Rule Britannia

by Daphne Du Maurier

  This story had gone the rounds for a time at home, to Mad’s amusement. She would allude to it as her “guilty secret,” but then as the summer passed, and the treks to the beach became less frequent, the man who was squatter, beachcomber and hidden brother was forgotten, except, so it now seemed, by Andy and Sam. That his name was in reality Mr. Willis came as something of an anticlimax.

  He looked less formidable without his cap. He had mild eyes and was wearing spectacles. He had a shock of white hair, and must be well over seventy. He looked fixedly at Emma for a moment, and then he said, “Do you want to see the boy?”

  “Please.”

  “Come in, then.”

  He turned and led the way into the hut. Emma was struck by his voice—it had a sort of lilt to it, was it Welsh? And then, once inside, after a rapid glance about her—the place was neat and dry, with a glowing log fire—she had eyes and thoughts for no one but Terry. He was lying on a camp bed against the wall, near to the fire. She ran to him and knelt beside him. His eyes looked enormous in his white face.

  “Terry darling,” she said, “what happened? We’ve been so worried. Thank God you’re here…” She glanced up at the beachcomber standing in the doorway. “We were afraid the marines might have picked you up.”

  Terry tried to smile, but she could see he was in pain. Happy-go-lucky Terry, who never had anything wrong with him, he seemed so vulnerable suddenly, and so much younger than herself or Joe.

  “I’d be a stiff by now but for Mr. Willis,” he said. “I don’t know how he did it, but he brought me up here on his back, at least that’s what he says. I don’t think I was conscious half the time.”

  “Nothing to it,” put in his rescuer. “I’ve borne heavier loads than you on my back and will do so again.”

  It was Welsh. The lilt was unmistakable, the upward turn at the finish of a sentence. Emma turned back to Terry.

  “I’ve seen Myrtle,” she told him. “I was at the farm just now. She told me about the fight between you and Corporal Wagg. Nobody else knows. Is that how you broke your leg?”

  “No, not exactly,” murmured Terry—speech came slowly, because he was in pain. “They came after me, he and about four others, and I ran as fast as I could to shake them off. The tide was beginning to flood, which was my saving, really, because they started to flounder about in the shallows and I gave them the slip by scrambling up Little Hell and hiding there by the gully in the cliff face, so they lost me and must have gone back to Poldrea beach. Then like a fool I slipped, and went crashing down about twenty feet to the bottom of the cliff. I couldn’t move, and guessed by the pain what I’d done. I lay there for nearly an hour, or so it seemed. Then Mr. Willis turned up.”

  The beachcomber took up the story. “No, boyo, it wasn’t an hour, it was thirty minutes, more like. I was watching the charade on Poldrea beach from the cliff path above, and I saw them give chase to you. I was planning to come down and face them myself, when they turned on their heels. I thought you’d packed up and gone home. It was only that I keep a store of driftwood near the gully that made me turn aside and I saw you lying there, with the tide coming up on you. I couldn’t leave you, could I?” He pulled aside the blanket and showed Emma the left leg with the splints around it. “I was an orderly in a naval hospital once. I know this is only a rough job, and the boy should by rights be in hospital. But how to get him there? And what of these roadblocks they have all over the place? They gave it out again, not half an hour ago. Picking up boys, they say, for questioning.”

  Sam had joined the bedside consultation. “Terry’s better here with Mr. Willis than he would be at home,” he said. “The marines are always coming up to our place. That Lieutenant Sherman is a friend of Emma’s.”

  “He’s not,” said Emma fiercely, “truly he’s not.” She turned to the beachcomber. “We had to be civil to the officers when they called. They used our stables over the weekend, we couldn’t refuse. But my grandmother, far from making them welcome, was, well… almost insulting. She says it’s a complete con on the part of the government to pretend it’s a union between ourselves and the Americans, that it’s a takeover bid or worse, a full-scale invasion.”

  Mr. Willis stared at Emma with interest. “Your grandmother said that?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  He scratched his white head and smiled. “I’ve not been inside a theater these forty years, but I remember her well. She’d have been in her prime. A comedy it was, I’ve forgotten the title… Now, boyo, what’s to be done with you? I’d keep you here until your leg mends, but it should be in plaster.”

