A Solitary War

by Henry Williamson

Among the letters awaiting Phillip in his cottage was one from ‘Pinwheel’, which he read sitting on his couch in the lighthouse room—now an ice room. ‘Pinwheel’ had gone to his parents’ home for Christmas.

  I have enjoyed my experience on the farm, but have decided to leave as I consider there is not enough work for me, also I feel that the present domestic arrangements are not conducive to the farmer’s advantage, being far too costly. There are too many people living off the farm, and as far as I can see the farmer is getting nothing out of it for himself, except worry. You don’t need a partner, you need a good bailiff, with ideas beyond those of the decayed epoch which seem to me to be hanging over the farm at present. Oil and water won’t mix. But I have had some valuable experience, and I am most grateful to you in many ways for having let me come.

  When Phillip told Matt about the turkeys the next day, after he had paid the wages, Matt gave him a significant look and said, “It’s your farm ain’t it, guv’nor?”

  “No, Matt, it is not my farm yet. My farm is still in my mind.”

  Matt gave him a full look. “In your mind, guv’nor?”

  “Yes, Matt. That is why I am myself nearly out of my mind.”

  “All that milk going to waste, guv’nor. What yar doin’ to let it go like that for?”

  “I’m trying to find out where I stand, Matt.”

  “You will an’ all. You won’t find it so easy to see those people go. Do you see if I aren’t right.”

  Without a further word or look Matt turned and strode away towards the cow-house. Phillip went back to his cottage, taking with him a skep-ful of frozen sticks picked up in the pine-woods.

  He got a fire going after much slow fanning with the bellows—the ice thawing and steam hissing—and sat down at the writing table with a rug round his knees. A weak flame played out of the steam as he found sanctuary again in the world of his book.

  In the morning Luke appeared at the door.

  “If you like,” he said, “I’ll buy the cottage here, if it will help you along just now. I got some money in the Post Office.” Phillip had told Luke that he had bought it for £80. “If it will help tide over, I don’t mind givin’ fifty pounds for it.”

  Phillip thanked him, and said he was all right, having sold the barley. He had bought woollen scarves for each of the men. Luke said, “Well, thank you for the present. I’ll be going. Merry Christmas,” and went away. Wrapping the rug round his legs once more Phillip settled to his writing.

  He wrote all during Christmas Eve and continued to sit there on Christmas morning after a visit to the farmhouse to wish them all a Merry Christmas and leave the presents he had got for them.

  Mrs. Carfax said, “Are you going to cast off your doleful manner and join us, ‘Little Ray’?”

  He replied with an imitation of heartiness, “A merry Christmas to you, ma’am!”

  He wanted to get back to his book; but felt that as this was Christmas, he should stay awhile. Yet the sight of the holly bought in Yarwich market—there were several trees with berries in his woods—was too much for him. The refectory table was loaded with plates of preserved fruits, oranges, boxes of dates, figs, chocolates, bowls of mixed nuts, a ham with paper frills, two cold pheasants, a round of cold beef, and several bottles of wine. As soon as he could slip away he went back to his writing, to walk down to The Hero at two o’clock, just before closing time, and, the only person in the bar, eat bread and cheese, with a glass of beer. Afterwards to the marshes, with thoughts of Christmas long ago, imagining the face of his mother, while wondering if all that life was irrevocably lost in time. How far did the cells and molecules of the flesh, which contained all mammalian life, with their memories of events which so often maimed the spirit—bearing the stresses and strains inevitable in life itself—how far did these components transmit their experiences to posterity? The genes which, like good servants, could not see their masters’ or mistresses’ troubles objectively, and while deploring, dismiss them—so that at last they break down, and are conquered by the eliminator of failed life—carcinoma, the scrap merchant of Nature which ‘never forgives or forgets’. Could he have helped his mother, could he have prevented her cancer, her breakdown through her cells? I, for all my self-vaunted mystery, lack the molecules of mastery.

  The body is always striving to be in a state of harmony.

  Appalled by the realisation that nothing, nothing could bring back that vehicle of wasted life, he stood transfixed: seeing Mother and her little children, the excitement of Christmas Eve, the saving-up for presents from September onwards—the faith, the hope, the charity of a mother for her children. And Father, more lonely in time than himself, nearer to the last darkness of death—should he go to him now, and cherish him as a son?

