It Was the Nightingale

by Henry Williamson

  When he had read the book, Phillip had seen Christie as the prototype of the strange, restless hero, possessed by fears and visions, while in London, during the March, 1918, attack by the Germans on the Somme. O, why hadn’t he talked to Christie? And why wasn’t he writing his book at that very moment, instead of getting married, with all the fuss it involved?

  He thought of the cheering, idealistic crowds outside Buckingham Palace, seen with Willie on the night of Tuesday, August the third, 1914; of the young volunteers marching away, cheer after cheer: the same in Germany, schoolboys with flowers in forage caps and pickelhauben: the bearded B.E.F. in France with tunics stripped of buttons given to civilians lining the routes to the canvas camps on the chalk downs above Boulogne. It was still the spirit of Rupert Brooke, of the inexperienced. Wilfred Owen’s ‘poetry is in the pity’ was not known, not felt, in 1914. Then the poetry was in the spirit of men untried by war, each man a hero in his nation’s eyes, but seldom in his own. Would Christie have written that 1919 essay if he had been an infantry soldier? Was he thinking of his own youth and that of his friends in the splendid sun of those pre-war summers? Before the sun swelled the dead?

  Should he stop, and turn round, and go back to seek out Christie?

  No: it was too late now.

  But he must begin the book as soon as he got back to Devon.

  What really caused the war, in which all sides had believed themselves to be fighting for freedom, home, beauty, and civilisation? Could the causes of war be found in any one family in Europe, as germs seen under a microscope? Was it, as Tom Cundall, his old schoolfellow had told him, when they had met on Blackheath during his last visit home, a capitalists’ war? What was a capitalist—every small shopkeeper? If it was a capitalists’ war, the shopkeepers died in their own war. Was it, as Willie had declared, an attitude of mind, that must be changed before war came again? How far was an attitude of mind deriving from the economic situation in any country?

  Novels of propaganda soon dated. What then? One small family unit, with all the attitudes of a family coming to disharmony? His own family, as an example?

  As he passed by Stonehenge in the moonlight he told himself that he must always avoid what Conrad had called ‘the terrible tyranny of a fixed idea’. Was there a way to free human beings, including himself, from personal constriction: so that the true self would shine before all men, arising above the obscurity of the petty self? Could this come only through social revolution, as Willie had declared? Or was it a personal matter of self-discipline and self-training as Jesus had indicated?

  *

  There were no lights in the windows when he reached Down Close. As usual, the doors were unlocked. All were gone to bed. He undressed in the chalet, put on his dressing-gown, went into the scullery to wash, and then stole up the back stairs into Lucy’s bedroom.

  He heard her whisper to him in the dark. Without speaking he got into bed beside her, marvelling at the warm softness of her body against his own. He longed for her to put her arms round him, to hold him secure; he longed to tell her, while thus held, that all was well with him, that there was harmony at last, that the love of his mother was flowing out of him once more through herself; that the breach of the war was healing; that the future would be clear where before it had been obscured; but she lay still. A feeling that he had shocked her came upon him, and as personal hope grew smaller, so did thoughts of the war and the tragedy of mankind increase. Doubt arose; she was not Barley; he must follow his life backwards into time, to live as it were in memory, instead of in the present; be apart from other people forever.

  “Good-night,” he said and went down the stairs, and through the kitchen, and round the path to the lawn and the chalet, while the innocent moon, companion of the night journey, seemed to have meaning no longer.

  Chapter 19

  THE PROMISE

  A dark green Delage two-seater, its driver avoiding a heap of earth, stones, and uprooted thorns, drew up before a notice board, freshly painted to judge by the odd fly feebly moving upon its surface.

  COPLESTON BROS

  Dogstar Works

  ENGINEERS & CONTRACTORS

  Battery Manufacturers, Wireless Sets,

  Electric Light Installations & Wiring.

