Beowulf Page 7

  “No, Adelaide, do you know …”

  “Soup?” Ruby inquired, her pad swinging from her belt like a bunch of keys.

  “Yes, two soups; I expect it’s tinned but we must eat something, and afterwards—will you have mutton, dear, whilst we can get it or do you want a macaroni cheese?”

  “I’d prefer a health salad if they still have them.”

  Ruby nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. “Up to now they have been very good about serving fresh food, but gradually I suppose we shall have to get used to cans.”

  “Yes, but …” Alice leaned forward, and her old felt slipped almost to the back of her head. She might have put on something decent for the trip, Mrs. Spenser thought; once you let go, it was overalls and dressing gown in no time. “Really, Alice, you can’t like those dismal fields, and I miss our little solitaire parties of a Friday, I do really; why ever don’t you come back to town?”

  “Listen, dear, I am trying to tell you something awful….”

  “Don’t say that your evacuees have measles; you know how very susceptible I am to any infection!”

  “I’m trying to tell you,” Alice shouted, almost in tears, “that I’ve just been machine-gunned!”

  “What, dear?”

  “Machine-gunned. In the train. It doesn’t seem natural.”

  “Nonsense. Danger is the spice of life, and we won’t give that man the satisfaction of thinking that we mind his antics.”

  “I know you were born to be a general’s wife, dear, but I cannot think that being machine-gunned is an antic. I don’t mind telling you, now that it is over, I was frankly nervous.”

  “Of course, I didn’t say that it was pleasant, but what exactly happened?”

  “Well, I woke up this morning with a queer feeling. First of all my alarm didn’t go off, or rather it did; it woke me up at midnight and I forgot to set it again so I had a tearing rush to get to the station in time….”

  “Alarm clocks are like the Government, always unreliable; they will explode at the wrong moment. If only we had been sensible in 1933 … and even Thomas was worried … there would be no Luftwaffe now peppering us with holes.”

  “Perhaps, but I thought something must be wrong when the nine-five went off exactly to the minute, because you know how late the trains are nowadays. I had a beautiful corner seat and I had just taken out my library book when the old man opposite began to snort. Adelaide, he was eighty if he was a day and he had whooping cough.”

  “How truly awful!”

  “Yes, dear, I jumped up, grabbed my bag, and forced my way along the corridor, but by that time every compartment was crowded. At last I did find a seat beside a very old lady. She seemed to want to speak to me, and these days we must be democratic. Poor thing, her sailor grandson had just come on leave and had gone to the bookstall for a paper. Whilst he was there the train started.”

  “It doesn’t sound a very auspicious beginning to your trip.”

  “No, and it jolted so much that I couldn’t read, but fortunately I had my knitting.”

  “To quote a platitude, the modern woman’s opium.”

  “Oh, Adelaide, no, it’s not quite that,” Alice gave a little horrified giggle, “but we stopped suddenly in front of a little wood. Have you ever thought how dreary one of those, I think they call them coppices, looks in autumn when everything is damp but there is still a tattered leaf or two clinging to the trees?”

  “No, Alice, I always took a strong line about the countryside, particularly in October. It is a month only to be endured in England by the fireside.”

  “I sat there, thinking of Nature and of how it dies and is reborn with the bluebells and I remembered Mr. Chamberlain and how we prayed for peace. Why do you suppose that with all of us praying so hard, the war broke out as it did?”

  “Because if people make guns it is human nature to want to use them.”

  “If only machines never had been invented! What we ought to do is to get together round the Peace Table and agree to give up machines, all of us, altogether.”

  “Nonsense! Somebody would invent a new lot next day. What is wrong with us is that we pigeonholed our foreign information. Thomas had a friend, you know, who went on a very dangerous expedition, and when he came back what do you think he found? All his reports in an official’s drawer, never even opened.”

  “There must have been some mistake.”

  “Oh, no, there wasn’t. They just knew he was telling them the truth and they didn’t want to read it. He went off to the States, saying he was sorry that he had been such an idiot for twenty years. He warned us, ages ago, there would be a war.”

