by Gerald Kersh
Henry Ford tried to cover the captain with his jersey, but the old man pushed it aside. A nightingale sang in the distance.
“Let me tuck you up in this, sir.”
“Ah-ha! A bird! While little birds enjoy their song without a thought of right or wrong, I turned my head and saw the wind was not far from where I stood, dragging the corn by her golden hair into a dark and lonely wood. . . . The Crime! The Crime! . . . Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend . . . who else must be let blood. . . . Away, away with your robes, Mr. Mate! . . . This was a city built of wondrous earth, Mr. Ford, and life was lived nobly here to give such beauty birth. Believe me or believe me not, beauty was in this eye and in the eager hand, Mr. Ford. Death is so dumb and so blind, Death does not understand. Death drifts the brain with dust and soils the young limbs, glory . . . Death sends the lovely soul to wander under the sky. Death opens unknown doors, Mr. Ford, it is most grand to die.”
Henry Ford, having wrung out his damp cap, put it on the captain’s head. “Just wait. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said, and ran away. He remembered that the lady at World’s End Cottage had said: “If there is anything we can do for you, you will let us know, won’t you?”
World’s End Way and the New Road make an almost geometrically accurate Sign of the Cross. Having arrived at the point of intersection, where the Roll of Honour stands, carved out of marble, in commemoration of the men who fell between 1914 and 1918, Henry Ford stopped. The night was dark and the world was wide. Before dawn he could put twenty miles between himself and Mr. Bond. The devil tempted him: he went to the left. But a hundred yards away from the main road, he stopped again. He did not know how to leave the old man in the nightshirt sick and alone in the bushes. This was something he could not do. Still, he wanted to escape; he needed to be free; and he knew that if he raised a voice for Captain Shirley heavy hands would fall upon him and drag him back to St. Timothy’s.
He paused; then inflated his chest and ran to World’s End Cottage. The Gospels had not yet gone to bed; Peter John Gospel opened the door and said: “What d’you want? Who are you?”
“Please sir, I’m Henry Ford, sir. Please, sir, there’s an old gentleman, sir . . .”
“What’s that?” asked Betty Lou.
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, my dear. The young man says something about an old gentleman. Can you . . . perhaps . . . ?”
“Now look here. I’ve had enough of your concerts,” said Betty Lou. “We really have had quite enough of your concerts, so will you please go away!”
“Oh but, mum, it isn’t a concert. It isn’t a concert,” said Henry Ford.
“What do you want this time?”
“Oh please, mum, there’s an old gentleman, and he’s ill. He’s not well, mum, not a bit well. You said . . .”
“Peter John, what does the boy mean? Old gentleman? Not well? What does he mean, Peter John Gospel?”
“There’s an old gentleman who isn’t well, sir, please sir.”
“But why come to me?”
“The lady said – ” Henry Ford began, and then he stopped.
Betty Lou said: “But what is it to do with us? And what is it to do with you?”
Then Henry Ford, like Danko in the legend, tore out his heart and threw it away so that it burst in a shower of sparks, as he said: “Please, mum – please, sir – I couldn’t tell nobody because I run away. I run away. And you said . . .” He was crying, but managed to continue: “Please, sir, please, mum, don’t tell anybody I’m here. But the old gentleman on the heath . . . the old gentleman’s ill. He’s not well. I’ve run away. I’m going to sea. Only please, sir, look after the old gentleman. Please look after the old gentleman.”
“But how is it possible to understand this boy?” said Peter John Gospel. “What old gentleman?”
“Peter John, you are positively not going to set foot out of this house to-night!” said Betty Lou.
Henry Ford said: “Oh please, sir. He’s not well.”
Gospel said: “Wait.” Then he put into his pocket the first bottle that came to his hand – a bottle half-full of Orange Curaçao – and covered his elephantine head with a big grey hat. “Lead on,” he said.
Henry Ford said: “I don’t know who the old gentleman is. I think the old gentleman comes out of the sanatorium up the hill.”
“But what made you come to me, boy?”
