"She would have if she hadn't been pregnant, L.G. She sent her regards, and said I was to tell you we'll make it next election. We came much closer than I expected last time."
"And she's right, tell her. The mood of the country is changing, despite this welcome party. This is no more than a local fracas, the natural outcome of our Go-For-Jo campaign. Next time we'll give them the shock of the century." He moved off to chat to Birmingham supporters among whom, Giles noted with some apprehension, were a number of women, already dishevelled by their passage into the hall.
The roars outside beat upon the isolated building like prodigious breakers on a rock, wave after wave of baying that made speech between individuals difficult and would certainly prohibit a public address. Giles shouted, in the ear of a rosetted official, "He'll never make himself heard against that." The man, his face flushed with excitement, shouted, "He knows that! We all knew it! It's being here that matters!"
It was true enough, he supposed, and Lloyd George, the Welsh Cœur de Lion as they had christened him since the Bangor riot, was already dictating a speech that he knew he would never deliver, seemingly unperturbed by the terrible uproar caused by the use of heavy notice-boards torn down from across the Square now being used as battering rams on the doors. News filtered in, all of it bad. The baying mob had burst through the outer police cordon. The outer doors had yielded to assault. Infiltrators were trickling into the body of the hall. The meeting could only end in bloody chaos, unparalleled in this century.
At seven-thirty, Lloyd George led the way out of the committee room on to the platform, fronted and flanked by a phalanx of police. It was soon apparent that the pessimists were right about infiltration. His appearance was greeted by a howl that blotted out the continuous clamour from the Square. Volleys of bricks crashed through the windows as the speaker, leaning forward to address a word to the press bench, was assailed by a boarding party who swept up to the platform in a body, overwhelming the press box in such numbers that it collapsed and precipitated a wedge of pressmen on to the floor. The reporters scattered, notebooks flying. The police and stewards counter-attacked, and the storming party was seized and thrust down again. Arrests, in these circumstances, were impossible.
Half an hour passed. Stewards fought, police fought, and the mob fought back, drunk and delirious with hate, but all the time, slightly in advance of the shrinking party platform, Lloyd George stood there, relaxed, half-amused, fascinated it seemed by the tempest his presence occasioned. Police whistles shrilled, glass continued to shatter along the full length of the hall, and the body of the building was jammed with a heavy, scrambling mass out of which rose a cacophony of screams, yells, and hysterical appeals for help. The gesture was made and it was time to retreat. Shepherded by police, the platform party edged back into the committee rooms, where barricades were instantly erected and all lights were extinguished on the orders of the Chief Constable. Slowly, fighting for every inch of ground gained, police and stewards regained control of the hall, but outside the mob now ruled unchallenged. According to police instructions it had been reinforced, and the Chief Constable, reappearing, said he could no longer guarantee the safety of the party. There was only one means to extract Lloyd George from the beleaguered building. He would have to pass out under the protection of a policeman's cape and helmet. As for the others, plans were being made for a retreat across the road to the Midland Institute offices, where they might wait until time and falling snow thinned the mob.
Giles watched him don the disguise, protesting that it was ridiculous, but submitting, as he explained, for the sake of the Chief Constable's professional reputation. He said, as Giles sidled across, "How do I look, Johnny? Like someone from the chorus of Gilbert and Sullivan?" Giles said, gravely, "Don't ask me until you're clear of this, L.G. We can joke about it later." They shook hands and as Lloyd George took his place in the line he called, "You were here, Johnny! I won't forget that, lad!"
They passed out in a marching file, heading for Paradise Street and Easy Row and ultimately, Giles learned later, the sanctuary of Ladywood police station clear across the city. But for the platform party the problem of exit remained and would do so as long as it was believed L.G. was still inside.
The respite was temporary. Soon a police inspector arrived from the main battle area, grunting that the line could only hold for a few minutes. At the committee room exit, a carriage and pair, assailed from all sides, and escorted by flailing mounted police, drew the attention of the main body of assailants. Before it was realised that its interior contained not the arch-traitor but police reinforcements, the stragglers had made their dash across the street under another police escort. They were only just in time. Giles, one of the last to leave, heard the mob storm back into the hall, climb the platform, and range through every room, smashing and overturning everything in their path. They were not ejected until the Riot Act was read and a baton charge could be mounted.