  “It was Mr. Chamberlain’s heart,” Alice protested conscientiously, “he was just too great a man to think about bombs.”

  “Then the proper place for him was in a bird sanctuary. After all, I value my life if you don’t value yours.

  And a thousand planes at this moment would be worth all the good thoughts in the world. But tell me, what happened about your machine gun, did you actually see it?”

  “No. We went on sitting and sitting and I heard a very funny noise, just between us and the little wood. A man in our compartment went and put his head outside the corridor window. Then he came back and said, ‘Do you hear that noise?’ and I said, ‘Oh, yes, it must be a threshing machine.’ You know it was a kind of popping sound. He looked at us and asked, ‘Do you know anything about threshing machines?’ and I said, ‘No, ’and then he sighed and said, ‘Do you mind if I smoke my pipe? ’I said, ‘Please do,’ and then I dropped a stitch and it took me quite a while to pick it up again.”

  “And all that time you were just sitting still?”

  “Well, dear, what else was there to do? Besides, I was so busy picking up the stitch. I do want to get it finished for Hyacinth’s birthday. It is rather a nice shade.” Alice delved into the knitting bag. “Do you think she will look well in rust?” She was always conscious of her sister-in-law’s appearance, and though she despised concentration upon such worldly things there were wild moments when she hoped that her daughter might grow up into the same neat smartness. “You’re always telling me not to be afraid of colour, but isn’t this a shade too bright?”

  “I’m sure Hyacinth will look charming in it,” whatever the child wore it would make no difference, she had a permanently red face and a worried expression that did not match either her rural cheeks or inappropriate name, “but, go on, do tell me, what happened next?”

  “After a time the train began to move again, ever so slowly, and we came to a station. The man with the pipe went into the corridor and said, ‘Jerry got the signaller all right; look, they’re taking him away,’ but all I could see was a crowd.”

  “How dreadful!”

  “Then the guard came along and told us, ‘Got ’im in the ’and, they did, but it don’t amount to much,’ and my old lady fussed and asked if there was a ladies’ waiting room at King’s Cross and did I think her grandson would have to wait long for a train?”

  “What a morning!”

  “Yes, it really has made me feel quite funny. It is so—well—what you wouldn’t expect. Taking the nine-five and being shot at, it’s so unreal, and I think unnatural things are very unwholesome. Yet I used to feel the Germans were far more moral than the French.”

  “Oh, Alice, the danger of preconceived ideas! How often did I tell you not to associate the word ‘discipline’ with morality until you had found out what the Germans meant by it.”

  “Perhaps I was wrong, Adelaide,” Alice agreed, doubtfully, “but we are suffering from too much freedom. Don’t you think we are?” she pleaded eagerly with her eyes fixed on Adelaide’s tricolour ribbon.

  “The only discipline in the world that is safe,” Mrs. Spenser pronounced, “comes from liberty. Why do you mind it so much?” It was useless arguing with Alice, whose thirst for submission was such that she enjoyed the war unconsciously because of the restrictions it imposed.

  “I n
ever have felt that we should be free to follow our own whims,” Alice said, crumbling her roll, “but to finish the story, we arrived two hours late. And then, my dear, there was the poor old lady, looking so forlorn, standing on the platform beside her grandson’s kit bag and naval gas mask. Of course, she couldn’t have been a fifth columnist, but you know what people are like nowadays and I can’t describe how they stared at her. I got her a porter eventually and told him to take her to the waiting room. Do you think the grandson would turn up?”

  Ruby banged down two plates of pudding with even more vehemence than usual. Several of the shopgirls were already buttoning their coats. Horatio continued to sip his coffee very slowly, for even an empty Warming Pan was livelier than his own room. He wished he were not so deaf; had he caught the phrase “machine-gunned” in the conversation at the adjoining table? And what had happened now? Even he could hear the shouts. “Oh, how wonderful, Miss Hawkins; where did you discover him, oh, isn’t he sweet?”

