Authors: Henry Williamson
He recalled what an Air Vice Marshal of the R.A.F. in 1938 had said to him at a party at George Abeline’s house in mid-Norfolk. If war came (and the senior officer had considered it to be
inevitable
) then it was to be hoped that Italy would not remain neutral. ‘We’ll get at Germany that way. We’d tear off the Italian booted leg.’
In 1938 that had seemed cynical, even cruel; although his acquaintance had been speaking in detachment only as a
strategist
, and from the viewpoint of Great Britain surviving as a major maritime trading nation.
The key banged in the lock. The door opened.
“A lady to see you!”
Behind the sergeant stood Lucy, smiling, with flushed face. He got off the plank-bed and said “Hullo.”
“Hullo,” said Lucy. She had two pillows in her arms.
“It’s against the regulations for visitors to enter the cells,” said the sergeant, “but you can speak with your wife in the yard outside. A constable will remain with you according to regulations.”
Outside, to Phillip’s surprise, it was still a fine June day.
“Well, how are you?”
“All right.”
The constable was standing in the doorway, trying to look as though he were thinking of his allotment.
“I hope the hay won’t get burnt up.”
“I told Luke about it.”
The constable came nearer, to examine mortar between the bricks of the wall.
“Oh, damn. I quite forgot it was Friday. The wages!”
“I’ve paid them.”
“Thanks so much. I’m sorry to give you all this trouble.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, my dear. By the way, Luke says the hay isn’t fit to be cocked yet. I’ve looked at it, and it’s still sappy.”
“Ah, that’s good then! Look, he ought to bring Beatrice and fetch the elevator from the station tomorrow.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, perfectly. How are you?”
“Oh, the same. How are the children?”
“All right.” She did not say that Peter had come home from the village school with a bloody nose, after being mobbed because his father, they said, was a German spy.
“I brought the newspapers. And these pillows.”
“Oh, good. By the way, you have power to sign cheques you know. In case I don’t come back.”
The constable said suddenly, “You’ll go back!” He spun round on a heel and looked at Phillip. “I’ll bet you five bob you’ll be back inside a week!”
Feeling happy, Phillip exclaimed, “I’ll take that bet!”
“And within a fortnight we’ll all be doing this!” The constable shot his arm into the air and grinned.
Was it a trap, or a joke? Phillip took it as a joke. “Don’t forget we’ve got a Navy!” To Lucy, “Did you come in the Silver Eagle?”
“Yes. It was rather a bother to start, that’s why I’m so late.”
“The flywheel cogs are worn, they stick on the starter pinion.”
“We all had to push it in the end.”
“The other day I found another Silver Eagle in a knacker’s yard and wondered if I should buy it, for spares. Have the sheep broken out again?”
“I don’t think so. They were all grazing happily on the Home Hills when I left.”
“No fly on them?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I wonder if they’ve oiled the hay-tedder machine.”
“I must try to remember to ask.”
That seemed to be the end of the conversation.
“Is there anything special you want?” she said. “Oh, I’ve brought you a book to read.”
“Thanks. What is it?”
“
The
Road
to
En-dor
—the escape book, you remember you said you’d like to read it again.”
Phillip said to the constable, “Sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? As though I were planning to involve the police here in spiritualism. You’ve read
The
Road
to
En-dor
?”
“Yes, sir. My wife got it out of the County Library.”
“It’s a wonderful book.” To Lucy, “How are the children?”
“Quite well.”
“How are the sheep?”
“They seemed all right.”
“Still avoiding the fly on the Home Hills, I hope,” said the constable, staring at the wall intently.
“Ah, we’re talking in code,” said Phillip. “For sheep read bows and arrows. For further ‘information’, read ‘Tiny Tinribs’ Weekly.”
“Things move faster than that nowadays,” remarked the constable. “Six weeks, and Poland’s down. Three days, and Holland’s out. Three weeks, and Belgium’s down. A month, and France is as good as out. And our Defence Volunteers ain’t got any rifles. But we’ve got one thing Jerry hasn’t got. As you said, a Navy! If little ole Hitler comes, he won’t get back.”
“Well,
I’d
better be getting back now,” said Lucy.