  MODELS MADE TO SCALE

  Every kind of Contract Undertaken

  HORSES shod in a Modern FORGE

  Petrol, Oil & Motor Cars SUPPLIED

  Tel. 75 Shakesbury

  Turning away from this ambitious effort Hilary Maddison walked towards the roof of a house visible beyond the whitewashed Works. By the big double doors, painted the same colour as the corrugated iron roof—a reddish brown lead-based paint—he examined a cyclecar with rusting two-cylinder V-engine standing below the large eastern window. Nettles were growing through the floor-boards. The long rubber belt from engine pulley to rear-wheel axle was beginning to crack. It looked as though it had stood there since the previous summer—as it had.

  Opposite, behind a new fence—already beginning to split, he noticed, as green wood had been used—stood four empty carboys, each in an iron cage beginning to rust. He looked at the label on the nearest—the date of despatch from the vitriol factory at Bristol was over a month old: and £5 allowed on each carboy upon return.

  Looking through the window, he saw new machinery, with balata belting to each machine taken off the pulley of a six-horsepower oil engine. He estimated that £600 had been laid out inside. Whatever did Lucy’s brothers think they were going to do with that workshop right out in the wilds?

  Walking on towards the back premises of the house, he passed, with disapproval, a large heap of ashes mixed with garbage piled against a stone wall of what looked to be a blacksmith’s shop. How long had the heap been accumulating? Several years, by the look of it.

  On the other side of the yard was a bed of nettles strangling a flowering currant bush; and beyond, a wooden work-shop raised on a sill of bricks. The windows were laced on the inside by spider-webs. The putty holding the glass panes to the casements was cracked, and in some places fallen. Long-standing neglect there!

  He went to the door of the workshop and knocked. There was no movement within; but water gushing into a drain led him to the kitchen door at the end of a rough concrete path. Beside the door was an untidy row of pails, some part-filled with distemper, others solidified with cement. He noticed that all the paint-pot lids were imperfectly secured; some were torn at the edge as though pliers had been used to remove the lids. Beside an enamel bowl full of either chicken or rabbit bones lay a large silver tureen spoon with an encrustation like solder in its bowl. He picked it up and saw that it had been used for melting lead which had part fused with the silver. The hall-mark on the back of the crested handle revealed its period to be George the First. So this was the family his young nephew was about to marry into!

  The scullery door opened and Phillip looked out, pen in hand. He had been writing in the kitchen.

  “Hullo, Uncle Hilary! I was just going to write to you. We’re not sending out wedding invitations, Lucy and I, but asking people to come on the twenty-seventh.”

  “I see. What’s this, d’you know?” He held out the heavy spoon with its curved handle.

  “I think Tim used it when trying to melt lead to sweat on a cracked water-pipe.”

  “But it’s a fine piece of family silver! It should not be used for such purposes. Hasn’t their father anything to say about this sort of thing?”

  “Oh, he leaves the Boys alone. After all, they’re grown up.”

  “Oh.” A feeling of remote heaviness passed through him. Recovering, he went on, “How are they proposing to get work here, miles away from anywhere?”

  “I’ll show you the water-wheel for the grist mill they’re making.”

  He led Hilary round the path into the garden. On the lawn beside the chalet stood a wooden wheel about ten feet in diameter, bolted to a cast-iron frame. At regular intervals new elm-wood troughs formed the peri
meter. “They catch the weights of falling water which turn the wheel.”

  “My dear fellow, I’ve seen a water-wheel before this, you know!” Hilary examined it closely. “Good workmanship!” he remarked, pointing at the copper nails which secured the troughs. “It must have taken some time to bore the holes for these nails.”

  “Ernest, the eldest brother, is a very careful craftsman.”

  “How are they going to get this to the mill? How far away is it?”

  “About six miles. They’ll have to hire a lorry, I suppose.”

  “Won’t that add to the cost? Such things are usually built on the site, you know. How much did they estimate for this job? D’you know?”

