Rule Britannia

by Daphne Du Maurier

  “Hullo, darling,” she called cheerfully. “Ben and I have been working like blacks.”

  Unfortunate phrase, if you came to think of it, Emma decided, but Ben at three could not possibly take offence. He wore a woolen cap on his curly head with an enormous pompom on top, and looked like an illustration out of an old missionary magazine.

  “Well, we’ve had it,” Emma announced. “Shopping, I mean, by car. It’s the bus in future, unless that gets canceled too, or we’ll have to hoof it.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mad. “Did you go into something?”

  “No. The permit’s been marked invalid. All local cars forbidden on the road. And every regulation tightened.” It was curious that, although she hadn’t wanted to break the news to Dottie through fear of irritation, she secretly enjoyed watching the effect upon Mad. “As a matter of fact,” she added casually, “I knew it would probably happen. Lieutenant Sherman telephoned to warn me last night.”

  “Oh, so that was it.” Her grandmother shouldered the bag and slung it over her right shoulder. She looked, for one rather awful moment, as Mr. Willis had done when he slung the body of the corporal across his back.

  “They did the postmortem on the corporal,” Emma went on. “Nothing was proved, but they suspect the worst. Anyway, the long and short of it is that although they can’t arrest anyone they’re going to make it tough for the local community, and we’ve got to lump it.”

  Mad didn’t say much. She began to whistle under her breath. When they reached the house she emptied her sack of cones into the log basket and then went through to the cloakroom and picked up the telephone.

  “It’s no good trying the Commandant,” Emma said. “We must be No. 2, if not No. 1, on his list of suspected persons.”

  “I wasn’t going to try the Commandant,” replied her grandmother. “I’m going to see if our respected Member of Parliament is still in her constituency or if she has scuttled back to Westminster.”

  Five minutes or more of delay before Mad got through. No, the Member had not yet left Cornwall, but she was expected to do so later in the day. What name, please? Mrs. Moorhouse was exceedingly busy, but she might be able to speak to the caller if the matter was urgent. Emma, kneeling on the floor beside her grandmother, could hear the secretary’s frigid voice. Mad gave Pa’s name, not her own.

  “Hullo?” The voice of the Member for Mid-Cornwall was honey-sweet. Emma could imagine the light-hearted bantering tone that Pa would have used had he really been on the line.

  “No,” replied Mad in answer to the Member’s query, “it isn’t Victor, it’s his mother. I’m speaking to you from Trevalan, Poldrea.”

  There was a pause as Mrs. Moorhouse rapidly changed gear. She could cope with the merchant banker; the actress was a different thing altogether.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, cool but purposeful. “And what can I do for you?”

  “We’re in some difficulty here at Poldrea,” Mad replied. “A ban on all private cars has been put into force, the petrol pumps are closed, food supplies are not coming through to the supermarket, and in fact we appear to be in a state of siege. This is particularly hard on the young, the old and the sick, and everybody is extremely worried. I feel quite certain you can give us an explanation, and indeed let us know if this is happening all over Cornwall or only in this particular district?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. Rather too long a pause.

  “I am afraid I have no information on this,” came the answer finally. “It may possibly have some connection with the fact that Poldrea is at the moment a base for USUK forces, and they are in charge of security in the neighborhood. I don’t know if there has been any threat to the installations in the harbor, but I may be able to find out if this is so and ring you back.”

  “I’d be obliged if you would do that,” Mad answered, “but before you go, you said USUK forces. The marine commandos here are all American.”

  The Member for Mid-Cornwall gave a little laugh. “You must bring yourself up to date,” she said. “American, British, it’s all the same thing today. We are all USUK. The sooner we become used to this, the better it will be for all concerned.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  “Oh come, don’t pretend to be ignorant,” replied Mrs. Moorhouse. “I feel sure your son has explained the current situation to you. This is a matter of life or death, as you well know. It’s not a case of retiring gracefully from a troublesome association that had become burdensome, as we did from the European Community. USUK is our lifeline, and I am glad to say the majority of the people in this country welcome it. Historically it’s a proud moment for both nations. Union once more, after nearly two hundred years.”