*
With the two pillows the bed was comfortable, but as he lay and tried to read that evening his eye would not fasten on the printed page but travelled inwardly to known fields and cottages, to children’s faces in the shock and delirium of bombs and
shell-fire
, to ruined towns and starvation and desolation, to prisoners’ camps filled with soldiers and volunteers whose only weapons were shot-guns, the Government gone to Canada and declaiming over the radio that anyone who tried to keep life going in Britain was a quisling, a traitor: and thus fratricidal civil war and sabotage. All this
montage
of thoughts was cohering and assembling within his mind to the old idea: he must try to stop the war for the people’s sake.
It
must
be possible to transmute un-understanding into clarity: clarity for all points of human feeling, whether of Jew or German, Finn or Russian, Communist or Jehovah’s Witness, Catholic or Fascist, labourer or industrial boss: to resolve for all men of
goodwill
, of honour, this frightful deadlock of ideas. It
must
be possible. The people of all nations and creeds yearned for justice, for appreciation, for hope, for clarity.
Again and again during the sleepless night the hare-fleeing mind returned to its basic thought: if only Hitler, at this crisis in the world’s portending misery, were shown some sign of friendliness, some
understanding
of his spiritual gifts, for so long frustrated and therefore sometimes turned to poison within his being—driving him to do the opposite of his idealistic nature. If only his
magnanimity
could be set free by friendship with the country and nation he admired—Britain—his true inner self might be brought forth as a light uncovered. The French premier had said he believed in miracles, but he meant something to cause sudden devastating defeat of the Germans. There was no hope that way, especially if it were to happen. What was needed was a true miracle, for an exposition so clear that all men would understand it.
It was possible.
He now had pencil and paper.
As soon as it was light enough to see he got up and, sitting on the edge of the plank-bed, began to write an article which he must smuggle out somehow and get to Chettwood even if it was to be his last act on earth.
*
After the article had been written he hid it in one of the two pillows under his head and tried to sleep, but his mind would not stop racing.
They key rattled in the lock. There stood the war-reserve constable, regimental and erect, an old Coldstreamer. Again the politeness of a trained soldier was integrating.
“Would you care to wash and shave, sir? I have some warm water. And can you eat egg
and bacon for breakfast, or would you prefer fish? The sergeant’s wife regrets she has no coffee, but will you take tea, sir?”
“Thank you, and good-morning, constable. I would like some fish. I’ll wash now, thank you. Another fine day.”
“Yes, sir. The French seem to be knocked out of the war. The Germans are in Paris.”
He spoke with a confident impartiality: no wonder, thought Phillip, that the Guards in the 1914–18 war never failed to take their objectives—except once, when they had been given the impossible task of making a salient out of a salient at Bourlon Wood.
What a splendid fellow he was, this old Lilywhite. Iron, in fire, had become steel. Duty, honour, truth were in his bearing. The sort of fellow who, were he a German and this a German prison, would blow out his brains if his prisoner managed to escape.
Though such a thought as escape never occurred to Phillip. If the door had been open, and no one there, he would have
considered
himself, in the emergency, as sole authority for law and order, and would have remained there in charge of himself.
“I’ll have to lock the door while I go for the water, sir.”
“Oh yes, of course.”
Certainly they were model gaolers. He ought really not to attempt to smuggle out the manuscript. It would not be quite the thing.
The rest of the day passed with aimlessness, until the time for Lucy to visit him. This time the sergeant accompanied her.
“Were the pillows comfortable?”
“Yes, thank you. Afraid I haven’t got very far along the road to En-dor. Oh sergeant, do you believe in spiritualism?”
“It all depends, sir, by what you mean by spiritualism.”
Phillip decided not to pursue the joke. “How’s the elevator?”
“I got Luke to bring it back. It looks lovely. I fancy he didn’t like bringing it back on a Saturday afternoon, but I persisted.”
“Good for you. Don’t forget his overtime.”
“I wrote it down in the farm diary. I brought your post, by the way, it’s in the office. I opened the letters first. Well, don’t worry about the farm, we’ll manage somehow.”
“We’ll have to see all your letters before you see them, sir.”
“Yes, of course, sergeant. The news looks bad, doesn’t it?”