  “There wasn’t an agreed price. They told the miller they would charge for the wood and their carpenter’s time only.”

  “They employ a carpenter, then?”

  “They took one on to make the cupboards and benches in the new workshop. At the moment he’s helping Pa to repair the benches in the church.”

  “Who pays for that?”

  “Nobody. It’s a present for Pa.”

  “But somebody must pay!”

  “Oh yes, they’ll pay the carpenter!”

  Hilary decided that his nephew’s complacent attitude would have to alter if he was to succeed as a business man.

  “What other work have they got?”

  Phillip led his uncle to another part of the garden.

  “They’re going to lay this cable from their new battery house, near the notice-board, to a house up the lane.”

  “But this is a submarine cable! It must have cost a small fortune!”

  “About a hundred pounds.”

  “Why not two overhead wires? That would carry the small load from the batteries quite well—and at one tenth of the cost!”

  “Well, you see, the people who want the electricity won’t have overhead cables.”

  “Do they know that this cable costs about five pounds a fathom?”

  “It’s not really my affair, Uncle.”

  “What happens if the power plant fails? A contract is a contract, you know! They might claim damages in the form of a complete battery set and engine to be installed!”

  “Oh, they’re two maiden ladies, I expect they’ll light their oil lamps, should the engine conk at any time.”

  Hilary looked around. “Where is Lucy?”

  “She’s gone otter-hunting with Pa and the Boys.”

  “Why haven’t you gone?”

  “I’m trying to write.”

  “I see. Any other jobs in prospect for Copleston Brothers?”

  “They intend to hire girls to make flash-lamp batteries, later on. Meanwhile they’re making sac machines, and also putting a roof on the extension building of the Shakesbury Gas Works.”

  “Did they tender for that?”

  “Oh yes. They were £100 cheaper than the nearest tender.”

  “Have they any experience of how to estimate for such work?”

  “Not really.”

  “What does that mean, ‘not really’? Either they have experience or they haven’t, surely?”

  “They’re doing these first jobs cheaply to advertise the Dogstar Works, Uncle, and to gain experience.”

  “Where did they get that name from? It sounds odd to me. It’s also capable of being parodied!”

  “I thought it would be a striking ‘style and title’, Uncle. You noticed it, you see!”

  Phillip explained that, further to advertise the firm, he had been drafting a new style of advertisements for the Boys in the local paper.

  “They intend to make a really first-class battery, equal to the famous Hellesen battery, Uncle. Just a moment, I’ll get you a copy of The Shakesbury Herald, and show you.”

  As Sirius, the Dog-star, is the strongest flashing star in the winter heavens, so the Copleston Bros, forthcoming Dogstar Battery will provide the finest light for every kind of torch, flash-lamp, and Dogstar Wireless Set, so listen-in with an improved pattern of Dogstar Headphones.

  “Are these things in production?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Whatever is the purpose of spending money on advertising goods that aren’t yet on the market? It’s money chucked away!”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that!”

  “What sort of a roof is it they’re putting on?”

  His nephew explained that the Gas Works roof had been tendered for at a price which allowed only for what it would cost Copleston Bros.—the estimated wages of the smith, cost of H and T steel girders, galvanised iron sheets, bolts, nuts, lead paint, and a ventilating louvre.

  “They must have a lot of money to throw away on all this so-called advertising!”

  “No, they haven’t.”

  “I don’t understand all this. What have they allowed for contingencies?”

  Phillip looked blank.

  “If the job should take longer than estimated, they’ll lose money on the extra time taken, which means extra labour costs. Then there is the penalty clause for not finishing to time. It might be, for such a job, so much as ten pounds or more a day. Where is this Gas Works? Have you seen what they’re doing?”

  “Yes. As I said, they’re doing it as cheaply as possible to advertise their name.”