“The lady said, sir . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“You said you ran away, didn’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“From what?”
“St. Timothy’s, sir.”
“To what?”
“To sea, sir.”
“For what?”
“To go to sea, sir. Please hurry,” said Henry Ford, “the poor old gentleman is burning hot.”
They had got beyond the crossroads and were on the heath. Peter John Gospel, with a start, said: “But, my God, why didn’t you call a doctor?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You put me, you know, in a very false position.”
“I didn’t mean it, sir. I’m running away.”
“Ah yes, I remember. St. Timothy’s. Poor boy, poor boy.”
“Here he is,” said Henry Ford.
Peter John Gospel said, to the old man in the nightshirt: “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Captain Shirley said: “Let me be gathered to the quiet west, if you don’t mind. The sunset splendid and serene. What said Sophocles? Death is not the greatest of ills; it is worse to want to die and not to be able to. Oh, greatness! Oh beauty! How happy I am! Oh Death! How thou followest the happy and fliest the wretched . . .”
“My dear sir!” said Peter John Gospel.
“Ah! What said St. John Chrysostom? What is death at most? It is a journey for a season; a sleep longer than usual. If thou fearest death, thou shouldest also fear sleep. Yes, yes, a man can die but once, and I owe God a death. Oh amiable, lovely death! Death hath a thousand sand doors to let out life. Oh, divine democracy of death! Sir, I am an old sea captain. And between ourselves . . . I think I am a little crazy. Finish, good lady, the bright day is done and we are for the dark. Excuse me,” said the old man in the nightshirt; and then, with the smile of a contented child, he pillowed his head on his arm, sighed deeply and died.
“Is he dead, sir?” asked Henry Ford in a hushed whisper.
“Yes,” said Gospel, also whispering.
Henry Ford started to walk away. His throat seemed to have closed so that he could not say good-night. But Gospel said: “Don’t go.” He was afraid of the dark, now, and did not want to be alone. “Walk back with me.”
“I’ve got to hurry, sir.”
“But where, at this time of night?”
“To Southampton, sir. I’ve got to get a move on.”
Now a tremendous pity came into the soul of Peter John Gospel, so that suddenly, in that moment, he conceived something like love for this sad and lonely boy. He said: “You poor little fellow. Oh dear, you poor little fellow. I can’t let you go on alone at this time of the night; not all alone in the dark. You must come back with me and sleep in my house, and to-morrow we’ll see what is to be done about you. Don’t be afraid. I won’t tell anyone that you’re here. I’ll hide you if you like. Come.” Then he put out his hand, which the boy took, shyly.
“But, sir . . . can we leave him like this?”
“What else can we do? We can’t carry him. I must inform the police about the poor old gentleman, and the people at the sanatorium must deal with the matter. Don’t fret, little boy, he is happy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There now, don’t cry.”
“No, sir . . .”
“Lost your handkerchief?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here,” said Gospel, giving him his own handkerchief, an expensive silk one, carefully embro
idered with his monogram.
But as he was about to use it, Henry Ford said: “Please sir, didn’t we ought to . . . sort of cover up his face?” In all the stories he had read, one covered the faces of the dead.
“What a strange boy you are. Do you want to cover his face?”
“Yes, sir, please, sir.”
“Then cover it.”
“Could I use this, sir?”
“Use it and welcome, my poor child.”
“You could get it back afterwards, sir.”
“It’s yours to do what you like with.”
So Henry Ford covered the dead man’s face. But first he took his ridiculous little cap off the cool, still head.
“I’m afraid I haven’t another handkerchief with me. How about your nose?”
Henry Ford wiped it on his sleeve, and they walked hand in hand, without speaking, until they reached the crossroads. Gospel found something strangely satisfying in this boy. He liked the feel of his hot, damp hand. He liked the appearance of his broad, homely, melancholy face in the moonlight. Gospel had had little to do with children. When he looked back – and he was looking back – his own boyhood seemed to be veiled by the mists of centuries; and he had never begotten any children of his own. Betty Lou had told him, twenty years ago, that a great poet must live for great poetry; his verses were his children; he must father fine words, not shouting sons and screaming daughters.