  Walking among the plants of sea-lavender and bushes of sea-blite, in the wind blowing from the sea and the long spit of sand forming the harbour, he sought to empty his mind of all thought, to receive guidance from his mother. If it were possible, if there were communion between dead and living, Mother would come to him in trouble. In temperament she had been a saint, always a child in the ways of the world, not lacking knowledge, but always remaining unchanged by it in the sense of being incorruptible, and innocent.

  The wind struck chill through his jacket and flannel trousers. He walked on, passing the sluices under the sea-wall, and continued along the coast to the east until he came to a long bank of shingle, upon which the waves of the North Sea roared and sucked under the ebbing light of day.

  It was dark when he returned, wondering if his movements on the coast had been watched, and reported; even as his correspondence was probably intercepted, and telephone calls automatically recorded.

  Chapter 15

  AT ‘BOY’ RUNNYMEADE’S

  Phillip was settled once more beside the fire in his dugout at River View when Teddy came in with a tray of cold turkey, bread and butter, pickles, sausages, and a bottle of light ale.

  “I—I—thought you’d be hungry, Phil, so I brought you in something. How’s the book going?”

  “How very kind of you, Teddy. The book goes well, thanks. It’s hot summer weather, and I’m standing in ripening barley. Turtle doves are cooing in a blackthorn brake in a hollow of the Wiltshire downs. The year is nineteen twenty-nine.”

  Teddy sat down on a box of tinned grape-fruit. “You farmed in the West Country before you came here, didn’t you? Did you make anything out of it?”

  “I was only a pupil, Teddy. Then my uncle sold the land to the War Department for a tank-training ground.”

  But Teddy was listening to something else. “Isn’t that geese flying over? I’d like to have a go at them, only they come over very high. Do you remember them flying over the valley of the Ancre in that bloody hard winter of nineteen-sixteen? I’m told that the Irish Guards believed that the spirits of their dead flew home to Ireland with the geese. My God, it was as cold then as it is now. Remember when the old Hun pulled out his heavy artillery and took it up north to Arras, to meet our attack on the Vimy Ridge? Eat your food, Phillip. Thank God there’s no bloody zero hour for us tomorrow morning. I often think of those days, you know.”

  Phillip, eating ravenously, began to regret that he had not shared in the party next door.

  “You know, Teddy, this Christmas is really paradise, after those days.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. After all, we were free then, within the limits of the war, I mean. We didn’t give a damn. In a way, you know,” he said, tossing more sticks on the fire, “I have a longing for those old days in the line. I might have been in France now, in some R.A.F. mess, if I hadn’t chanced to read your article. Trouble is, as I said before, there’s a hell of a long waiting list now for Intelligence in the R.A.F. I’ve missed the boat.”

  “Why don’t you try again? The war hasn’t started yet, many people think.”

  “No, it’s too late now.”

  The fir branches, having dried out, suddenly blazed brightly.


  “How about a cock shoot tomorrow, Phillip? There’s a lot about that want shooting. And woodcock ought to be coming in now. If we don’t get them, somebody else will, you know.”

  He looked out of the window. “What about my scheme for farm pupils, with your name? I’m convinced it’s sound.”

  There was a knock on the door. Billy came in. “Captain Runnymeade on the telephone. I told him you were busy, but he said he wanted to speak to you.”

  “Oh damn.”

  “I couldn’t help it!” cried Billy. “I told him you were writing, and he said I was to tell you he was on the ‘phone. That’s the message anyway.”

  “Thank you, Billy, you were quite right to bring it to me. I’ll be back in a moment, Teddy.”

  Captain Runnymeade’s voice was plangently easy. “Working on Christmas Day, what a fellow you are, ‘Farm Boy’. There’s a party here, why don’t you come over?”

  “I’ve got people staying.”

  “Bring them with you.”

  “We would be too many, I’m afraid. But thanks for asking me.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Oh, there a friend of mine from the last war, and a fox-hunting woman.”

  “Bring them both along.”

  “It’s most kind of you, but it’s rather late, and the two boys are here. And slippery roads iced up, and the black-out.”

