The Phoenix Generation

by Henry Williamson

  “But she was new then, wasn’t she? Anyway, I’ll be quite happy to remain here. Why not take Felicity? Piers said he wanted two more to crew him.”

  “She’s never sailed, and I don’t know much about that sort of racing yacht. I’ll go alone.”

  “I wrote down the telephone number. Piers is not staying at his home, apparently, but at an hotel in the New Forest.”

  “I’ll telephone now.”

  He thought that Piers was with Virginia, his wife, and he kept back his surprise when another voice, which he recognized as Gillian’s, cut in and said, “Do bring Felicity. She’s such a pet. I haven’t seen her for simply ages.”

  He imagined Gillian with an arm over Piers’ shoulder until his friend’s voice said, “Get off the line, you bitch. Are you there, Phillip? That girl’s listening from the bedroom.”

  “How’s that adorable Rosebud?” the voice continued. “And those too, too sweet calves?”

  “Oh, they’re quite happy together.”

  “Do come,” continued the voice, liquid-sloppy with drink. “I do so want to see Felicity. She’s a pet.”

  “Yes, come,” Piers cut in.

  “I haven’t got a car, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s happened to your Silver Eagle?”

  “It’s in London with the firm that sold it to me. As you know, I had it vetted, before buying, by the Motor Association Engineer. He said the engine would be all right if the excessive oil consumption was put right. The salesman said it probably needed the oil-flow adjusting. I bought it on the understanding that it would be.

  “I’m pretty sure one of the cylinder bores is badly worn, by a loose gudgeon pin on the piston.”

  Piers, bored by these mechanical details, said:

  “We’ll pick you up.”

  He never touched a spanner. His Ulster 1½-litre Aston-Martin was serviced by a mechanic who had a converted Mews stable near Piers’ South Kensington flat.

  “How long will it take us to get to the yacht club?”

  “Forty minutes. I can take you and Felicity if you don’t mind rather a tight fit. We must be there not later than four. The race starts about an hour before high water. Right, three o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Hold on, Piers. Lucy wants to say something to you. Oh, she says, will you come to lunch here?”

  “Love to. One o’clock tomorrow, then.”

  “I like Piers,” said Lucy.

  Phillip warned Lucy not to mention Virginia when Piers arrived with Gillian. “One never knows about wives or girl-friends these days.”

  After luncheon they sat in the sunshine by the Longpond, and Phillip told them that he would have to look for another house to live in. The War Department was taking over the land, which his Uncle Hilary had sold, at midsummer.

  “It will be hell with all the Tank Corps hutments going up. I’d like to be somewhere nearer the sea.”

  “Are you giving up Fawley?”

  “Oh no. I’ve invited my parents to live there, in one of the flats. I shall perhaps let the other two.”

  “Officers’ families,” suggested Piers.

  Trout were rising to the surface of the Longpond. A hatch of duns was drifting.

  “The trouble is, to write my book about a trout I must be near water. And when the army comes, this brook will be poached to death.”

  It was time to leave for the coast. Piers’ car had two bucket seats only.

  “Would you care to drive? Gillian and I can sit on the hood.”

  Phillip, feeling this to be a courtesy offer only, replied that he was looking forward to seeing the view from the back. So Felicity sat in front beside Piers, and Gillian got up behind the driver, fitting her right foot with difficulty in the narrow space beside Piers’ seat. Her left leg was bent back to be sat upon, while she supported her body with spread fingers. It was a precarious position, and higher than the top of the windscreen. When Phillip tried to adjust himself beside her there was no room for his legs, so Felicity took off his shoes and tucked a foot under each of her arms. She felt her warmth flowing into them as she hugged them to her body. Darling Phillip.

  Lighting a cigarette, Gillian said, “Piers, you won’t blind, will you? I’m hanging on literally by my fingernails.”

  With a crackle of exhaust they were off, watched by the entire village, it seemed, at cottage thresholds. Piers drove slowly at first, until the two perching behind said that they were all right; but he never exceeded 35 m.p.h. He slowed up and changed down well before corners, so that brakes were not needed. The wind blew Gillian’s hair about her eyes, she laughed at Phillip and shook it out, while he supported her with an arm behind her woolly coat, feeling the warmth of her thigh pressed against his own.