“It don’t look too good, sir. But old England’s been in a tight corner before, and got out of it.”
“Yes, indeed.” To Lucy, “How’s the village? Full of rumours?”
“Yes, they seem at last to have some excitement. But don’t think they all think alike. Far from it.”
When Lucy had gone he lay on the bed reading the papers she had brought. Afterwards he dozed, and at ten o’clock undressed and tried to sleep. In the morning, after washing and shaving, he had breakfast and was pacing the cell when the door opened and the sergeant, looking grim, entered and told him to pack his bag. His heart began to beat faster. He was told to wait in the office beside several uniformed policemen. There was a copy of
The
Daily
Crusader
lying on the desk. He read the banner-line across the front page in heavy black type.
So it was going to be prison, or the Isle of Man, for the rest of the war. The property he had signed for—string, button, matches,
halfpenny—was checked and put back into the canvas bag. His suitcase was taken outside to where a closed car stood. He got in, followed by two policemen who sat themselves on either side of the prisoner. The windows were closed. It was a fine sunny day seen through glass. He did not like to ask for a window to be opened. The driver at the wheel had a black holster strapped to his waist.
The car drove out of Crabbe, down the road he had travelled several times, and then entered a lane which he did not know. The image of Codreanu, the Rumanian National-Socialist peasant party leader, in white embroidered peasant cloak, came to him. Codreanu had been ‘shot while attempting to escape’ with a dozen of his followers in a Rumanian forest. How remote from peaceful English life that murder had seemed a few years ago; how remote, too, from an England where one could say what one liked. He was a political prisoner guarded by three armed policemen, in a motor moving swiftly past fields of growing wheat and oats and barley; past fields where mowing machines moved, elevators worked, stacks of dark green clover hay were rising; past gangs of hoers moving with bent backs in line down pale green
thread-lines
of sugar-beet. All looked up as the car moved past, and stared.
He did not like to ask where they were going. Indeed he could not have asked out of this low point of life’s loneliness. For nearly twenty years he had known and seen the pattern of his actions; now he was intellectually blind, deprived of that which for nearly twenty years had been his life’s aim and purpose. It was as though the sinews had been taken out of the body. He was a man invisibly bound, knowing not where he was going, prepared only for the sight of a railway station, stares of the curious on the platform as between two policemen and perhaps handcuffed to one he would be taken to a railway carriage and locked in behind drawn blinds. At Liverpool Street Station there would be further gazings of the curious, a step up into a Black Maria’s windowless ride and then perhaps through the gateway of the Scrubs and a cell door closing behind him.
If the Germans invaded England successfully—and by the look of things there were few men and little equipment in the country—he had foreseen the possibility of himself, with others, being
summarily
shot in cells, attempting to escape. Would Tim join Lucy, and help her run the farm with Billy?
And looking at the sunlit scenes of hay-rake and hoe through glass he wondered how the hay of Steep Field would fare. Poor
Lucy. Perhaps the War Agricultural Committee would farm the land.
Or would Luke run the farm? The Steep wouldn’t grow hay, he had said: he had tried for two seasons under the old lazybones tenant and nothing had come up. No wonder, with furrows of a horse-plough driven only two or three inches in the sticky soil, the scratch-furrows drying out, to receive a scattering of seeds on a bed of rubble-lumps in the dry month of May.
Last year the small seeds had been drilled half-an-inch deep in the lovely tilth of wheat-plants harrowed in early April. Soon thread-like green rows of grass, spotted with the minute
heart-shaped
plants of clover, were crossing delicately the sturdier plants of wheat, which was the nurse-crop. And the wheat rose thick and sappy to meet the caress of the upland summer breezes. Partridges ran down the Tows, pecking the little stalks of grass and clover-leaves below the wheat standing strong and uniform up to the skyline. In July the wheat took the gold of the King Harry sun. In August it yielded to scythe and reaper. Among the stubbles the layer assumed a darker green, clover plants and grass rising sturdily until the frost came and the clover plants wilted, but did not die, for later snow protected them from nibbling hare, cropping rabbit and the peck-pull-pluck of wild pigeon—the clover and rye-grass plants lay warm under the snow awaiting the nitrogenous surge of spring.