The Innocent Moon

by Henry Williamson

  Perhaps the word Furnished had been a euphemism, he thought, seeing the cottage with new eyes. Going upstairs he saw that someone, possibly the unstamped letter-writer, had scrawled across a photographic enlargement of himself, as a very new 1915 subaltern wearing an hour-old uniform, the word Swank.

  From the second outgoing tenant Phillip had bought about two hundredweight of slack coal at the price of nuts. This should be in the cellar under the stairs; but upon opening the door, preparatory to lighting a fire, he observed only a couple of shovelfuls of slack under some mouldering newspapers. Crouching in the cellar, holding a lighted candle in his hand, he read with haunting melancholy an official communiqué telling of the British advance through the forest of Mormal; and was recalled to reality by a queer noise in the open doorway, through which most of the kitchen light came. There, a few inches from the ground, was a bundle of rags about a small pallid face set with two staring dark eyes. As he gazed back the bundle advanced towards him with crab-like rapidity; it stopped and stared; and reversing the movement, disappeared as it had come. Phillip thought that it seemed to be familiar with the location of the coal-hole.

  The next visitor at the open door was an old dog of the collie sort. It stared at him sadly until he went towards it holding out a hand in friendship, when it fled swiftly at this unfamiliar gesture down the bed of the stream.

  Searching about outside he found some damp twigs, and with these tried to make a fire in the rusty kitchen range. Two boxes of matches were used before a core of fire was rising, with weak blue flames and much uncertain smoke, into the shut-door obscurity of the kitchen. Deciding that the flue must be choked with soot, he attempted to scrape it out with a soup-spoon tied to a stick. Further inspection revealed that the iron was rusted through at the corners of the oven. The sheet iron across the chimney also was eaten away, giving in several places a glimpse of sky above the chimney. Having pulled the sheet iron down, with about a sackful of soot and mortar, he made a way clear for draught and smoke; and when his third and last box of matches was used, the flames took hold of the wood. Selected knobs of what coal remained were placed with care at strategic points, and soon the kitchen became cheery.

  Mattresses, blankets, and pillows were then brought down to air before the fire. Julian’s aunt had warned him to look for possible nests of mice in the mattresses; but the only marks on them were of rust from the bed-springs.

  He put more wood on the fire, and went to the shop. Returning with a new kettle—the old one was rusted out—some eggs, butter, marmalade and bread, he met the postman searching in his brown canvas bag by the pump. Gubbacombe seemed glad to see him, and held out a letter and a parcel.

  “I wish you very good health, sir, now you’m come among us all.”

  “Why, is there a plague in Malandine, Gubby?”

  “Aw no, tes ’ealthy like now the sun shineth,” he replied, wheeling away his red bicycle.

  Soon the new kettle was singing like a starling, the eggs were chirruping like crickets, and the occupier was sitting happily by his own hearth and opening the parcel from home. Inside was a Dundee cake, three pairs of woollen socks obviously knitted at home—judging by the little cul-de-sac at the end of the toes—a rubber hot-water bottle, and a bottle of Mother Seagle’s Syrup, a medicament concocted by Leo the chemist, spoonfuls of which he had had to take during the winters of his childhood, against croup.

  Mother Seagle’s Syrup was too much. He went to the door, meaning to toss the bottle under the currant bushes; but no, that small tender face beside the aspidistra! It would be throwing part of Mother away. He would keep Mother Seagle’s Syrup on the chimney shelf as a souvenir.

  He was looking out of the door when the bonnet of a high and bony-looking car, its ancient gearbox droning, stopped at the top of the lane beside the communal water-pump. Steam was issuing from its radiator. The large red fur-collared face of the passenger looked towards him with satisfaction. Julian got out, and felt in his pocket. He was hatless, and wore his bearskin flying coat unbuttoned over a new brown suit, with starched collar, yellow-spotted bow-tie (not ready-made, Phillip noticed) and new pointed brown shoes. His starched white cuffs and wing collar and red-brown curly hair brushed back and oiled, gave him, for the moment, a most distinguished appearance, like a grand duke of Ruritania. The grand duke bestowed upon the driver three half-crowns, saying, “Oh, er—do keep the change!”

  Julian’s rolled valise and several boxes of books, Phillip’s japanned uniform case, boots, gun-case, and box of books were removed from the 1911 Argyll limousine. Helped by the driver, they were carried into the cottage.