  “Very matey, isn’t it?” she said to Felicity. “Are you most frightfully tired, holding us down, darling?”

  “Oh no.”

  “It’s too, too heavenly up here, Piers. One can see over the hedges.”

  The car swerved to avoid a bicyclist. She clutched Phillip, and laughed. “Do you mind if I put my arm round you?” holding her face close to his, while her air tickled his forehead. “Aow, now I want to scratch.”

  He tried to work the loose strand under her Norwegian ski-ing cap, conscious of what Felicity was feeling as she sat with the hug of his legs relaxed. They drove beside a river.

  “Piers, may we stop a moment?”

  The car drew in under an avenue of lime trees. Phillip climbed the tarred railings, and was in a park. He strode to the bank. Water flowed glass-clear. Bines of crowsfoot lifted and swayed in the current, their white flowers sometimes drowning but to reappear. Beyond, among trees, was the long thatched roof of a house. He went on to look at it, leaving the others leaning over the railings.

  In the garden of the thatched house an elderly man and a woman were playing croquet. Both wore faded panama hats. He determined to return, when he had his Silver Eagle, and explore this country.

  Before they went on, he asked a villager who lived in the house: to be told ’twas the Colonel and Mrs. Gott, and they was leavin’ come Michaelmas.

  “Do they own it, d’you know?”

  “‘Tes the Lord’s. ’Twas once the steward’s house, but ’a ban’t livin’ there no more.”

  “I suppose you don’t know if it’s to be let?”

  “Us ban’t heard nothin’, sir. But then us doan’t hear nought about the gentry’s goins-on.”

  “Who’s the owner?”

  “’Tes the Lord’s, zur.”

  Phillip went back to the others with this information. Piers said, “It belongs to George Abeline.”

  Before they went on Gillian insisted on changing places with Felicity. “The view is too, too wonderful darling.”

  So Felicity sat beside Phillip, who put an arm round her waist.

  “Are you happy, Felicity?” he whispered.

  “Oh yes! I love the wind on my face.”

  From their perch they saw masts and rigging as they drew nearer the port. Hulls of yachts, tarred schooners, and small coastal steamers were moored at the quay. Beyond was a row of white Georgian houses, one with pillars which was the Customs House.

  They stopped farther down the quay. There was a view of sea and distant trees across a broad bay. Nearer, a low green-painted house was set back behind a stone wall. A flagpole was visible. They entered by an iron gate into a garden, where elderly men and women in blue jackets and yachting caps were sitting at tables having tea.

  “There’s ‘Boy’ Runnymeade,” said Piers.

  Captain Runnymeade sat at a table by himself. He held a large tumbler of whisky and soda in one hand. Two trays stood on the table. One covered by a white cloth held teapot and cup, a plate of rolled bread-and-butter and another of cakes. Beside it was a silver tray with decanter and syphon of soda. The handsome face held a slightly mocking look as it regarded the newcomers. Then the pepper-and-salt suited figure, wearing brown-and-white golfing shoes, half-rose to say to Piers, �
�How are you, m’dear fellow? Glad you could get here in time for the race.”

  Captain Runnymeade, seated once more, with a half-careless wave of a hand indicated the empty chairs around his table. Then beckoning a young waiter in a white jacket he said, “Jerry, take this stuff away and bring some tea for my guests,” after which he drained his tumbler and put it on the silver tray. “And give me a whisky-and-soda. Piers, have a drink?”

  “Not for the moment, thanks. I must see about my boat, if you’ll forgive me.” Gillian went with him.

  “Will you have a drink, Maddison?”

  “Not at the moment, thanks.”

  The young waiter filled the tumbler, placed it within reach of his master, and took away the tea-tray.

  “We met at the Election party the other night, Captain Runnymeade.”

  “So we did. You are a farmer,” replied the other man, with an air of amused scorn as he looked about him. “Are you sailing?” he said to Felicity.