Outside snow was falling in heavy flakes, mantling the stark outline of the civic buildings and muffling, to some extent, the roars of the disappointed Brummagers. The riot petered out. Ambulances collected casualties, and those who could found transport home. Giles walked, shouldering his way through the stragglers to New Street, where he caught the night train to Newport, reminding himself that he lacked L.G.'s ebullience. To him the evening was bloody, raucous proof of the nation's sickness, and it occurred to him to wonder how long it would take to cure. L.G., as spokesman for the minority who saw the war as an exercise in national degradation, had outfaced the patriots on their own ground, and there was, he supposed, some satisfaction to be derived from that. But divisions, of a kind he had witnessed here tonight, must run clear across the country, driving wedges between man and wife, father and son, and as he thought this he reflected bitterly on his own situation, with one brother away fighting Cronje's commandos and another maimed for life by a stupid, vainglorious quarrel. It was not a happy thought, especially as he and Romayne had promised to keep their Christmas at Tryst.
3
It was not often, nowadays, that Henrietta Swann had an opportunity to bask in her role as matriarch, a privilege she had enjoyed since the eldest of the brood had married and started a family of her own some sixteen years ago. As time passed, and each of them assumed responsibilities in various parts of the Empire, homecomings to Tryst became intermittent, and there never had been an occasion, since Christmas 1888, when she had all of them assembled round her at one time.
This year, however, promised to be a great improvement on recent reunions. All but Alex and Lydia would be returning for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, and even Jack-o'-Lantern and Joanna had promised to appear, bringing Helen home after her recuperative holiday in Dublin.
Adam, permanently home-based at last, took a keener interest than usual in celebrations, personally selecting the Christmas tree and garlanding of the house with holly, ivy, and mistletoe, but grumbling as he worked, that, "They owed all this fussy fiddle-faddle to that brace of prize sentimentalists, Prince Albert and Charles Dickens!" He made an impressive job of it. Henrietta never recalled the house looking more festive and welcoming, and when the first of the grandchildren scampered in (George's brood from nearby Beckenham) she was rewarded by their squeals of glee and the grave congratulations of her Austrian daughter-in-law, Gisela, the acknowledged family expert on the Teutonic Yuletide, refashioned for British hearths by that brace of sentimentalists, Albert and Charles, God bless them.
The following day, before luncheon, Hugo and Lady Sybil arrived, with Hugo's soldier-servant in tow, the latter stamping about the waxed and gleaming floors bellowing "Sah!" in anticipation of his master's requirements. Hugo, she noted, looked surprisingly fit and Sybil said, in a whispered aside, "The dear boy is adjusting, much as we hoped." Yet it was painful and pitiful to see him so stolid and stationary unless chivvied by that drill-ground sergeant or his wife, and a comfort to reflect that Giles would be along soon, for he and Hugo, she recalled, had
been very close as boys during their shared sojourn at the bleak school up on Exmoor. She made a mental note to have a private word with Giles, whom she regarded as the family wiseacre, about a suitable occupation for an athlete who had lost his sight. Lady Sybil had been speculating on a variety of pursuits, among them model ship-making and fashioning things out of potter's clay, but somehow they did not suit Henrietta's notion of Hugo's need. It would have to be something far more positive, especially when Sybil's child arrived, claiming a share of its mother's time and attention. Giles would think of something, for Giles always did. And Hugo would likely need him more than anybody.
Romayne, she noted with satisfaction, was holding on to that second child, due in the early spring they announced. A disappointing late starter in the Swann grandchild stakes, the girl now seemed to be making amends, for David, their first-born, had only just celebrated his first birthday.