At the crossroads he said: “You are a good boy, I like you, my boy.”
Henry Ford did not know what to say in reply, but instinctively he squeezed Gospel’s hand, and the poet said to himself: By God, I’ve half a mind to adopt the boy!
It would be a very pleasant thing, he thought, to have a sturdy, upstanding, ready-made son in the house – a strong yet sensitive boy like this, obviously capable of receiving into his blond, solid, healthy head all the beauty which Gospel felt he had ready to give away.
But soon they reached World’s End Cottage and Betty Lou, in a blue-and-gold housecoat with a Medici collar came out to meet them with a cry of relief for Peter John and a half-suppressed exclamation of distaste for Henry Ford. Gospel said: “My dear, we must get on the telephone to the police. An old man has died up there on the heath.”
“But what old man?”
“Somebody from the sanatorium, I’m afraid.”
“But why should that concern us?”
“I don’t know why it should concern us, Betty Lou. The fact remains, darling; somebody’s died over there, and the police must be informed.”
“Dearest! You’re all white and shaky. . . . This is all your fault, you inconsiderate little boy! How dared you come here and disturb Mr. Gospel? What did you do it for?”
Henry Ford stammered: “I thought . . . that time . . . you said . . .”
“Please leave him alone, Betty Lou,” said Gospel. “Do you think we could find him a little something to eat? Just something?”
Betty Lou’s lips had disappeared into a crack, and her eyes had grown narrow. She said: “Darling, how many things am I supposed to do at once? Telephone the police, telephone the sanatorium, and prepare meals for visitors all at the same time at this hour of the night?”
Gospel’s anger was rare, brief, and diluted. Nevertheless, he was capable of anger. He became very angry now. “The man from the sanatorium is on the heath not far from the crossroads, Betty Lou. Will you be so kind as to telephone to that effect?” he said coldly, with a frown. “And as for ‘preparing meals’, I will perform the arduous task of giving this charming boy a bit of bread and a glass of milk.”
Betty Lou went indignantly to the telephone, the wide skirt of her housecoat swinging dangerously, like an alarm bell, while Gospel took the boy into the kitchen and hacked irregular slabs off a cottage loaf, sawed lumps out of a cheese, poured milk with a trembling hand, mutilated a ham, and opened a pot of caviare. He found a cold chicken, and served that too, on a bread-and-butter plate; laid out a fruit knife, a meat fork, and a teaspoon, and said: “Fall to, my friend. Fall to!” Then, as Henry Ford hesitated, Gospel nervously tore off the legs of the chicken and put them on to the plate; and got himself a glass of apricot brandy to steady his nerves, and sipped it while the boy ate. He was uneasy. Betty Lou’s anger was deep-rooted, and of hardy growth. It could strangle an oak tree. It clung. It was ineradicable. Cut down here, it sprouted again there. Thinking of it, Gospel fortified himself with another glass, and then, feeling stronger, he said: “I think you said that your name was Henry Ford?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have some more chicken. Have some more cheese. Eat it all up. Henry Ford . . . I suppose they call you Harry?”
“No, sir. Ford, sir.”
“I’m going to call you Harry. Do you like me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s no need to call me sir all the time, you know.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why are you running away from that horrible place of yours? You’ve been ill-treated, is that it?”
“I never done anything, sir, and I did deliver the programme. And it’s not fair.”
“Harry,” said Peter John Gospel, helping himself again, “how would you like to come and stay with me?”
“Please, sir?” said Henry Ford, stopping in the middle of a bite, while the remains of a chicken-leg hung in his hand like a ragged banner.
“How would you like to live with me?”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
“To live with me and be my son. How would you like me to be your father? Do you think you’d like that?”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Henry Ford, putting down the chicken-bone.
