The Rise of Henry Morcar

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Oh. I suppose people go into the basement and that sort of thing.”

  “I really don’t know,” said Harington with cold impatience.

  Gunfire and heavy thuds sounded in the distance and came nearer, and Morcar had to shout the remainder of his explanation. His visit to the U.S.A. was decided after consultation with other textile interests whom he was to represent, and the Export Group had supported his application for an exit permit and travelling facilities. He had come to town to-day to pick up his permit and passport and submit his papers to the censorship bureau. But now there seemed to be some hitch about his permit, while as for travelling facilities, they were apparently nonexistent—the steamship lines had told him they had no ship whatever sailing to the United States in December.

  “All that has nothing to do with this Department, my dear Morcar,” said Harington impatiently.

  “Really?” said Morcar, astonished. “I understood—”

  “You should go to another Ministry,” said Harington, giving its name.

  “Oh. In that case I’m sorry I troubled you,” said Morcar, rising.

  “Not that I suppose for a moment that they’ll be able to help you,” drawled Harington. “But they’re the proper channel, you know.” He pressed the buzzer, and instructed the dark girl to make an appointment with the appropriate official for Mr. Morcar.

  “I shall see you tonight, perhaps?” said Morcar, taking his leave.

  “At home? It’s very doubtful, I’m afraid,” returned Harington shortly. “I’m sleeping here at present. I can’t leave.”

  The all-clear sounded as Morcar left the building, but an alert came as he sat giving luncheon to Fan Oldroyd (who was now like everybody else working in a Ministry) and again two or three times during the afternoon. Hurrying from one government office to another with eventually satisfactory results, Morcar observed that nobody appeared to take any notice of these short raids at all, except to raise their voices occasionally when the gunfire drew near.

  “They’re a remarkable people, these Londoners,” he said to himself. “Even Harington.”

  He made this observation as he was walking down Shaftesbury Avenue, which had suffered very recently from bombs. Some buildings had vanished altogether, some had become mounds of pinkish rubble; window-frames gaped blackly, fringed sometimes by sharp spikes of glass; the iron porches of theatres were twisted and blackened. Hose-pipes lay in massive curves across the road and A.R.P. personnel were busy about them. The surface of the road was charred and muddy. The day was dreary, and the whole scene struck Morcar as indescribably cheerless. In Charing Cross Road a huge hole gaped, round which buses carefully steered their way—the hole was large enough to accommodate a couple. Some premises, façades merely through which one saw sordid ruin within, bore a notice stating they were unsafe for entry or human occupation; several bookshops thus lacked interiors, and the assistants, pale and red-nosed from the November cold, sold only from the outside stalls, wrapped up in mufflers and thick coats. Here and there a little shop, its windows boarded, its doors hingeless, propped against the wall, or vanished altogether, bore a scrawled notice announcing: Bombed out but not sold out; business as usual. Blasted houses, divided in two as if by a giant knife, exposed the intimacies of private life to the public view: a dressing-table, a washstand, a bed with a striped mattress, perched aloft in the third storey, inaccessible now to any but a climber’s foot, beaten upon by wind and rain. These soiled relics of what were once warm human habitations depressed Morcar particularly. There’s nothing romantic about being bombed, he thought; it’s just a miserable, uncomfortable mess. And therefore it takes all the more courage to stand up to, he concluded.

  The winter afternoon drew towards its close, and Morcar began to experience a strangely poignant feeling of brooding anticipation. The dusk gathered, but no lights appeared save the dim pinpoints of hand torches and tiny circles on the buses; half-seen figures stumbled along as though through greyish mist, and entered screened doorways with an effect of relief. Everything seemed waiting, waiting. Morcar found the phrase “the doomed city” reverberating in his mind; it was perfectly possible, he reflected, and indeed not unlikely, that when if ever the war was over, London would look like the ruins he had seen in Rome, on the Palatine. A pang of angry grief went through his heart at the thought. Dark closed in, the muffling choking dark of the London blackout. The blackness seemed to press down on Morcar’s head, so that it was with difficulty that he straightened his neck and walked upright. The edges of pavements became pitfalls to be negotiated with attention; each passer-by offered a possible collision. The streets became unfamiliar, so that one continually felt lost, as in a nightmare. Morcar had promised to meet Jenny at the bar of a hotel not far from the Admiralty where she was now working. He negotiated the screens and the black curtains with careful patience, and entered a foyer which seemed of dazzling brilliance by contrast with the murk outside. At once his spirits rose; here at last was a familiar scene. Not quite familiar, he discovered presently, for there were very few people having drinks; the waiter with whom he entered into talk explained to him that nowadays people liked to get home before the night raids started.

