The Phoenix Generation

by Henry Williamson

  “Well done, girls, just a little farther. Here we are, well done, well done.”

  The front of the seat pushed the back of Phillip’s knees. He moved forward. The seat followed. It now stood on the little mound.

  “Madam, with respect I must inform you that you have put the seat on the rise my gentleman has chosen to stand on,” said Rippingall, raising his bowler hat to the mistress.

  “Take your seats, girls,” she replied, turning away.

  “What school are you?” Rippingall asked a girl. She said Saint Someone’s in a south-eastern suburb.

  “My gentleman is the Editor of the Morning Post,” said Rippingall. “He will no doubt give your school free publicity in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Looking round Phillip saw that the mistress was listening to what had been said. She looked anxious. He felt sorry for her and was about to tell her not to worry, when all trooped off.

  It was 7.30 a.m. Along the route were purple and black banners and poles draped with those colours. Phillip remembered the pomp of pre-war funerals, horses with brush-like head-dresses and purple canopies—bad taste nowadays. These purple and black drapes were proper cockney stuff: perhaps the last time they would be used for an English King.

  Every moment the line of spectators inside the park railings was doubling, trebling. The crowd beyond was static. More groups were hurrying over the winter grass, some dragging seats. The crew of Phillip’s original seat felt secure. They munched chocolate, smoked, got up, moved about, individual places guarded by the other occupants of the seat. Once when Phillip came back an argument was going on: the rest of the crew were resisting a boarding party.

  “Fair play,” “Be British,” were two of the terms used.

  After a while it became apparent that the craft was foundering. The iron leg, with cross-piece supporting one end, was now nearly a foot deep in the dark, soot-acid ground (they ought to lime that land to sweeten it, thought Phillip). The outside ones kept overbalancing and hopping up again. Mounted police passed up and down the street; human figures were at all the windows opposite; others were on the roofs, among chimney-pots or sitting nonchalantly on copings, legs dangling sixty feet above the pavement crowd. Meanwhile the sloping back of the seat was swaying. It had become a lever of wood-battens screwed to and held by slots in the solitary unbroken pig-iron arm. Stray individuals would stop near it, move in close to it, then, after obvious hesitation, try to get up. Rippingall was firm about these would-be boarding parties. “This is Government property,” he warned them.

  It was a timeless morning. Craft and crew had been there for ever. At last from the distance came the sound of a brass-band. A man on horseback appeared out of nowhere. He was followed by troops, officers of state, more troops. Then a blank. Minute after minute, nothing. (Phillip heard afterwards in the office of the Crusader that the crowd had broken across the road at the St. James’ Street corner.) More music approaching, drums. The bier must be very near now. Four civilians in black, valets (Sergeant Footmen, Superintendent of Wardrobe, the news-editor told him). A naval gun-team hauling a gun-carriage with the coffin draped in a faded Royal Standard; sun shining through regalia—Crown, Orb, Sceptre—glowing, clear, immortal-seeming. A large tough-looking W.O. of Household Cavalry carrying the new Royal Standard before Edward VIII, followed by his brothers York, Gloucester and Kent. Curious how Edward looked to be the youngest of them: Gloucester, by far the senior. Edward, in the uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet, strode along desperately, as though tired, dragging himself along, very boyish and decent-looking. Phillip observed that a child fainted on the right of the road opposite as the King passed. He saw him take a step aside as though to help—he recovered himself and walked on behind his Standard-bearer. The Pragger Wagger is much troubled, Phillip thought.

  Now other Kings were passing—Norway, Denmark, Roumania, Belgium, Bulgaria.

  A cockney standing on an iron water-hydrant nearby was giving a running commentary to those behind who could not see. Phillip caught a line of monologue.

  “There goes King Carol—’is foters flatter ’im, I consider, but that’s only my erpinion, ladies and gents——”

  Several girls giggled. Phillip noticed that Carol of Roumania, alone of all the immediate followers, was turning about to look at the crowd. The white cock’s-feathers in his hat made this action conspicuous. Coaches followed, Queen Mary with the Queen of Norway in the one leading. More soldiers, then a German general who limped and was wearing a steel helmet. He was followed by high-ranking Japanese officers.