Then Gospel exclaimed: “By God! Excuse me – I forgot something.” He went into the room where the telephone was, and just as Betty Lou was ringing off, said: “I forgot to tell you . . . on no account mention that little boy. God knows how I managed to overlook it, but please don’t on any account mention that he’s here. I promised him, you see. I hope you didn’t say anything about him, Betty Lou? It’s my fault, of course – I should have mentioned it. You didn’t say anything about him, did you?”
Betty Lou said: “I do wish, Peter John, I do wish you’d get your friend to use his handkerchief.”
“He lost his handkerchief.”
“I hope he found his supper satisfactory.”
“Yes, yes. But you didn’t mention his being here, did you?”
Betty Lou wept as she said: “Oh, Peter John, Peter John! Darling, I really do try hard, so hard! All these years I’ve tried and tried. I have, I have! I have tried to keep you free to work. I’ve tried and tried to keep you from being disturbed and interrupted. I’ve denied myself motherhood. I——”
“ – Betty Lou! You did not deny yourself motherhood. You insisted——”
“ – For whose sake, Peter John? Tell me, for whose sake?”
“For my sake, I suppose.”
“You suppose!”
“But tell me——”
Betty Lou left the room, slamming the door, and went to bed. She had said to the local police station: “. . . It seems that somebody escaped from the sanatorium and is dead on the heath. Will you ring them or shall I? . . . Oh, there’s a poor little boy who’s run away from What-do-you-call-it? – St. Timothy’s Home for Waifs and Strays, or something, and he’s in the house now. I should think you might as well pick him up now. He said he was running away to sea. Well, I mean to say . . .”
“Very much obliged to you, madam. We’ve had a notification about that. We’ll come right along. Thank you very much indeed, and very grateful for the information.”
Henry Ford was yawning. Gospel found a blanket, a Kelim rug, two cushions and a leopard skin, and put him to sleep on the divan in the drawing-room. Then he drank three more glasses of apricot brandy and put himself to bed. Gospel was exhausted, and somewhat drunk. He slept heavily. His wife, still wearing her housecoat, lay on her stomach reading a book. At a qua
rter past one in the morning she heard footsteps and went downstairs. She recognised the heavy, measured tread of big boots on the gravel, and opened the door a second before the policeman’s thumb touched the bell-push.
He said: “It’s about that boy, mum.”
“Do be quiet, won’t you? Mr. Gospel’s asleep.”
“Yes’m,” said the policeman, whispering.
“Wait just a moment.” Betty Lou went to where Henry Ford was sleeping. She hated to disturb him; he was sleeping so peacefully that his relaxed face was like the face of a dead child. For two crazy seconds she feared that he had died in his sleep; but then he sighed. Betty Lou sighed, too, with relief. Her purse was on the sideboard. She rummaged in it and found two pound notes, a ten shilling note, and sixpence. She took out the ten shilling note, but hesitated; put it back and picked up the sixpence, which she dropped into Henry Ford’s left-hand pocket. After that she shook him until he was awake and said: “Time to go! Time to go!”
He arose, drugged with sleep, and she led him to the door. The policeman said: “Come on, son. Home we go.”
“Home?”
“Home we go, home we go.”
“I was asleep. The gentleman said . . . I suppose I must have been dreaming,” said Henry Ford, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “I was asleep.”
“Here you are, son, have a lift,” said the policeman, who had three children of his own. He picked up Henry Ford, made a cradle of his powerful arms, and carried him. The boy, dazed and bewildered, between sleep and wakefulness, knew that he was going back to St. Timothy’s to be punished.
He would be beaten, but he was not afraid of that. He would be pricked off as incorrigible, branded as a lost soul, and ear-marked for hell. This did not worry Henry Ford. Drowsing in the arms of the policeman, wearily rocking between the nightmares of sleep and the bad dreams of wakefulness he thought, with a pain in the heart, of the large, slow kind gentleman in World’s End Cottage, who said that which was not. He thought, also, of Captain Shirley, the mad old gentleman in the striped nightshirt – his fellow-fugitive – whose face he had covered. Then he dozed, and dreamed of falling. The policeman was lowering him to the ground.