  “Oh no, Captain Runnymeade.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll be so good as to pour out tea for me when it comes.”

  Piers returned to ask Phillip if he would crew him, as someone had telephoned to say that his car had broken down on the way.

  The breeze was stiffening with the tide; it might mean sickness; at the same time, to be left with Runnymeade, who looked to be the sort of man who drank to escape the depression of a false nature, might be worse. While he hesitated an unexpected report shattered the air. From behind a tamarisk bush the lanyard of a small cannon standing with two others on the sea-wall, had been pulled by the steward.

  Seeing the hesitation on Phillip’s face Piers said, “That’s the fifteen-minute gun. Come with me to my locker. I’ll see if I can fit you out,” and in the dressing room he said, “If you don’t want to go, I’ll take Gillian, she has crewed before. Only I thought you might be stuck with Runnymeade.”

  Phillip remained away from the table while Piers and Gillian went to change. Two boatloads of men and women were being rowed to the yachts at their moorings. The 10-minute gun had gone when the two returned, dressed alike in blue jerseys, serge trousers, peaked caps, and carrying oilskins and kapok life-belts. Phillip saw them into a praam below the slip, and watched them while they boarded their yacht, to set about hauling up main and foresail. Last to be run up was a little triangular flag at the top of the mast.

  Returning to the garden, he saw the steward, in a white jacket, hoisting a duplicate of Piers’ flag.

  “Isn’t it good to think that flags are still used for signalling, as in Nelson’s day, Felicity?”

  “Yes.”

  “Piers’ has just been run up.”

  Captain Runnymeade said heavily, “We call it a burgee.”

  A broad man in white flannel trousers and double-breasted blue jacket with brass buttons, wearing a large cap with a white cover, appeared. He had a gold watch in his hand. The last of the yachts were running up burgees. Sunlight flickered off the waves.

  “According to Piers,” went on Runnymeade, “You are a farmer——”

  “I was learning to be one, Captain Runnymeade.”

  “I was about to say that, before you come to the inevitable end of a farmer, like Stephen Leacock—who, no doubt you will remember, in a good year, managed to get his seed back—and resume the pen—may I offer you a drink? Jerry, give Mr. Maddison a whisky and soda.” He nodded to himself several times, and turned to Felicity, who was pouring out tea. “You have read O. Henry, of course. It was O. Henry who said, ‘Once a farmer, always a sucker.’ Oh, I beg your pardon. What will you drink?”

  Phillip gave her a look as much as to say, Beware—this man is an alcoholic. Felicity replied, “I’d love some whisky, if I may, Captain Runnymeade.”

  “Good girl.”

  The Commodore was staring at the gold hunter watch open on the palm of his left hand. His right arm was raised. The steward, lanyard wrapped round fingers, was watching him. Down went the arm; steward’s tug on lanyard, bang! the echo rolled.

  “I think I’ll watch the start,” said Phillip, getting up to go to the quay.

  A strong tide was flooding the harbour. The waves had little white tops. Yachts were sailing to and fro, each with its burgee fluttering taut in the wind. Some boats were heeling over as they tacked across the tide. Others were beating up against wind and water, close-hauled. It appeared to be a matter of getting as near as practicable to the starling line, marked by two buoys, before the starter gun. He had observed the synchronising of the captains’ watches with that of the Commodore’s before the crews had gone out to the boats.

  A man watching told him that any boat that crossed the line before the starting gun would be notified by the running up of its burgee on the flagpole, to recall it.

  Feeling mean that he had left Felicity alone to cope with Runnymeade he returned to her saying, “Would you like to see the start? We’ll be back, Captain Runnymeade.”

  The other man waved a hand. They went to the wall and stood near a telescope on a tripod pointing to the starting line.

  “Why did you have that whisky? He’s only trying to make you tight.”

  “I rather like him,” she replied gaily.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, he has heard that the Swannery is likely to become an R.A.F. bombing range, so he is not going to renew the lease of his country house, but move to a cottage he’s bought somewhere on the East Coast, where he wants to paint in water-colour. He said I must go and stay with him when he’s had the place done up.”