Then the Irish party arrived with a trunkful of presents, all prettily wrapped and ready to hang on the tree, and on Christmas morning Stella, Denzil, and their tribe arrived from Dewponds, so that the old house crackled with hilarity and creaked under the impact of so much horseplay, the tenor of good cheer broken every now and again by a short-lived quarrel among the younger cohorts and a constant demand for umpires.
Twenty-six of them sat down to Christmas dinner at eight o'clock that evening, including the senior grandchildren. Upstairs, sleeping it off in readiness for Boxing Day brawls, were half-a-dozen toddlers and three babies, so that even Tryst, that had always seemed such a barn of a place with only Edward and Margaret at home, was hard taxed to provide accommodation for the clan. It was a long time since this had happened, Henrietta recalled. The last occasion had been that of Stella's second marriage, when Adam had shocked the county by filling the place with hirelings gathered from all over the network.
Early on Boxing Day, Henrietta had another unlooked-for surprise. Deborah, her journalist husband Milton Jeffs, and their little boy arrived from the West Country, and she saw Adam's face light up, knowing the soft spot he had always had for the child he brought in like a spaniel out of the snow all those years ago. He had rescued her from a convent where she had been lodged, poor mite, by that dreadful father of hers, Josh Avery, whom nobody had set eyes on since he ran away with all Adam's capital.
Two of the children had to be evacuated from an east wing bedroom and accommodated on truckle beds in the sewing room in order to make room for the Jeffs, but this was soon accomplished and they all trooped out to watch Stella, Jack-o'-Lantern, young Edward, and George's two eldest boys ride off for the Boxing Day meet at Long Covert. With them, at a steady trot, went Hugo and his rough-riding sergeant, who had recently taught him to ride on a leading rein.
"He won't hunt, of course," Sybil told her, "but he can poke about the coverts happily enough, and I entirely discount the risk weighed against the good it will do him. We tried him out in Rotten Row a month ago and it was a triumph. I couldn't keep the photographers away, unfortunately, for it was regarded as very sensational by all the newspapers, and he didn't take kindly to that. I've since warned everybody not to tell him his picture was in Chamber's Journal. That's understandable, of course."
But to Henrietta it wasn't, although she thought better of asking her aristocratic daughter-in-law to elaborate on Hugo's excessive modesty. Heaven knows, to her way of thinking, the loss of one's sight in action against the Queen's enemies (hardly anybody had adjusted, as yet, to thinking of them as the "King's enemies") fully justified the pocketing of any kudos that came his way, and she was still puzzled by Hugo's extreme reticence to discuss the war, even impersonally. He had never minded discussing his athletic triumphs, and surely they were very small beer matched against what he had achieved, almost single-handedly, against those wicked spiteful Boers. She could only suppose it had something to do with Lady Sybil Uskdale's aversion to the vulgar popular press and that she had drilled Hugo into regarding the mention of one's war experiences as putting on side.
All but Young Edward, a rare thruster, were back by mid-afternoon, spattered with mud and well laced with stirrup cup, and they formed an impatient queue at the bathroom Adam had installed adjoining the kitchen wash-house, calling loudly to one another to hurry on out and look sharp about it. Nowadays, she heard, people were actually installing bathrooms upstairs, but the plumbing at Tryst would never run to that, Adam said, not without having all its floors up, and who knew what might result from that in a house advancing into its fifth century?
Just as dusk closed in over the leafless copper beeches of the drive and all the lamps were lit, there was a vast commotion in the forecourt and George appeared bellowing, "It's old Alex, by God! With Lydia and their girl, Rosie! You never said a word about their arrival, Mother! I thought they were still in South Africa and Rose was at school!" Henrietta, feeling quite faint, replied, "So did I, and so did your father! But, that's wonderful… wonderful, for it makes us complete, don't you see? And for the first time in I don't know how long!" She hurried into the hall where Alex, in his dress uniform, was helping his plain little wife to shed her mantle and their grave-eyed daughter, Rose, was hurriedly unpacking yet another batch of Christmas gifts.