  “Wait,” exclaimed Emma, “our doctor is coming to see my grandmother some time today. I’ll have to tell him.”

  “She’s not ill, is she?” interrupted Terry anxiously.

  “No, she wants to find out what he knows, what rumors are flying around, what’s true, what’s false. He’s a personal friend besides being a doctor, Mr. Willis. You know Andy? Andy’s parents who were killed in an air crash were friends of Dr. Summers, that’s why my grandmother adopted Andy. He knows Terry, he knows us all.”

  Mr. Willis looked thoughtful. “He may be your friend, but how would he react to these circumstances? Roadblocks, passes and the like. The U.S. forces are in control. They may be keeping a watch on the hospitals too. I can give you my word no one will come looking for Terry here. And if they did…” He looked up at the wall above Terry’s camp bed. There was an old shotgun hanging there. “No American marine would cross my threshold.”

  He almost could be Mad’s brother, thought Emma, he has the same determination, the same territorial pride. She squeezed Terry’s hand, and with sudden understanding of her thoughts he squeezed it back and smiled despite the pain.

  “Mr. Willis,” he said, “I don’t want to get you into trouble. We seem to have caused enough as it is. I’m pretty certain Dr. Summers can be trusted. But it’s for you to say. This is your place, not ours.”

  Mr. Willis looked at each of them in turn. Then down again, at the leg in splints. “Whichever way it goes, you’ll be a casualty for some weeks. No scrapping or bonfires for you. Maybe you should see that doctor.”

  It was decided that Emma and Sam should return to Trevanal, and Emma would tell her grandmother that Terry was with Mr. Willis.

  “Mind how you go now,” he warned her outside the hut. “You can’t tell what those fellows would be up to, they might be around. I’ve some broth here simmering I’ll give the boy directly, but he hasn’t much appetite.”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Emma told him. “Terry was the first of what my grandmother calls her brood. He means so much to her.”

  “He does her credit, then,” said the beachcomber. “Terry has plenty of guts. There’s life in him still for many more scrapes.”

  Emma and Sam threaded their way through the wood and up to the plowed field above, and so home. It was still blowing hard, and raining too. They shed their boots and raincoats in the porch, and Emma heard the dining room clock strike eleven. So much had happened since Jack Trembath had telephoned around seven, half the day seemed to have gone already. The television was on in the library, an unusual thing for Mad—it must be she wanted to hear the latest news bulletin. Her grandmother was standing in front of the set, and when Emma appeared she switched it off.

  “More complications,” she said. “Two explosions near Falmouth. There’s a contingent of marines down there too, apparently, and of course they’re blaming the dockers. Where on earth have you been? Jack Trembath brought the car back ages ago, and he’s gone back to the farm for his Land Rover, and is going to scout around Poldrea to get more news. He said you’d lost a scarf or something.”

  “I’ve found Terry,” said Emma.

  Her grandmother stood very still. Then she suddenly seemed to shrink, and her eyes went misty and small. She put out her hand to Emma.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said.

  They sat down together on the sofa, and in a moment Ma
d had recovered.

  “It was really Sam’s doing,” Emma explained. “He had the brilliant idea where to look.”

  She poured out the whole story, and before she had finished Mad was quite herself again, and began her thing of walking up and down the room, a habit of hers when deep in concentration.

  “It must have been instinct that made me telephone Bevil,” she said. “He probably won’t be here until sometime this afternoon, but I didn’t expect he would. Do you think Terry will be all right until then? Is he in frightful pain?”

  “I don’t think so.” Emma spoke uncertainly. “He’s being very plucky and Mr. Willis has put the leg in splints, but he obviously needs to be seen by a doctor.”

  “Mr. Willis,” Mad said. “Extraordinary name for a beachcomber. It doesn’t suit him at all. Welsh, do you say? I shall call him Taffy.”

  “Mad, you can’t… He’s rather a dignified old person, once you see him with his cap off, in his own lair. The hut was very tidy too.”