  “Don’t you bet on it,” said Mad. “Some of us may make a Declaration of Independence too, and find our own George Washington.” She replaced the receiver with a bang and turned to Emma. “That fixed her. Now we’ll wait for fifteen minutes and see what she comes back with.”

  The telephone rang again in twenty minutes. Emma and her grandmother might have been switchboard operators, their reaction was so prompt.

  “Mrs. Moorhouse?”

  “Yes. Well, it is as I thought. Security measures have been tightened up in and around Poldrea for a very good reason. I’m afraid I can’t go into details. It concerns a missing marine—you probably know what I am referring to.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Mad replied.

  “In that case you realize it is a very serious affair, and the authorities cannot risk it happening again. It’s unfortunate for the many hundreds of innocent people who have to suffer the consequences, but there it is.”

  “I see.” This time the pause was on this end of the line. “How long are the restrictions to continue, Mrs. Moorhouse?”

  “I have no idea. The decision lies with the USUK forces in your vicinity. Now, if you will forgive me, I must ring off, I am leaving for London almost immediately.”

  “Any message, Mrs. Moorhouse,” Mad persisted, “for your constituents in Poldrea who returned you to Parliament? I don’t speak for myself, because I didn’t vote for you, but I know a number of hardworking people who did, and who I am sure would welcome your advice.”

  The Member for Mid-Cornwall must have turned to somebody at her side, because there was a slight pause and a murmur, as if Mrs. Moorhouse, exasperated, was making some remark under her breath. Then, “My advice is to cooperate with USUK forces, to put up with any slight inconvenience, and to report to the forces, or our own police, any further suspicious occurrences that may be noticed in the district.”

  “Thank you,” said Mad. “Enjoy your Thanksgiving celebrations on Thursday.” She replaced the receiver with a triumphant smile. “I always enjoy having the last word,” she said. “It’s been one of my pleasures through life, and thank God it doesn’t fade with increasing years.”

  I dare say, thought Emma, but it doesn’t really get us anywhere, and the only people who are going to come out of this comfortably will be those who live on a direct bus route or own a deep freeze.

  “I warned Madam last summer,” said Dottie later on, “that she should buy one, and it would save running down to Poldrea for every blessed thing we need. But no, she’d done without one all these years, she told me, and she wasn’t going to start now.”

  “Cheer up, Dottie,” said Terry, who as a man of leisure had installed himself in the only armchair the kitchen provided. “We’re going to live on beetroot and cabbage from now on. You’ll be so full of wind you’ll be able to act as an extractor fan.”

  Mad, wandering into the kitchen, rumpled his hair. “I don’t know why everyone is making such a fuss,” she said. “Think of people cast away on desert islands with nothing but coconuts.”

  “We have no coconuts,” observed Terry.

  “Well, what about snails? One of the most expensive things you can order in a French restaurant. Escargots à la bordelaise… I remember once in Paris…”

 
; “Go on, go on, I can’t wait.” Terry, feigning intense excitement, leaned forward in his chair.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “I am serious. There must be hundreds, thousands, of snails in the garden. If really pushed to extremes one could live on them for days.”

  Dottie, who always disapproved when Terry baited his benefactress, began rattling the forks in the kitchen drawer. “I’m very sorry,” she said, “but anyone who thinks I’m going to start cooking snails for a household of nine can think again.” The household of nine was Dottie’s big thing when pushed to extremes.

  Just then there came a sound of heavy boots clumping up the back stairs and Joe appeared at the door. He still wore a determined, even angry, expression.

  “Have those kids been playing around with the stopcock?” he asked, addressing himself to Terry. “I can’t get any water outside for washing off the car.”