  “Ha!” said Julian, rubbing his hands together, when the taxicab had steamed away. “Well, Master, here we are! Welcome to our future fame!”

  “Welcome to Valerian Cottage! I’ll show you your bedroom.”

  “Oh, is there a bedroom? What a chap you are for surprises, Master!” Julian seemed highly pleased. “Eggs for tea! By heaven, I’m glad to be here. Did you have a good journey down?” His grand-ducal manner, from the immense bearskin coat, was exhilarating.

  A number of neighbours had watched the arrival; Phillip now closed the door, led the way upstairs, and heaved Julian’s valise into the inner bedroom. If Julian snored he could always carry his own camp-bed downstairs. However, perhaps snoring wouldn’t be audible with the bedroom door shut, even though it was pretty flimsy.

  Together the two wolfed most of the crusty loaf and dish of salted butter, with three eggs each. The rest of the loaf disappeared to the accompaniment of knives thrust into the marmalade pot. Julian then handed over a cheque for two guineas for his bed and board, the balance from his half share of expenses to be given to himself for petty cash, he explained.

  “Yes, I remember the arrangement, Julian.”

  “Which is the bed and which is the board I don’t know,” Julian remarked after tea, as he prodded his steaming mattress. “But it all seems damned good to me. I went to see J. C. Knight at the London Apollo office yesterday, about my translation of Catullus. He said it was very good indeed. He said he would speak to Seeker about it. I hope to get fifty pounds advance—so you see, I may beat you yet, old boy!”

  “Congratulations!” Phillip looked at Julian as at a different person, admiring his air of power and precision. Then the guest began to roll Latin sonorously off his tongue, while fixing him with his eyes. “You will remember your Catullus.”

  When he had finished, Phillip said, “‘Sunt lacrimae rerum, et mortalia cordum tangunt.’ You will recall your Virgil.”

  “Well, old boy, that just about sums up the scheme of things. Oh well, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices! By God, Phillip, there’s plenty of fun to be got out of this old world still!”

  They sat by the fire, talking. The alarm clock on the chimney shelf pointed to six. After a glance at its face a slight restlessness came over the guest. Then he rubbed his hands together. Outside it was getting dark. He shifted his seat on the box. “Well, Maître, what shall we do?”

  “We’ll have to wash up, of course, but there’s no hurry. Then I’m going to write a chapter.”

  After awhile Julian got up. A look of diffident solicitation was on his face.

  “I say, old boy, I wonder——” His eyebrows arose to their limit. “Er—I wonder if you could advance me a bit—say ten shillings?”

  “Well, as you know, Julian, we agreed to keep to the arrangement that I should give you the—er—the unexpended portion at the end of the week. I’ve got very little money, actually. Also, well—look here—here’s a shilling—no, I’ll make it one and sixpence.”

  “Thank you. What time would you like me to come back to dinner? Or don’t we have dinner? Just as you please—I can eat anything, bread and cheese, cold meat——”

  “I’ll have to get some cheese. And onions.” They had often lunched thus during their country walks—those walks which had become tedious after Julian’s half dozen midday pints.

  �
�Excellent!” Julian rubbed his hands. “I’ll go and explore the village. I say, Father would appreciate a telegram, if only to disappoint him in his belief that I would never get here. Could you manage—er—another bob, old boy?”

  “The telegraph office is a couple of miles away and probably shut by now, but here you are. The better pub is the Ring of Bells. I’ll be there about nine o’clock.”

  “Splendid! Well, old boy, if you’re sure there’s nothing I can do—I don’t want to interfere with your mystic moods——”

  “I’m going to wash up, but don’t you bother, thanks.”

  “Oh, but I must do my whack, Phil! What do we wash up in? Is there a basin anywhere?”

  “Curse, no. Oh, would you mind fetching one of the washing basins from upstairs? Take this candle. I shan’t need my basin—I’m going to wash in the stream. We’ll want some more cold drinking water—I’ll show you where the pump is, at the end of our lane. I must get my bike in, too.”

  When they had washed up Phillip wheeled in the Norton and stood it against the wall with its rear wheel behind the door. Julian stood by to help, although Phillip said he needed no help.