  By now half the crew of the seat had left. The cockney who had been giving the running commentary from the water-hydrant suddenly hopped up beside Phillip. He wore a choker and had the hoarsest voice.

  “Ole King worn’t a bad bloke, was ’ee, guv’nor?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Now ’e’s gorn where ’e can’t take no krarn or jools wiv’ ’im, can ’e? ’Member ve old song, guv’nor?”

  Then in a hoarse whisper, the tatterdemalion sang,

  We all come in vis world wiv’ nuffin’

  Noclo’s to wear

  When we die, bear in mind

  All our money we must leave be’ind

  Finish up, wivout ve slightest daht

  The same as we began,

  For —

  We all come in vis world wiv’ nuffin’

  And we can’t take anyfink aht!

  “Too true, mate,” said Phillip.

  *

  The Silver Eagle had been left in one of the side streets off Pall Mall. Phillip drove to Fleet Street, and having given Rippingall money for breakfast, and told him to wait at the Barbarian Club afterwards, went to the Daily Crusader building and sat down in the features editor’s room to write his story.

  Each page was taken away to the comps’ room as it was written. Damp proofs came back within a few minutes. Someone brought him a cup of tea, which turned cold. At last it was written; subbed; proof’d; corrected; reset; matriced; plated; bolted to rotary machine; and the special late edition ripping off into the van-yard. Phillip saw a copy and ran his eye down his stuff. In the column beside it was another story of the dead King’s maxim which had been pinned to the wall of his study at Sandringham, written in the Monarch’s own hand-writing.

  Teach me not to cry for the moon, nor over spilt milk.

  It was the sort of cliché my father would think in terms of, thought Phillip, himself using a Victorian cliché as he left the office to get breakfast.

  *

  It was a winter of discontent.

  At the beginning of March Hitler reoccupied the Rhineland. Photographs appeared of relaxed German soldiers, mounted and on foot, crossing a Rhine bridge.

  Phillip sub-let his beat on the Flumen.

  He never went near the river now.

  “Lucy, how would you like to live in East Anglia, on a farm. With Ernest? He could look after the machinery. He’s a first-rate mechanic, as you know. Shall I ask him? No, you’d better. We could form the nucleus of a community. Felicity could milk cows and also act as book-keeper and secretary. Brother Laurence knows about bees. He’s tough, he worked in the Congo. The children would love it, especially Billy. What do you say?”

  Lucy remembered how writing and farming had clashed when he had been a pupil-labourer on Uncle Hilary’s estate. Would not Ernest be to Phillip what Phillip had been to Uncle Hilary—rather an irritation?

  “I’d like to think it over——”

  “You are thinking of the past, and the trouble over the Boys’ Works. Ernest is first-rate in a machine shop, and also a good carpenter. We’ll all work on a profit-sharing basis, now I’ve got some capital.”

  Lucy said again, “Well——” and then, flushing with semi-desperation that she had to decide, “—if you think it would work——”

  “Would you like to be a farmer’s wife again?”

  “Oh yes! I like an open-air life, you know.”

  The agent agreed to th
e sub-letting of Monachorum. He confirmed that the Abbey and all lands and hereditaments were in the market.

  The summer wasted away.

  As Old Michaelmas Day approached, Phillip said, “Let’s give a party, shall we, Lucy? Better send out the invitations at once, time is short.”

  Together they compiled a list.

  Heath Vale Nursing Home. S.E.3

  October 11th, 1936

  Tuesday.

  My dear son,

  As you will see from the address I am here for a rest and a minor operation so please do not be alarmed, there is nothing whatsoever to worry about.