  Jenny was late; he had ceased to watch the door for her when suddenly she came towards him, radiant in a hooded coat of bright warm blue. Morcar had time to recognise the stuff as of David’s manufacture before he saw, following Jenny as she threaded her way through the empty tables, David himself. David—in battle-dress, which Morcar had not seen before—looked well and lively, much happier than when Morcar had seen him in the spring. After greeting the young people cordially, Morcar commented on their cheerful looks.

  “David’s happy because he’s training for something dangerous,” said Jenny, glancing at her love with mock reproach and real admiration.

  This was a sentiment Morcar understood. “What are you up to, then, David?” he eagerly enquired.

  “I’m afraid I mustn’t tell you—it’s all very hush-hush,” replied David with a smile. “It’s not at all dangerous yet, just bookwork, mugging up the necessary knowledge. I’ve just been to the War House—I have to get back to camp tonight.”

  The drinks Morcar had ordered came; he paid for them, sat back, and raised his glass to the young pair. It gave him pleasure to see them together, for they were most admirably matched in body, mind and spirit. They replied suitably to his toast but then fell silent, and as Morcar contemplated them it struck him that of course they wished to be alone. Hastily he rose and explained that he must go; they smiled at him kindly but with obvious relief and sent messages by him to Christina.

  “Mother doesn’t know David’s here—it was an unexpected visit. Tell her I may be a little late. I know it’s her night at the post and she can’t wait dinner for me. I’ll scrounge something for myself when I get in,” said Jenny.

  The Underground was bright and cheerful, the Kensington streets correspondingly black to Morcar’s eyes; although he knew them so well he lost his way twice and was profoundly thankful when at last he found himself on the Haringtons’ doorstep. He fumbled for the bell and rang; the door was opened almost immediately by Christina.

  “Oh, Harry, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said in a tone of relief. “You’re rather late—I was afraid I should have to go out and leave you.” She drew him in and closed the door. In the bluish light of the wartime hall lamp Morcar saw that she was dressed in dark blue jersey and slacks. “It’s my night on duty,” she explained.

  Morcar was so familiar with every cadence of her voice that he knew at once Harington was not in the house. He picked her up in his arms and kissed her vigorously.

  “No, no, Harry,” said Christina.

  “Why not? Winnie served divorce papers on me yesterday,” said Morcar cheerfully, taking off his coat, “I shall be free next year.”

  Christina made no reply, but drew him into the dining-room. The windows were boarded; the dining-table had been pushed to one end of the room; the o
ther end was arranged as a sitting-room, with a small table, a radio, and armchairs.

  “We’re living in this room at present,” explained Christina. “Safer downstairs, you know. Besides, there’s a good deal of glass all over the drawing-room and we haven’t managed to get the windows boarded yet.”

  She rang a handbell—blast had put the other out of order, she explained—and told the elderly maid to put a portion to keep hot for Miss Jennifer and then serve dinner.

  “I must go to the post. Will you walk there with me, Harry?” she said when the meal was over.

  “Of course. I should like to see as much of everything here as I can,” said Morcar gravely. “So that I can tell them all at home what it’s like.”

  Christina put on a dark coat on which was stitched a blue armlet with the letters C.D. in yellow, slung her respirator over her shoulder, and balanced a steel helmet marked with a white W on her head. The tin hat slipped sideways on her dark curly hair; in this position it framed her lovely face enchantingly, but was not much use as a protection against falling shrapnel.

  “Your strap’s too loose,” said Morcar in an experienced tone. He took off the helmet and adjusted the buckle. “That’s better?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Christina, smiling up at him.

  Morcar took her face between his hands beneath the helmet, and kissed her—her sea-blue eyes, her rich mouth, the tip of her nose for a joke, her mouth again. Then the pair set out for the post.

  “You’re a warden, then?” said Morcar, drawing her arm through his and interlacing their fingers.