  “What on earth has that got to do with it? Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief, Taffy came to my place and stole a piece of beef… Oh yes, he won’t mind, he’ll take it as a compliment.”

  Emma thought otherwise, and she hoped to heaven her grandmother would not advance upon him quoting that insulting old rhyme. Now Terry had been found, broken leg and all, Mad’s spirits had risen to their usual heights.

  “You know what?” she announced, looking out at the streaming rain. “I shall go down to the hut now, before lunch. You stay here and hold the fort. Sam’s already been, I’ll take Andy.”

  “But Mad…”

  She had already gone out of the room, though, and was shouting to the whole house that Terry had been found. It was so unwise, thought Emma, it ought to be kept secret until after the doctor had called and given his advice.

  “… a terribly nice man,” Mad was saying to Dottie. “Not eccentric at all, he was trained as an orderly in a hospital, he just likes living by himself, that’s all. What? Oh, retired, I suppose. He’s a Welsh bard or something.”

  Emma went into the kitchen. “Mad, we’ve got to be discreet about this. No one must know Terry is there, or has broken his leg. There are roadblocks everywhere, as you heard on the news, and the marines are still looking for boys and young men who might have been involved in that fracas last night on Poldrea beach. And now since the explosions they’ll be doubly watchful.”

  “I know, I know,” said Mad impatiently. “Call Andy for me and we’ll be off.”

  She had been gone about half an hour when Emma, who for want of anything better to do was dusting the music room, heard the sound of a car. She looked out of the window and her heart missed a beat. It was the marine staff car and Lieutenant Sherman was driving. Oh no… Oh, please, no… He climbed out of the car, opened the gate and walked swiftly up the garden path. Emma stood in the hall, uncertain what to do. She had better face him. Dottie might lose her head.

  “Hullo,” she said, but rather coldly, without enthusiasm.

  “Hi,” he said. Then smiled, and saluted. He looked very professional. “I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother,” he said. “I called to enquire how she was.”

  “My grandmother?” repeated Emma. What on earth did he mean?

  “Bush telegraph. News travels fast in these parts. I hope she wasn’t too much shaken by the events of last night. We got quite a number of the hooligans, I’m thankful to say.”

  “On the contrary,” replied Emma, “she wasn’t shaken at all. Mr. Trembath drove us all home and she was in excellent spirits.”

  “Oh,” he said, looking surprised, “then her heart attack came later? Well, I hope it’s not too serious, and we can absolve ourselves from blame.”

  Emma continued staring. Was she going mad, or was he?

  “I’d better explain,” he said. “The fact is, we’ve got roadblocks everywhere, there have been several incidents throughout the county, and we’re stopping all cars and examining passes. I’m in charge of a post five miles from here, on the main Poldrea-Liskeard road, and a Dr. Summers showed his pass to me and said he would be calling here later on, that your grandmother had sent for him, a suspected heart condition. So, as I was relieved shortly afterwards, I thought it only courteous to enquire. Has the doctor seen her yet?”

  “No,” said Emma, “not yet.”

  Suppose the oilskin-clad figure of Mao Tse-tung should suddenly emerge from the plowed field beyond the garden?

  “I guess he won’t be long,” said the lieutenant kindly. “You seem rather shocked yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Emma, “I am.”

  She held on to the door for support.

  “Gee, it’s tough,” continued the lieutenant. “I do hope he won’t find much wrong. She’ll need to lie up, no doubt, and she won’t like that.”

  “No,” said Emma, “she won’t.”

  The rain was still lashing down. He obviously hoped he would be asked inside.

  “Do forgive me,” said Emma, “but we’re rather rushed off our feet with this… this happening. She’s rather demanding. I have to sit by her bed.” She backed away from the doorway.

  “I understand.” He seemed disappointed, though. “Just one thing. You’re not mad at me for last night, are you? I guess I got… maybe I was too free.”

  “No… no, not at all.” Oh Lord, what was she saying?

  “Fine… Then I’ll call again, to enquire after your grandmother…” he smiled, “but on you too.” The look of self-assurance had returned to his rather square face, his smile suggested that he and Emma were in league. “We’ll get together and have a good time.”