  How are the little ones? Do send me a line won’t you, if you can spare a moment. And don’t forget to let me know how Billy is getting on at school, and Peter goes with him by now, I expect? Also my love to dear little Rosamund, and to David as well. And kiss the baby for his Grannie, I do so long to see him. I am lying down and must not sit up until the doctor’s examination is complete, so Miss Lewis, my nurse, is kindly writing this for me.

  Give my fondest love to Lucy, and to yourself, my very dear son,

  from Mother.

  Lucy had a letter, too.

  “Father-in-law asks me to tell you that when next you are in London he would be glad if you would go and see him. He says that the doctor in the nursing home has decided that he must get another opinion for it may mean a major operation, but you are not to worry——”

  Phillip took the envelope and saw that it had been posted in London at 8 p.m. the previous night, and then looked at the circular post-mark on the letter from the nursing home.

  “Posted at noon the day before. I’ll go at once.”

  Three hours later he arrived at the nursing home, one of the larger Victorian houses below the Heath. He waited. The Matron came.

  “Is my mother very ill?”

  “She has an even chance of recovery, Mr. Maddison. Yes, you may see her, but you must be prepared to find a change in her. I need not tell you that it is best not to remark on it. Your sister Elizabeth is with her at the moment. Would you like to go in straight away?’’

  “I think perhaps I’ll wait outside, Matron.”

  He drove the Silver Eagle round the corner, and sat in the cockpit, trying to calm his thoughts. An even chance. It must be cancer. Was cancer the effect of a psychological condition? The disintegration first taking place in the mind? First the mind in distress—the breakdown of the spirit—the mutiny of the body’s cells. The condition began in her early years, in the dark fear she had of Thomas Turney her father. And in marrying my father she exchanged one object of self-suppression, of fear, for another. This fear has haunted all my mother’s life. He lifted his feet over his head and got out, pacing between one lamp-post and another, trying to keep his mind calm. Let the mind rule emotion. Yes, she was going to die, like D. H. Lawrence’s mother. He returned to the house. The nurse on duty said that he might have five minutes but no longer.

  “Has my sister gone?”

  The nurse nodded. He followed her into a large square room where a fire was burning in the grate. He saw his mother’s face looking small above neat sheets. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright as though with pain. Having drawn up a cane-bottomed chair he took her hand, thinking it was as delicate as the clenched foot of a bird.

  “How are you, Mother?”

  “Oh, I shall be all right soon, dear. Have you seen your father?”

  “Not yet. I came across Thornton Heath, and down from Brumley to avoid traffic on the Great West Road.”

  “Phillip,” she whispered presently, her eyes shining with pain. “Could you pay fifty pounds into my banking account. The dividends from the Firm’s debentures are due next month.”

  “Of course, Mother. I’ll pay it direct into your bank as soon as I leave here.”

  Pain puckered the face on the pillow. After a muted sigh, she whispered, “There’s no need to tell Father.”

  “Of course not, Mother.”

  She tried to smile, but the wrinkles on the yellow skin of her forehead revealed pain. He held her hand between his palms, willing her to get better, while a sombre thought came that if it were possible to transfer her condition to himself, he would accept it with resignation. He smoothed her brow, seeing with pity that the wispy white hair had been tied with black ribbon into a small frayed plait.

  Matron came into the room and said quietly, “I think you Mother should rest now.”

  He bent down and without any feeling kissed her forehead.

  “I’ll attend to that matter with the bank immediately. Lucy asked me to give you her love, and the children send their love also.”

  “You are a good kind son, Phillip. One more little thing, dear. Will you, without troubling your father, bring me my aspidistra fern from the front room? I miss it, I had it before you, my little son, were born. I don’t want Father to know, because it may remind him of a pair of his old boots I gave away to the rag-and-bone man. They were too small for Dickie, really, and he was always saying he must get rid of them, so I gave them in exchange for the aspidistra.”

  Having dropped the envelope with the cheque for his mother’s account at the bank, Phillip went to Hillside Road to see his father, who said, “Well, old man, this is a surprise. I am in the act of writing a letter to you about your mother’s condition. She is not here you know, but gone into a nursing home for an examination.”