  “Well, bring ’em over tomorrow in the afternoon, when it’s light. We’ll have a party.”

  “Thank you. I’ll bring two, if I may.”

  “I’ll expect you.”

  The telephone went down the other end; there was a slight click in the receiver. He supposed that it was to do with the automatic recorder.

  Mrs. Carfax came out of the small panelled room at that moment. Phillip told her about the invitation.

  “Are you sure my presence won’t be upsetting the genii?”

  “The genii is not sure of not upsetting the Silver Eagle, with the little ray from the side-lights permitted by the Defence Regulations. That is if you and Teddy would care to drive with me in my tumbril, ‘Yipps’.”

  “Ugh, you bloodless man. However, they say try anything once.”

  “Well, I don’t like to suggest that you go in your own car, when I’m inviting you. I can put up the hood, and use the side-curtains.”

  “You seem to be showing most unusual consideration all of a sudden, ‘Little Ray’.”

  “It isn’t far to ‘Boy’ Runnymeade’s anyway, and if we wrap up well, we should be all right.”

  Mrs. Carfax’s saloon had been out in the open since she had arrived. It stood in front of River View on the space of mud and trodden grass called the yard. Since the cold weather Phillip had been concerned about draining the water in the radiators of his lorry, tractor, and motorcar, as well as the Carfax vehicle: so much so, indeed, that more than once ‘Yipps’ had remarked on his inability to keep from interfering in the affairs of others.

  “My dear man, I am perfectly well able, thank you, to look after my own radiator. This isn’t the first time I’ve possessed a motor, you know.”

  The next day was colder than ever, so they went in Mrs. Carfax’s saloon. Wildfowlers from cottages were setting out for the Banyard marshes. They wore rubber thigh boots, jackets buttoned to necks, woollen caps and mittens on hands and wrists. Side-bags were slung over shoulders.

  The sporting over the Banyard marshes belonged to the lord of the manor, who was now Phillip; but the marshes had been shot over by the villagers since it had become known that the title-deeds of the manor had been burned during a quarrel within the noble family which had owned the land and sportings upon the coast. A local gentleman called Major Christianson-Cradock had found out that no title-deeds existed, and thereby no action for trespass in pursuit of wildfowl could be upheld in any court of law. He formed a Wildfowlers Club among the men of the village, including the hamlet of Durston, with a nominal subscription of a penny a year. By this means, he declared, after twenty years their Club would possess a squatter’s title to the sportings on the two thousand acres of the Banyard marshes.

  Phillip was to be involved with Major Christianson-Cradock, a red-headed ‘Denchman’ (Danishman) within a few months; he had already found him to be inclined to truculence, and what Luke called a bully.

  So the sporting upon the wide marshes and sea-shore was enjoyed by the men of the village during the evening flights of mallard, teal and widgeon to the feeding banks where the sea-grass, zostera marina, grew. The brent and white-front geese flew inland to feed. By day these birds could be seen on the Great Barrier Sand, in their thousands, resting.

  “You know,” said Teddy, leaning over from the back seat, “those fellows get a hell of a kick out of their occasional marsh shooting. I hear them talking in The Hero. Some have muzzle-loaders, and one has a flint-lock. What’s stopping us three being as happy as they are?”

  “Property.”

  “Well dammit, those fellows haven’t got any! Yet they’re happy. So what d’you mean, ‘property’?”

  “If you read A Christmas Carol, you’ll find out, my dear man,” exclaimed ‘Yipps’, who was driving.

  “Don’t be so damned silly, ‘Yipps’. Phillip isn’t Scrooge!”

  “‘The Genii’ suits him better,” said ‘Yipps’, giving Phillip a sideways smile. “With those blue, blue eyes,” she whispered.

  *

  Captain Runnymeade greeted them with flushed face and a remote look in his eyes. He had dropped asleep before the fire. He wore his usual pepper-and-salt trousers, black and white ‘co-respondent’s’ golfing shoes, and tweed hacking jacket. A decanter, siphon, and glass stood on a low table by his chair. Phillip introduced his companions.

  “Nice little place you have here,” remarked Teddy, looking round appreciatively.