  “Very well, Maître.” Julian shook himself into the bearskin coat, and went away with slow, cautious steps into the darkness, striking one match after another. It was a relief that he had gone, for now Phillip could set his brass candle-stick on the table, and with back to the fire continue with the scene which had seemed so good and exciting. The book was writing itself: he never knew what would happen morc than a sentence ahead. Often as he wrote he chuckled, especially in the classroom scenes.

  The pen moved rapidly over the paper after the usual preliminary hesitations. Then the alarm clock went off with startling loudness and the fire was out. He felt tired, and opening the door, breathed deeply of the air before going back to put on his trench-coat and continue writing; to break off in the middle of a sentence in order to begin the more easily on the morrow. Nearly four thousand words! He re-read what he had written, lying half across the table, and was delighted with the scenes. Had he written that? And that? But it was not good to read back to himself immediately after writing. It absorbed nervous power: rigid discipline was to be the foundation of the new life. He looked at the clock. 9.15 p.m. He was keeping to his programme. Now for a pint of mild at the Ring of Bells!

  The village was dark. A dull roaring filled the air. He looked up and saw the stars, feeling strength in his breast. Lighting his brass lantern, with its cow-horn sides, he felt his way down the lane; and coming to the Ring of Bells in the open valley, heard a louder wave-roll from the distant Channel. An illuminated object, in glow like a phosphoric whale, was moving slowly eastward—one of the great liners from America. How wonderful to be living in such a romantic place! He could hardly believe his luck. Everything was so new and fresh—London was of another world, gone for ever. Opening the door of the inn he felt the hot blast of thick air, warmed by an oil stove, on his face. Half a dozen men were standing around Julian, still in his bearskin, pint glass in hand, his face very red, his head held high.

  Looking on the landlord’s slate, Phillip saw that ten pints had been scored to Julian. That meant he was getting beer on credit. His hope of a good time at the inn was dulled as Julian moved near to him and said in a low voice, “I hope you don’t mind, old boy, but I thought it diplomatic to stand these chaps a drink on this our first night. Come, old boy, come! It’s a poor heart that never rejoices. Indigestion? Of course you haven’t got indigestion! You can convince yourself you’ve got anything if you want to think it. Even a great prose style, Maître! Put that pint down, and have another. Er—landlord—er, will you please fill up all glasses again? Thank you.”

  Shortly before midnight, while Julian was snoring in the inner room, Phillip toppled his bedding down the stairs, following it with the folded camp-bed. The kitchen range was still warm. With blankets covering all but his nose he fell asleep sometime between one and two o’clock.

  Chapter 8

  ENTER PORKY

  By 8 a.m. both had washed astride the small stream running below the garden, dressed, shaken and folded blankets, and prepared breakfast of porridge, boiled eggs, marmalade, and tea. They ate with leisure; Phillip reading Book I of Sinister Street, which was extraordinarily interesting; Julian absorbed in a yellow-covered volume of Rousseau’s unexpurgated Confessions. Phillip’s new beard itched, but its noticeably increased length was pleasing.

  Afterwards, while Julian washed up, Phillip went to the shop, to return with pail and mop. Several score gallons of stream water were sluiced over the floor, one of them nearly wetting the old cattle dog that appeared at the open door, only to flee again.

  The sun was shining, and about 9.30 they set out for a walk to the seashore. The wind was up Channel, westerly, a generous and warm wind amidst cloud shadows moving swiftly over sea and land with bursts of sunshine.

  Above the line of tide-wrack on Turnstone sands some fishermen were breaking up a wooden wreck. For an hour or so they watched them working with bar, axe and sled, while carts were loaded with timbers of teak, oak, and pitch-pine. A man said that lots of wood were to be auctioned on Saturday afternoon in an adjoining field. Phillip determined to buy some for firing.

  The waves were whitely thunderous on the shore, their lace spreading far up the irregularly hollowed sands by the power of the west wind. Foam bubbles raced to reach the upper loose sand. Julian did not seem to want to watch them. Something gnawed him inwardly. He began to bite a fingernail. Of course, it was past noon, when pubs opened! Phillip, determined to keep him from wasting himself, led the way along a footpath.

  “Where are we going, Maître?”

  “There’s a wonderful walk along the cliffs, Julian. It’s a tremendous sight from the far end, quite Wagnerian!”