  “Yes. Jerry’s late tonight,” said Christina, looking up at the sky. It was now crossed by white shafts which swayed and stabbed: the searchlights. “Haven’t you had any raids in the West Riding, Harry?”

  “Yes. But in Annotsfield we’ve only had an accidental stick or two. We hear the enemy go over night after night, of course. We get plenty of yellow and purple warnings. But they’re always on their way to somewhere else.”

  Christina guided him down a flight of steps into the basement of a house which was fitted up as a Wardens’ Post. It had the same characteristics as posts in Stanney and Annotsfield, reflected Morcar; the same items of essential report equipment, the same kind of neat supplementary improvisations—only, here they had all been used. The wardens, here as at home, were both men and women, mostly middle-aged, drawn from every income level. There was the banker, the tradesman, the housewife, the plumber, the shop assistant, the Civil Servant. They all greeted Morcar with great heartiness, especially when they learned he had been a warden himself. They hinted, tentatively, a polite curiosity as to why he had given it up.

  “There isn’t much air activity round our way,” explained Morcar. “And all those hills of ours take a lot of watching.”

  Perceiving his interest to be genuine, the warden in charge of the post suggested that he might like to see the people sheltering in the Underground station. Morcar eagerly agreed, and as no alert had yet sounded, the warden offered to take Morcar and Christina there. He guided them down the spiral staircase which led to the Underground platform. It was a bright hell, thought Morcar; beneath the glare of the electric light, against whitewashed walls, lay the uneasy bodies of men, women and children, wedged against the stone stairs on either side by mattresses and rolled-up clothing. Late-comers with heavy bundles under their arms sought anxiously for a vacant stair. The platform below was crowded along the walls to the white chalk marks which defined the limits of the sleeping accommodation. Flushed children wandered excitedly from group to group, or tossed restlessly on improvised beds, unable to sleep; some of the shelterers read, some knitted, some simply lay and stared, bright-eyed, at the light; some sang mournful songs which seemed to cause them a cheerful hilarity. At one end of the platform members of the Women’s Voluntary Services, in their neat green suits, with a nurse in a white coat, dispensed cups of tea, advice and sympathy. Behind them, signs indicated emergency lavatory accommodation. Electric trains arrived and departed at regular intervals with an effect of callous disregard, a couple of yards away from the feet of the sleepers. The heat and the hubbub seemed to Morcar quite appalling, but nobody looked downcast or anxious.

  “What a people!” thought Morcar.

  The warden led Morcar aside into an unused whitewashed tunnel, and proudly showed him tiers of iron bunks.

  “These will be ready for use soon, and then they’ll be able to get a real night’s rest.”

  As they emerged thankfully into the cool air, the siren sounded. Its long wailing rise and fall depressed Morcar; at that moment he echoed Mr. Churchill’s wish that the sirens could be taught to bark defiance at the enemy, for the final sinking cadence seemed to retreat from hope and prophesy destruction.

  “I must be off!” shouted the warden, running.

  Christina seized Morcar’s arm and dragged him along briskly, but paused when they reached the top of the post’s basement steps. “The gunfire’s distant yet,” she said. “I needn’t go down for a moment or two. You must go and shelter in our house, Harry.”

  “Christina—I may not see you again before I go off to the States,” began Morcar hurriedly.

  “Oh, Harry! Are you going so soon?”

  “In a week or two.”

  “By air?”

  “No. Sea.”

  “But won’t it be very dangerous? The submarines seem very active just now.”

  “Dangerous! That comes well from you, in London!” exclaimed Morcar. “I’m glad it’s dangerous, he went on quickly: “I’m tired of being safe. If you think we enjoy it up in Yorkshire, being safe while you down here have air-raids every night, you’re wrong. To hear about the blitz on the wireless and be able to do nothing to help—it’s hell. Truly it is, Christina. Besides, we need the dollars,” he went on, swerving away from a feeling which embarrassed him. “We must push up our exports so that we can buy more tanks and planes. When I get back, my divorce will come on. I shall be free with any luck by next autumn. I’m putting all this badly because of the alert,” he said hurriedly, as the gunfire increased ominously and pink flashes lit up the sky. “Before the divorce is made absolute we must be careful of course, but afterwards you’ll come to me, won’t you?” Christina was silent, and Morcar put his arm about her and urged her: “You’ll fix it up with Harington about a divorce, or come to me and let Harington divorce you, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Harry, I will,” said Christina deliberately: “As soon as the war is over.”