  “Phillip has told us a lot about you,” said ‘Yipps’.

  Both these remarks appeared to be unheard by Captain Runnymeade.

  “We heard about your wonderful children’s party, Captain Runnymeade,” ‘Yipps’ went on.

  “The last one in England,” drawled Runnymeade. “Have a drink? Did ‘Farm Boy’ bring you over in that wind machine of his? The last All-weather-Jack in—in—” He waved a hand.

  “England,” suggested Teddy.

  Rippingall, the house-parlourman, appeared with a tray of glasses and bottles, including one deadly dark green so far as Phillip was concerned. And as he had anticipated gin was poured in until well over half-way up the glass. Then, as though overcome by distaste of the newcomers, Runnymeade waved a hand at the tray and said, “Does anyone want any of this stuff? If so, help yourselves. Well, how’s the goddam farm, ‘Farm Boy’?”

  “Frozen, ‘Horse Boy’.”

  “As O. Henry said, ‘Once a farmer, always a sucker’, what?”

  “An amusin’ writer,” said Phillip. “A gaol-bird. If only I could go to prison like him, what would I not write.”

  “From what I hear, that ambition may be fulfilled one day, ‘Farm Boy’.”

  “Have some tonic water with your gin,” said ‘Yipps’, to Phillip. “You drink nothing as a rule.”

  “I thought that after tea we’d go to the Baden-Poynders for a drink,” said Captain Runnymeade.

  “Is this tea?” asked ‘Yipps’.

  “This is just a——” he waved a hand, wordlessly. He frowned, and waved the hand again. “Maddison, you’re a writin’ fellow, tell us what the word is.”

  “A ‘party’?”

  The older man waved his hand again, as though in disclaimer. “No,” he said, “that’s not the word.”

  “‘Session’,” suggested Phillip, wondering how he might remove the sticky feeling.

  “Well,” said Runnymeade presently. “How’s your pal Birkin?”

  “Don’t for heaven’s sake get him on to that!” cried ‘Yipps’.

  “A horse thief,” went on Runnymeade. “Birkin took one of Partington’s polo ponies at Sandhurst, and knoc
ked him down when he claimed it. So they threw the horse thief out of a window.”

  “Yes, I heard about that from someone in the Quorn country,” said ‘Yipps’. “They chased him up to his room, didn’t they, and he hung out of the window to hide, clinging by his fingers to the window sill. So they hammered his fingers with a boot-tree and he dropped twenty feet and broke his leg.”

  “Were you there?” asked Phillip.

  “No, ‘Little Ray’, of course not, I was still in the schoolroom when it happened, but someone I know was there, and he told me. It happened one October afternoon.”

  “How odd. It must be a record of manipulative surgery. Just consider: Birkin was seventeen when he was at Sandhurst in nineteen-fourteen. He must have been the only cadet to have passed out a week or so later with a broken leg, and been sent to Flanders with it, to fly with it, and then to crash in a Farman Longhorn and break the same leg in exactly the same place, in November, nineteen-fourteen.”

  “Lot of tripe people talk,” said Teddy. “I wish we had more men like Birkin in the country.”

  “Well, according to what I have heard, so does Maddison,” remarked Runnymeade.

  “The Navy will see to that,” said ‘Yipps’.

  Somebody walked past the window. There was the sound of a door shutting, and Stefania Rozwitz came into the room with the gliding movement of a ballerina.

  “Do you remember me, ‘Farm Boy’?” she asked Phillip, taking his hand between hers. “I cannot imagine you riding inside a sedan, ‘Farm Boy’.”

  The voice was more thrustful than when he had last seen her, at Runnymeade’s party at The Ship Inn just before the war. She was a Pole; her voice was on the verge of gruffness; he saw the soft gold hairs of an incipient beard; the muscular power in her neck and legs was more pronounced. Her hair was tied back past her ears and lay on her nape like the short brush of a bobtailed fox.

  “‘Farm Boy’ is about to tell us about his pal Hitler, Stefania.”

  “Rot,” she replied, gruffly. “You mean you are trying to start something.” She sat beside Phillip on the sofa, saying quietly, “You are an artist, my friend, so do not concern yourself with foolish things.”