  “He’s a ram in wolf’s clothing, as Dikran Michaelis would say.”

  “He’s a dear.”

  “A father-figure.”

  The steward, now in blue jacket with Naval ribbons and small peaked cap under white cover, held the lanyard of the red cannon. His eyes were on the Commodore, who was crouching with an eye against the telescope fixed to the flagpole. Most of the boats were now criss-crossing near the starting line. Some were lagging, sheets at right angles to let slip the wind, while bows pointed on course.

  The Commodore began to count.

  “Five seconds—four—three—” he raised a hand—“two—one—”

  BANG!

  One of the boats had crossed the line prematurely. Another gun spoke: up went a burgee to the top of the flagpost. The yacht turned stern to breeze, its boom lifting over with the flapping sail which the helmsman hauled in to lessen the weight of wind as the boom was hurled over. The boat appeared to stagger before it recovered and went fast with the tide until put about; to hang in the wind before plunging after the other boats.

  There followed, for Phillip, a tedious time with Captain Runnymeade. He had to accept a drink since he felt it was expected of him. Then someone mentioned that there was table tennis in the next room. Here he passed an hour with Felicity, playing with his left hand since she was a beginner. While they were sitting down, resting, looking at yachting magazines, the steward came in and said that Captain Runnymeade had left a message that he would be most grateful if they would go over to the Castle that night to help him entertain some old ladies to dinner. Sir Piers Tofield and Miss Templecombe had accepted. The Captain would send his motor to fetch them at eight o’clock, but they were not to hurry, as dinner was at half-past nine.

  “I wonder if he thinks we’re married?”

  “Darling, of course he knows I am your girl friend.”

  “Then he’ll expect us to sleep together.”

  She said happily, “Good. I must telephone Lucy that we won’t be back to supper.”

  “I wonder why he invited you to stay with him at his cottage? I bet he’s a sensual old devil.”

  “Most of ‘Boy’s’ friends are painters, dancers, and writers.”

  “You seem on familiar terms with him already.”

  “He asked me to call him ‘Boy’.”

  “He doesn’t look the artistic type.”

  “Perhaps he enjoys their company.
Everyone isn’t sexy, you know.”

  “So I’m ‘sexy’, am I? I thought I didn’t come up to expectations.”

  “Darling, I love you.”

  “I thought it a bit outré when he repeated that bit about O. Henry. He said the same thing to me at the party on Election night.”

  After the race, the crews crowded the bar before changing. There was loud talk about points in the race. Phillip began to feel that this was the life. Piers had already put him up for membership. His fear of a social life, in the belief that a writer to be any good must keep apart and live in his own world, was temporarily abated. All was experience! He took his fifth whisky and soda from Piers.

  “I rather fancy there will be quite a crowd later on tonight, coining down from London with Stefania Rozwitz, his girl friend.”

  “Isn’t she one of the Russian ballet?”

  “Yes. Runnymeade has the whole company down sometimes, by special train to Bournemouth, which gets in about half-past twelve.”

  “Is that where he lives?”

  “His place is west of where we are now, about twenty miles. The Aston usually does it in under the half-hour from here.”

  “What time d’you think the party will end?”

  “Oh, sometime tomorrow.”

  It was getting on for nine o’clock.

  “Have you telephoned Lucy yet, Felicity?”

  “Oh dear, I’d quite forgotten——”

  He pushed past her to the box. Lucy said it was kind of him to have rung up. Billy and Peter were happily asleep in the same bed, everything was all right, and she would expect them when she saw them. When he came back to the bar he saw that Felicity was biting her nails. They were bitten down to the quick. It annoyed him to see them.

  *

  They arrived at the Castle soon after ten o’clock. Runnymeade saw them briefly, apologised for having to leave them to write letters, and asked Piers to do the honours. After dinner the four went to the billiard room and played slosh. At one corner of the room was an oak door beyond which were stone steps leading down to the cellars—cave after cave lined with bottles. There was no dampness down there, the floors and walls having been rendered with a special kind of waterproof cement, Piers explained.