  “No, no! Don’t wait for the war—we may have to wait for years,” said Morcar urgently. “We’ve wasted far too many years already.”

  “I can’t do it now, Harry. I can’t leave Edward and Jenny in London during the blitz. I can’t break up Edwin’s home when he’s on the high seas.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “I can but I won’t,” said Christina. “You would despise me if I did, Harry.”

  A prolonged whine in the air increased to a shrill but heavy roar and ended in a violent concussion. The blast seemed to rock the houses; some windows fell out along the street, Morcar’s coat was dragged from his shoulders and Christina swayed in his arms. Before they had quite recovered their balance they were pushed aside by the warden in charge, who rushed up the steps crying vehemently: “Incident by the Underground!”

  “I must go—goodbye, Harry!” cried Christina, running after the warden. “Stay the night at our house—don’t try to reach your hotel.”

  Morcar groped about for his hat, which had fallen off, and, sheltering in doorways or surface shelters during the worst moments, made his way back to the Underground station. The sky was full of the reeling shafts of searchlights and the sudden flashes of gunfire; planes grated continually overhead, as it seemed to Morcar, very low; bombs whined and thudded; broken buildings rumbled heavily to earth; shrapnel spattered the roadway like rain; glass tinkled in sudden cascades from the window-frames. Morcar’s predominant sensation was one of anger; to
think of Christina enduring this hell of danger every night made him almost mad with rage. It came to him as he crouched angrily behind a glassless shop front that, once he was divorced, he could force Christina’s hand by telling Harington himself of their liaison. This idea made him chuckle grimly.

  The raid had not finished when his train reached the Strand, but it had become a point of honour with him not to stay in a shelter while Christina was outside one. His walk through the streets was dangerous and highly uncomfortable, and several wardens and policemen shouted at him impatiently to get inside, but he persevered, and reached his hotel in safety.

  44. Lease and Lend

  The winter of 1940–1941 was an awkward though interesting time for an Englishman to visit the U.S.A., for a vast argument which vitally concerned England was in the throes of nationwide discussion. The proposed “Lease and Lend” Act, to enable the President to procure any defence article for the government of any country whose defence the President deems vital to the defence of the United States, had just been laid before Congress; if passed, England would be able to secure munitions even when her dollar reserve became exhausted; if not passed, England would soon have to conduct and furnish the war against Hitler without any American armaments.

  As Morcar made acquaintance with the teeming life, the myriad aspects, of the great continent, the argument for and against this Act raged round his head. He gazed with admiration at the soaring beautifully proportioned New York skyscrapers (the view of which from the Bay he thought fully equal to Venice) and was amused by the effect their express elevators had upon his entrails; he felt the sub-zero bite of the winter wind, heard the grinding of the ice across the frozen lakes and rivers, flew over the jagged peaks of the Rockies and the vast rolling prairie plains, and respected the courage of the pioneers who crossed and tamed them. He travelled in the handsome olive-green steel trains with their poignant clanging bells, their powerful headlights, and chuckled at American ingenuity as he buttoned himself into the seclusion of his berth behind neat green curtains. He blinked doubtfully at the brilliant but uncoordinated whirling traceries of Broadway; he appreciated the æsthetic grace of the long unswerving slope of Fifth Avenue; he opened wide eyes at the complex subtlety of the garb of its crowds of well-dressed women. (Christina, he felt, would think the New York fashions excessive and Jenny didn’t count because she cared little for fashions, but little Fan Oldroyd would dote on them.) And wherever he went he heard about him the echoes of the national argument. This is not our war.… This is our war.… Our national security is not involved in a British defeat.… Here are free men like ourselves struggling to preserve themselves and their freedom.… England is of course fighting for her existence, but it is not our battle.… Britain is standing alone in defence of liberty.… Britain is despotic, arbitrary and tyrannical.… No, democracy is not dying.… America first.… With his mind full of pictures of bombed London, bombed Hull, bombed Sheffield, bombed Liverpool, Morcar found that the phrases he overheard sometimes assuaged but more often inflamed the prejudices he had taken with him across the Atlantic.