  Then he saluted again, and walked back to the staff car in the drive. Conceited ass, she thought, have a good time indeed… Does that mean he expects a clinch down in the basement?

  She was definitely off him. Had never been on. Thank heaven for one thing, which was that Mad and Sam had not returned during Wally Sherman’s call. Wally. There was no doubt it was an idiotic name.

  Scarcely had the lieutenant disappeared up the drive than Dr. Summers’s Peugeot came rolling down it. He had evidently taken Mad’s telephone call in all sincerity, because he only saw urgent cases in the morning after surgery. He’s not going to be too pleased, thought Emma, and I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. Dr. Summers did not ring the bell. He walked straight into the hall and threw down his raincoat. He was a man in his late fifties, stoutish, with a good head of hair. Patients thought his manner brusque until they had learned to trust him.

  “Hullo, Emma,” he said. “How is the patient? Shall I go straight up? I told her to stay in bed.”

  “Look,” said Emma, “I think you’d better come into the music room.” She shut the door behind him and drew a deep breath. “Mad sent for you on false pretences, but we do need you.”

  He did not blink an eyelid. He went and stood over by the fireplace.

  “False pretences?” he echoed. “Oh well, it’s not the first time. She might have chosen a less inconvenient day. What’s she up to now?”

  “It’s Terry,” said Emma, “he’s broken his leg.”

  “Right. Why didn’t she say so? I’ve brought something for a heart condition in my bag but nothing for a broken leg. Too bad.”

  “It’s not that easy. She didn’t know about the broken leg when she rang you up. The fact is…” Emma paused—must she embark on the whole story yet again? “The fact is,” she continued, “it all started at the firework party last night.”

  “Oh, that,” Dr. Summers smiled. “I heard all about that. I gather your lot produced the guy. Did they throw the fireworks in the Commander’s car too?”

  “Well…”

  “Listen here, Emma,” he glanced at his watch, “I’m pushed for time. Does your grandmother want to see me or not, and where is Terry? Is he in his room? How do you know the leg is broken?”

  “He’s not in his room,” said Emma, “nor is Mad. They’re both in a hut i
n the wood with the beachcomber.”

  Dr. Summers stared at her steadily. “I’ve sorted out a few of your family troubles in my time, but this is a new one.”

  Emma embarked upon the case history, and was winding to her conclusion when Dr. Summers, who hadn’t sat down but was looking out of the window, observed, “Here she comes now, but she’s on her own. I’m surprised she didn’t try carrying Terry on her back like your beachcomber.”

  They went out into the hall to meet her. Mad took off her cap and shook herself like a shaggy dog.

  “Hullo, Bevil, I didn’t expect you so soon, how splendid. Em darling, that Welshman is heaven! He’s been telling me all about how he used to sing in a choir at Abernethy. He’s got a beautiful voice. I asked him why he had never trained professionally but apparently he had a sad love affair and ran away to sea. Dottie? Let’s have lunch right away, I’m starving. Dr. Summers will be staying.”

  “Dr. Summers will do nothing of the kind.” The doctor put his hand on Mad’s shoulder and pushed her before him into the music room. “I must say that for a woman of nearly eighty with a heart condition you look remarkably well. If you’ll only stop talking for a moment we can sort things out. Terry has broken his leg, right? Your broken-hearted Welsh choirmaster has put it in splints, right? He hasn’t informed you what type of break it is and he probably doesn’t know, and a car can’t get through that jungle down there so Terry must be brought up on a stretcher. Finally, and this seems to me to be the crux, you’re afraid the marine commandos may be after Terry because of what happened last night, hence the cloak-and-dagger business. Now tell Dottie to serve your lunch, and ask Joe to come with me to the hut. He’s got more common sense than the rest of you. When I have seen Terry I shall decide what is to be done.”

  Mad smiled across at Emma. “What did I tell you? Didn’t I do the right thing by sending for Bevil?”

  “One of these days,” said her doctor, “I shall disoblige you. And you can sort out your own mess.”

  It was after two before Emma and her grandmother sat down to lunch, and Mad switched on her radio to hear the news headlines. The announcer’s voice sounded excited, his patch of country was in the news.