If she had favourites among them, Alex qualified for a place at the top of the list. Aside from Hugo, whose spell of soldiering had been so brief and so tragic, Alex was the only one among them who fulfilled her girlish dream of mothering a race of scarlet-clad warriors, but she was fond of Lydia, too, who she realised had given him purpose and direction in his chosen profession. It was more than two years since she had seen them, although Rose, their eldest child, had stayed here for the summer holidays, a quiet, well-mannered girl who had inherited, thank God, her father's looks and stature, and promised to be quite handsome once she outgrew her coltishness.
Lydia said, kissing her, "Alex was due for another step up and was posted back to Colchester. We didn't write because we weren't sure, but it was confirmed while we were at sea. He'll be gazetted lieutenant-colonel in the New Year."
"Why, that's splendid, my boy. Congratulations," Adam murmured, privately wondering if the promotion stemmed from his long-standing friendship with Lord Roberts, also home again after straightening out the mess the army had got itself in out there, and Alex explained that he was to be seconded to an embryo force being assembled at Woolwich for the purpose of consolidating all the experience gained in the field with heavy machine-gun units.
"There's a rumour that we're to be issued with two to a battalion," he said, between greetings, and then, a little uncomfortably, "Is Hugo here?"
"Everybody's here," Adam told him, "George, Giles, Hugo, Young Edward, and all the girls, including Helen. You won't have seen her for years, will you? Not since she was last on leave, with that poor chap, Rowland Coles. But I wrote you about that shambles."
"Yes," Alex said, rather absently, Adam thought. "It was a shocking affair but I understand Helen came out of it very well. Is she herself again?"
"No, she isn't," Adam told him, "but she's on the mend and looks fit enough. So does Hugo. Surprisingly so. He's been out with the hunt today."
"Hunting? Hugo?"
"On the leading rein. That wife of his is a trier, and he's got a rough-riding sergeant who bullies him into taking regular exercise. But come along, meet them all yourself…"
But instead of following him into the mêlée in the drawing room, where tea was about to be served, Alex hung back saying, "Hold on, sir. I… er… I don't quite follow. You say Hugo and Giles are here? Both? Under the same roof!"
It says something for Adam's ageing reactions that he realised at once what Alex was hinting at and made an immediate response, heading off a squall that could shatter the conviviality of the occasion. He said, quietly, "Come in here a moment, before we get embroiled," and edged his eldest son into Henrietta's sewing-room, now doing duty as a spillover bedroom. He said, shutting the door, "You'll have differences, I daresay. But here and now isn't the place t
o air them. For mine and your mother's sake. This is the festive season, isn't it?"
"Not as festive as all that," Alex said, tight-lipped. "I confess I don't understand what's happened to Giles, or how he could show his face in Hugo's presence. Damn it, the fellow's unrepentantly pro-Boer, isn't he?"
"Come to that I'm not anti-Boer myself, son," Adam said, mildly. "A lot of people over here think the hammering should stop. We should have made a generous peace with the poor devils by now."
"That's the politicians' business."
"Giles is a politician, Alex."
It seemed that this was all but new to Alex. He frowned, as though finding the news distasteful and said, in the same flat voice, "He's also the brother of a man who lost his sight in action. I would have thought that should give him second thoughts about standing on a public platform and supporting that damned traitor, Lloyd George."
He saw the dilemma and a very unpleasant one it promised to be. Not only for Giles and Hugo, but for all of them, especially Henrietta, who was riding so high just now. He said, "You'll have to call a temporary truce, son. I can't go into it now and I'm not even sure I'll want to later. You're a professional soldier and Giles is working to become a legislator. You don't have to remind me of the opinion the soldiers have of politicians, 'The Frocks' as you chaps call them. I held those opinions myself in my soldiering days, until I discovered how fiendishly difficult it can be to find a compromise between private convictions and the outlook of men paid to do what they're told to do, no more and no less. Things are getting very complicated as the world moves on, son, but for you chaps there's no question of taking sides. You get your orders and you carry 'em out, best you can. It's not that easy for others. Civilians have to find their own way through the maze and a damned tricky business it is, I can tell you, for anyone with a conscience. And Giles always had more conscience than any of us."
Give Us This Day Page 36
