware of it.”

  “Isn’t it better to trust to Fate?” It was astonishing to find the old clinging with such tenacity to life. What could poor Mr. Rashleigh get out of the days, she wondered; wouldn’t it be glorious to pass suddenly to a legitimate, eternal rest? Angelina did not believe in heaven any more; that was very brave of her, of course, but terribly comfortless. “We have a nice piece of mutton today,” she said solicitously, “be sure you get a slice.” She stepped aside quickly to allow a woman to pass, who, as she expected, went up to Mrs. Spenser’s table.

  “It’s a snorter, that word,” Adelaide said, looking up from her crossword puzzle, “and how are you, Alice, after all this time?” Her sister-in-law had already acquired, she decided, the provincial look of the “cheap day-return” shopper.

  “Oh, Adelaide,” Alice fumbled with her coat and draped it over her chair so that a sleeve, of course, trailed on to the ground. Her hands trembled as she piled her parcels up on a vacant chair. “It’s terrible.”

  “Well, Alice, I told you, you wouldn’t like the country, not with your tendency to rheumatism. Why don’t you move home to your flat? If we have a direct hit,” she shrugged her shoulders, “they say we won’t feel anything, and otherwise I just put wax in my ears and forget all about it. Do you know, I slept right through the alert last night?” She sat back, the pencil still in her hand, with the newspaper covering the table. “I suppose you can’t think of a crested sea bird with six letters? Puffins have no crests, and there are seven letters in penguin.”