  “Angelina!” Miss Tippett rose from her desk with her eyes fixed incredulously on her partner’s arms.

  At first only two scarlet gloves and the tip of a beret were visible, then Angelina set her burden carefully on the floor and stood up, smiling at her audience. Beside her sat a plaster bulldog, almost life size, with a piratical scowl painted on his black muzzle.

  “Don’t scold me,” she appealed to the room, “wouldn’t he be lovely as a stand for bulletins? And I do think these days symbols are important.”

  “Wherever are you going to put it?” Selina glanced helplessly from corner to corner; it was so like Angelina to spend money on a thing like that when they did not know where the rent was coming from. Oh, why were some people born with a sense of responsibility and others utterly, completely, and finally without it?

  “Well, he’s too large for the mantelpiece”—Angelina looked lovingly at her partner’s desk—“you don’t think, Selina, if we moved the ledgers?”

  “I am sure he would resent so obscure a position.”

  “What about standing him in the fireplace?” Mrs. Spenser suggested, watching the Tippett’s embarrassment with delight. “Where did you find him?”

  Angelina swept off the beret that was worn only as a concession to the weather and ran her hand over the short, white hair that made a felt cap of her head. “In a salvage sale, opposite the Food Office. I can’t keep a dog, I know, in the raids, but it’s so cheerless without one. I was afraid at first that you might be tempted to call him Winnie, but then I thought, no, here is an emblem of the whole of us, so gentle, so determined …”

  “… and so stubborn.”

  Angelina glanced up suspiciously, but Mrs. Spenser appeared to be perfectly serious. “Stubborn! Oh, I see what you mean, we don’t leave go, whatever happens. I should have thought that a better word was resolution. He must have a name, though. I shall call him Beowulf.”

  “How gallant, Miss Hawkins, but I’m sure he is a gallant dog.” Angelina glared at Horatio, whom she loathed. Plaster is such bad taste, his mind was saying. “I bought him,” she retorted, “not as a symbol of gallantry but of common sense.”

  An ugly woman, Horatio thought, and how she bullied her conscientious little partner, but at his age it was essential to keep upon friendly terms with everyone. “Ah, but you must not grudge us poor artists the luxury of dreaming about happier, courtlier days.”

  “I am sure Beowulf’s monster wasn’t courtly,” she sniffed, bending down to lug the plaster object into the fireplace. An old fool like that would not know his history nor that Beowulf, unlike Drake, could be accepted by the proletariat. Had he not fought the dragon (merely a symbol no doubt for Viking dictatorship) to save the whole people? “You are right, Mrs. Spenser, the fireplace is just as good as a kennel.” They all giggled at her little joke. “You know, I envy, I positively envy, that ribbon in your hat to make a collar for him.”

  Adelaide started forward, in mock haste. “Come along, Alice, I see it is time we moved.” She patted the head in passing, “Good-bye, Beowulf, guard us well.” Poor dear Miss Hawkins, how much happier she would be running a herbal garden with a terrier at her heels, yet how much more alive she was, though in a funny, childish way, than either Alice or the prim old Tippett! The preposterous bulldog that should have been simply vulgar really gave the bleak, dingy room an air of gaiety. He matched the feeding bowls, the “dog meals sixpence,” and the faded views of country cottages to be let that still decorated the shelf over the counter.

  Selina walked over to the window and looked at the cakes. She supposed that they would have to restrict them one to each customer like the other places in the district. But it would almost break her heart. Life ought to be generous, she felt, wildly generous. That notice on the wall, “Careless Talk Costs Lives,” always reminded her of a morning in the last war when she had stood in line for hours to get new ration books. How bad-tempered Miss Humphries had been when she had got back late for lunch; the poor old lady had even hinted that Selina had spent the morning with Angelina, of whom she was so jealous. There were days when peace seemed the quick half-dreams she had if she woke up too soon and dropped off again for a few moments, and war was Time in all its ponderous duration. Yes, in spite of bombs, she would always see war as a queue and a yellow form with blank lines that had to be filled up with the stub of a broken pencil. People must live, but sometimes, waiting in line, she wondered why. She hoped that this wasn’t what the Vicar called “questioning God’s purpose,” but she really was puzzled. A remote hand of destiny hovered overhead, something that even the Government was unable to understand; and as a result, cakes were cut, they were down to thirty-seven lunches instead of a hundred and seventy, and the fewer meals they served, the more people seemed to eat. Perhaps she would feel better once the afternoon post had arrived. Oh, dear, what was the cause of the war and why had Angelina bought that appalling dog? It cheapened, really it did, the whole atmosphere; and how shrewd of her to bring it back at just that moment! She could not reproach her partner in front of both customers and staff.