  “How would I know?” shrugged Terry. “They’ll do anything when they’re not watched.”

  “It’s hardly likely, Joe,” said Mad. “They didn’t play outside yesterday afternoon when they came back from school, and they wouldn’t have had time this morning. What do you mean, you can’t get any water? There’s probably an air lock.”

  Joe’s manner softened as his eyes fell on her. He had not noticed she was standing by the door at the other end of the kitchen.

  “No, Madam, there’s not an air lock, there’s just no water.”

  Dottie moved to the sink and turned on both taps. The hot water ran as usual, but the cold, after a sparse trickle, stopped altogether.

  “That proves there’s an air lock,” Mad declared. “What an added bore. We shall have to send for the plumber unless you can blow it out, but it needs a special pump, doesn’t it?”

  “It isn’t an air lock,” Joe repeated obstinately, “there isn’t any water.”

  Mad narrowed her eyes, then turned and made for the cloakroom.

  “What now?” murmured Terry. “The White House?”

  Mad’s purpose appeared to be more practical. She was about to telephone the Water Board. Emma and the others waited in the kitchen until her call had finished. She returned, her face inscrutable.

  “So that’s that,” she announced. “A fine new regulation. Water to be cut in the Poldrea district except for one hour every day. No reason given. The order to the Water Board came from the port authorities.”

  “Meaning exactly who?” asked Terry.

  “The Commandant, I suppose. According to Jack Trembath they’ve taken over the port and everything connected with it.”

  “I don’t follow,” said the bewildered Dottie. “Why should he want to cut the water? Rationing of supplies is bad enough.”

  “Punishment, love,” answered Terry. “We’re all of us bad boys and girls in this part of Cornwall, and that includes you. Anyway, it’s splendid news for those who don’t want to wash, which goes for Andy, Sam, Colin and Ben. I don’t need a bath.”

  “Shut up,” said Joe. He was thinking, and it took a moment or two. Then he turned to Mad. “I’m going to get the old well going,” he said.

  Everyone stared. “You can’t, Joe dear, it hasn’t been used for years,” demurred Mad. “It’s concreted over. And the water would be filthy.”

  “I’ll take a pick to the concrete, and the water won’t be filthy, there’s a spring runs under the house,” Joe returned. “Come on, Terry, stop sitting on your backside and give me some help.” He clumped back again down the stairs.

  “Anyone for typhoid?” smiled Terry as he seized his crutch and followed his elder.

  Emma had never known him to agree before to one of Joe’s hard labor suggestions without loud protestations, nor had she known Joe to snap an order rather than make a mild request when he needed something done.

  Mad turned to Emma with a smile. “I always knew it was there,” she said. “It only needed tapping to bring it out.”

  “The water from the well?” asked Emma, puzzled.

  “No, darling idiot, Joe’s qualities of leadership.”

  The eardrum-splitting crashes that came from the basement throughout the day only served to reinforce Mad’s faith in the eldest of her adopted brood and his apparently willing henchman, as they chipped and smashed at the concrete surround to the old well in the cellar. Folly, her sense of hearing rudely awakened, limped from the most comfortable chair in the library overhead and with a senile whine of protest gave tongue at the top of the basement stairs. Ben, surfeited with a midday diet of sausages, fell asleep in the playroom on top of his own small sack of fir cones, and by the time his companions returned from school—no Jesus talk today, no think-in, to Andy’s relief but Colin’s disappointment—Joe and Terry had not only uncovered the old well but had drawn to the surface three buckets of crystal clear water.

  “There,” said Joe as everyone crowded into the cellar to applaud, “I knew it could be done. I knew we wouldn’t go short. They can cut us off from the mains forever, we’ll survive.”

  He shook his hair out of his eyes. His face was flushed from his hours of exertion. How strange, Emma thought, he looks really handsome, and Terry, leaning on his crutches beside him, somehow almost ordinary in comparison.