  “I’ve just been there, Father. She wrote to me.” They went into the garden room. Phillip saw, through the french windows, that the elm tree at the bottom of the garden was dead. Here he had climbed on sunny afternoons during the summer holidays, with cushion and book, to hide among green leaves near the top, where his nesting box had been tied to the trunk. Here he had read away many dappled hours of those unending summer holidays from school.

  “I’m afraid I cut it back too severely last year, Phillip. Either that, or it was the Dutch disease.”

  “Healthy elms can stand a pollarding, Father. It’s dank down there on the yellow clay.” He thought, How like mother, cut back from a true flowering all her life. But I must not blame my father, my sister, or myself.

  “How did you think Mother looked, Phillip?”

  Sulphurous fogs, dank yellow clay, mists and smuts from the factories on the marshes of the Thames. What a life his parents had lived. “I thought she needed a rest, Father.”

  “More than that,” said Richard, with an earnestness only partly suppressed. “Look at this letter, it came only a few minutes before you arrived. Only I must warn you”—he went on, retaining the letter—“that it may be a shock to you.”

  “I had a feeling that Mother was very ill, Father.”

  “I’m afraid so, old man.”

  Phillip saw misery in his father’s eyes. “Better read it for yourself.”

  A condition of carcinoma exists … Yes, it was psychological. Distortions from the truth had distorted first the spirit, then the body.

  “You know what the word means?”

  “It is sometimes curable, isn’t it, Father?”

  “I know only what this letter says, Your mother is to have treatment from the surgeon in Harley Street, beginning with radium needles.”

  Richard imagined a cure: Hetty would be back again to play chess with him, listen to the wireless, and prepare the meals. It was awful to be alone in the house, simply awful.

  “It can be cured, you know, Father.”

  “Why yes, your Mother will benefit for the rest, I dare say.” His optimism was checked by the memory of what his elder daughter had said to him the previous evening.

  “Would you believe it, Phillip, your sister Elizabeth had the effrontery to call here for the sole purpose of asking me what money would come to her after your Mother’s death!”

  “Elizabeth was shocked as a child, I think, Father——”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Well, Father, that’s only my idea, when she ran away one night and was found
on the Hill shivering and exhausted. It was all my fault. It was after my horrible act in getting Peter Wallace to fight Alfred Hawkins, who used to talk to her over the garden fence. It was an innocent idyll, that was all. I was a horrible little bully, as you so rightly told me at the time.”

  “But you were only a bit of a boy, Phillip. All small boys are bullies at times. It’s part of their nature.”

  “What I mean is, Father, that shocks in childhood often reveal themselves in strange ways later on. Elizabeth’s mania for new clothes, for example.”

  He remembered how Father had told Elizabeth that he did not love her any more, so she had first withdrawn into herself; later came the fits, and the need to keep up with new fashions.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “I may be quite wrong of course.” He thought it best to change the subject. “By the way, Father, Lucy and I are thinking of taking up farming again, perhaps in East Anglia this time. I hear that some land is so cheap that one can buy a farm with a house, premises, and all service cottages for less than five pounds an acre.”

  “You will lose your money if you buy land, Phillip.”

  “If war comes, won’t farming come back?”

  “War, you say? That’s a new idea for you, isn’t it? You were always sticking up for the Germans, I seem to remember.”

  “Of course I hope there won’t ever be another war, Father. But some people say that the obsolescent financial system will go to war to preserve itself. I mean, as things are now. If there isn’t a war, the general unrest in this country will lead to rioting, and direct political action——”

  “You mean those rascals of Socialists will force a General Strike again, as they did ten years ago, to get into office?”

  “Not Labour, Father, which cannot govern, it’s the international money system which governs. I mean the Communists. Then Birkin’s party will strike and seize power from the Communists.”

  “Oh well, I’m afraid all this is beyond me, old chap. Would you care for a cup of tea? Do stay awhile if you can. I find it pretty lonely here without your Mother, you know. You don’t play chess, do you?”