  “Excuse me, madam!” Selina looked up at Ruby, who was waiting by her desk. She was fingering a crumpled overall, one that was kept, normally, only for washing up.

  “I see, madam, you’re wondering why I’ve got this on? It’s to save my black. You never really get the grease out of a dark skirt.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Selina stared suspiciously at Ruby’s Sunday clothes; they never came out on weekdays except for some ceremony, usually a funeral.

  “If it’s the same to you, madam, could I take my afternoon off today?”

  “Why, certainly, if you can change with Cook.” There was undying feud between the staff, kept in check by another of Selina’s rules: never interfere in quarrels and never take sides.

  “Considering the circumstances, Cook is quite willing.” Ruby began to sniff. “You see, it’s mee poor friend Connie.”

  “I hope nothing has happened to her.”

  Tears began to roll down Ruby’s cheeks, but instead of looking for her handkerchief she clutched her overall. “It was last night, madam. We had it awful bad our way. Do you know the Green Man at the corner of Station Road? It had two bombs on it. Parlour and all, there isn’t a fragment left; it was just blown to debridge.”

  “Dear me, how tragic! I’m afraid I don’t know the neighbourhood. And your friend? Was she … ah, at the Green Man?”

  “Oh, madam, no!” Ruby was shocked and reproachful. “That’s a public house and Connie never went to no pubs. She had the Stewdier opposite.”

  “The Studio?” Selina had a vision of a photographer’s window full of big studies of grinning boys in uniform and those incredible postcards of little girls in white satin.

  “Yes, madam, a Stewdier. Connie made the best jellied eels I ever tasted in mee life. Mee ’usband and I are partial to a bit of eel of a Saturday night. The last time I saw Connie,” Ruby gulped and dragged out a handkerchief at last, “she told me tha
t the war had upset the supply like and she didn’t know ’ow she would keep going.”

  Dear me, Selina pondered, why does Ruby pronounce whole sentences correctly and why as suddenly does stewed eel become stewdier? How fascinating dialects would be if one had the time for them. Still, this was a moment for sympathy, not study.

  “There’s bricks from it,” Ruby commented with mournful satisfaction, “right the other end of the road. They turned the buses off this morning, that was why I was late; but I could see the blue flag, that means they’re digging for corpses. There won’t be anything left to bury but I thought if I went and stood there in mee black, it would show my respect for Connie. So I’ll take mee afternoon today, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, of course,” Selina said hastily. Somehow the idea had all the paralyzing quality of the raids themselves. It had come out of the fibre of old, roistering, plague-ridden London. Perhaps she had overdone her refusal to listen to bomb stories; it might relieve the mind. What a difference there was, however, between the inexorable earthiness of Ruby and those timorous lady customers who flustered everybody, asking, “Will they come tonight?” “Standing in my black”—what a pity she could not rush to Angelina and tell her all about it. It made her partner’s foolish purchase all the more annoying. Selina sighed, got up, locked the outside door, and hung up the sign, “Closed from two to three.” There would be just time to check over the ledger before they began on teas. She opened the book, but the silent room made her jumpy. If only Angelina had not bought that dog! Her hand jerked (she really must get some mittens to keep her fingers warm; surely in wartime they would be permissible) and her pencil rolled onto the floor. As she stooped to pick it up she found herself staring into Beowulf’s deep-set eyes. “Angelina,” she shouted, “Angelina, you must come downstairs.”