  He began to wish again, as on previous occasions, that Julian would not walk always a little in front, continually turning to thrust his face near his own when quoting Swinburne. And why couldn’t he enjoy the present scene? Besides, his literary facts were used to point destructively at himself, derisively called “Maître”. No longer could he believe what Julian said about himself or any living or dead writer or event or indeed anything, although all he said had a convincing ring about it.

  He wanted to lose himself in the sea and the sky and the grass, to walk thoughtless as the west wind. Many times he was on the point of forcing himself to tell Julian to shut up, to be quiet, to release the coils of his spirit with the celandines and larks and gossamers in the spring; but the personal wish was equal with one that wanted not to spoil Julian’s enjoyment in what interested and was important to him. If only, unlike his father, Julian could sometimes refrain from sarcasm.

  The sea was breaking on grey, black, and brown masses of rock which once had been part of the cliff, throwing up spray and rushing to assault the sands of Malandine beach.

  “I think I’ll make Donkin swim out here, when he drowns at the climax,” said Phillip, pointing at an upstanding rock looking like the profile of Britannia, with helmet.

  “Donkin!” scoffed Warbeck. “Donkin! The little donkey! Wasn’t that your nickname when you were young? What a chap you are, Phillip!” he went on, unbuttoning his khaki R.A.F. tunic which he wore with a pair of grey flannel trousers and brown brogues. Phillip wore his old army jacket, badges of regiment and rank removed, over a white sweater, with grey flannel bags and brogues.

  “I wonder how you would have treated Swinburne, if you had known him when he was young, Julian?”

  “I would have treated him to all the liquor he could put away, Maître, I do assure you! And we would have rejoiced together! Frankly, old boy, any man who can take himself so extraordinarily seriously as to drown himself in a book is certainly not worthy of drowning his nose in a tankard!”

  “Donkin isn’t me. He’s partly based on Willie, and——”

  “Willie! There’s another driveller! And who cares about what you ‘partly base’
your fantasies upon? Well, it beats me, old boy. I don’t get you at all. What is it you’re trying to do, after all? So far you’ve written, and got accepted as a speculation, a whimsical Adam-and-Eve and for-God’s-sake-don’t-pinch-me first novel of the type called ‘promising’ by a publisher’s hack reader!”

  Phillip walked faster up the rising shoulder of land which, above them on the cliffs, he called the Rock of the Valkyries. Warbeck hurried to catch up. The Rock was about 300 feet above sea-level, then for four miles or so there was a path along the cliffs, ending at the formidable headland where, 400 feet above the waves, stood the ruins of Valhalla.

  “Take a joke, Maître! Come on, old boy, you know I believe you are, or will be, a very fine writer! But as for being an immortal—to rank with Swinburne, or Hardy, or Keats—well—I could have written your little story myself—only I wouldn’t have wanted to! Is there a pub where we’re going?”

  “No!” yelled Phillip, turning back abruptly and returning upon the path down to the shore. Julian’s presence would ruin the vast petrified music of the cliffs.

  Continuing west along the shore, he saw his first dead guillemot, its feathers clotted with the brown smear of oil-fuel-waste from some ship passing up the Channel. Julian gave it a glance of disinterest, and grunted. To Phillip it was fascinating to see what the sea threw up: corks lay in irregular strings of seaweed with cast flight-quills of herring gulls. There were many shells of a white and pink fragility. Damn, Julian had again taken up position just ahead, and was turning round to recount more of his adventures in a Bournemouth hôtel, during convalescence after his crash.

  Was that a ringed plover, flitting past with powerful elbow-jerks of sharp wings? It looked too small. Could it be a little ringed plover? If so, it was a fairly rare bird! O why must Julian always talk, talk, talk?

  “I was a damned fool, Phil. After the rubber, when my partner and I had gone down about a thousand points at a shilling a point, I rang the bell and asked for the manager. When he came, I said, ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you this morning, my father is coming for the week-end. Will you please reserve a suite on the first floor for his Lordship.’ ‘Certainly, sir.’ ‘Oh, and can you cash me a cheque for a small amount—say fifty pounds?’ The old boy looked doubtful, so I said, ‘If it’s inconvenient don’t bother—I’ll telegraph.’ He said he could manage two tenners, but I said I’d telegraph. The suite was reserved—and they didn’t like to ask me what Father’s title was.”