  “They’ll advertise their name into the bankruptcy court in no time at all if they continue like that! And you tell me they’ve gone otter-hunting while in the middle of a contract job! As for those would-be comic advertisements in the local paper, you should stop them at once.”

  “Yes, I agree. And as it was my idea, I’ll pay for them. It costs only two pounds a week for six inches single column.”

  “Only two pounds a week! How long has this been going on?”

  “For a month, or so. I’ll stop it right away.”

  “What’s in here?” asked Hilary, by the tall red-brown doors.

  “The Works.”

  “Of course it’s the works! But what’s inside?”

  The office door was unlocked. Hilary saw that the receiver of the telephone had been left off the hook.

  “Pretty careless, isn’t it?”

  Phillip explained that it was Fiennes’ idea to leave it off, so that they would not be disturbed.

  “Good God! They advertise for sales of goods they haven’t made, and they fix the telephone to avoid listening to inquiries!”

  “I know, Uncle, I know! You needn’t think I can’t see what’s wrong here! But it’s also to discourage ‘Mister’ from ringing up.”

  “‘Mister’? Mr. Who?”

  “Mr. à Court Smith. He’s an old friend of the family, and a bit of a bore, as well as a sponger. Anyway, another reason—a cracked one, I’ll admit—put forward for keeping the receiver off is that, if anyone rings up and can’t get through, the ‘line engaged’ will give an idea of the Works being extremely busy.”

  “Busy on what? Dogstar batteries and wireless sets?”

  “Well, that’s Fiennes’ idea, not mine. I’m not responsible!”

  “But the operator knows whether the receiver is off or not!”

  “It’s nothing to do with me, Uncle. I am merely reporting facts!”

  “Do you spend a lot of time here? I mean, with the affairs of Lucy’s brothers?”

  “I thought I would help them until they get going. They’re rather innocent people, you see, with no business experience.”

  Hilary resolved to say no more; but it was too exasperating to remain silent.

  “Now look here, you’re marrying Lucy, not her family! The Boys, as you call these young men, are obviously going to lose all their capital. I don’t want you to be involved. If you try to alter them, which is what help would mean in this case, eventually you’ll meet with nothing but ingratitude. I’ve seen it again and again in my life. I’ve even tried to alter people’s ways myself, in the past! Your job is to learn to farm, not to get messed up with cranks of any kind! The sooner you realize that the better. Hullo, here’s
Lucy! How are you, my dear?”

  *

  The next morning a furniture van arrived at the Works to deliver a massive War Surplus Disposals Board desk. This was with difficulty lifted out by five men—Tim, Fiennes, Phillip and the two who had come with the van. It was not easy to get the heavy object into the office, for the passage between the wall of the east side of the building and the wooden partition of the office was found to be too narrow for entry. Eventually part of the partition had to be taken down, together with the office door. It was then seen that the roll-top desk would take up more than half the office space.

  “This must have been designed by Whitehall during the war to stop German tanks from entry into No. 10 Downing Street,” remarked Phillip. “Why did you buy it?”

  “Because I wanted to,” replied Fiennes, shortly.

  “He saw an advertisement somewhere,” said Tim later, “and wrote off for it without telling us.”

  “But don’t you three, as partners, discuss what you are going to do before you do it?”

  “Ernest and I do, but Fiennes likes to act on his own.”

  That evening the insurance surveyor had an appointment with Tim. After he had gone Phillip saw Tim standing by the new double-gates at the Works’ entrance—gates which dragged after being hung there less than a month—and looking unhappy.

  “Anything the matter, Tim?”

  “Oh, I’ve been thinking about things, that’s all, Phil.”

  “Anything I can do to help? Only say the word.”

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you, but the fact is, we are all somewhat appalled by the cost of this building.”

  “Didn’t you have an agreed price? I mean, a contract with the builder?”

  “Unfortunately we didn’t. You see, Pidler told us it would be a bit awkward for him to estimate, with all the contingencies liable to arise.”