  Sam was the only one to appear disturbed. “It’s all right for us. What about the animals at the farm, the cattle, the sheep? You know the trough between the plowed field and the grazing ground that gets piped water? If none comes through the animals can’t drink.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Mad. “Good for you, Sam. We’ll have to keep the trough filled.”

  “They have a well at the farm,” Joe told them. “Mr. Trembath won’t go short. Anyway, I’ll go down there presently and find out.”

  “You know what,” said Andy. “If we’re cut off the mains here, and everyone else at Poldrea, the marines will be without water too.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Terry shook his head. “The port has quite a separate supply, from another source. I remember Ron Blewett telling me that weeks ago. I don’t know how he knew, except his father used to work there.”

  “The thing would be,” suggested Andy, with a glance at Mad, “to get some gely and blow up the port. Then the marines really would be in trouble.”

  “Yes,” said Joe, “and so would we.”

  The time had obviously come to call a halt to the discussion. The well had yielded water, that was enough. Every pail and bucket and jug the household could produce was brought into service, and the various receptacles placed where they would be of most use. It was only then that Dottie announced that her own prize possession, a plastic pail that she kept for emergencies under the kitchen sink, was missing. So were Colin and Ben.

  “They were downstairs five minutes ago,” said Sam. “I saw them. Colin was outside the back door emptying the dustbin.”

  “Please, dear,” implored Dottie, turning to Emma.

  The dustbin was on its side, and Emma could hear the prattle of young voices coming from the cellar. Her heart misgave her. The well, covered for so many years, was now open to all. She ran through to prevent some terrible accident that might yet turn the triumph to disaster. The two children were standing side by side. Ben had a piece of old curtain draped over his head and around his shoulders. Colin, Dottie’s plastic prize in his left hand, was emptying the dregs from the bottle of chablis that Pa had finished up.

  “What are you doing?” Emma cried, her panic subsiding.

  Colin looked up, aggrieved. “We didn’t have our Jesus-talk today so we’re having it now,” he said. “Ben is my mother Mary and it’s the wedding at Cana. I’m Jesus, turning the water into wine.”

  17

  If the new authorities in charge of Poldrea harbor thought they had the community licked, they reckoned without the minority in their midst. Jack Trembath had not been a champion wrestler in his day for nothing. His skill in throwing a Breton opponent to the ground, as he had done once, might not stand him in much stead today against the
might of the commandos, but it had taught him to think quickly, and to organize. The ban on private cars would not be in force until the following day, the Wednesday, and on the Tuesday afternoon, while Joe and Terry had been uncovering the well in the Trevanal cellar, Jack had telephoned all the neighboring farmers and had bidden them to an emergency meeting that evening. Some twenty-five out of the thirty accepted and turned up, three were willing but could not make it and sent their sons as substitutes, the remaining two, suspecting trouble, excused themselves by saying they had no wish to be involved.

  Joe had gone down to the farm earlier to find out if they were all right for water, and Mad, Emma and Terry were sitting in the library with the television turned on, hoping for some enlightenment. There was little new, and certainly nothing about the tightening-up of regulations in a minute portion of the Cornish seaboard. “The whole country is busy preparing for the Thanksgiving Celebrations on Thursday,” the announcer said. “In Devon and Cornwall, as elsewhere, the union will be marked in various ways. Admiral Jollif will entertain officers of the joint Fleets to luncheon at Admiralty House, Plymouth, and there will be a reception in County Hall, Truro, at which the Members of Parliament for Cornwall will be present. Among other regional celebrations will be a luncheon party to be given by the officers and warrant officers of the marine commando unit stationed at Poldrea. Mrs. Hubbard, area representative for the Cultural-Get-Together movement, will be the guest of honor at the luncheon, which will take place at the Sailor’s Rest.”

  Emma switched off. “I can’t believe it,” she exclaimed, just as Joe came in, his face alight with information.