Authors: Mazo de la Roche
Tags: #FIC045000 – FICTION / Sagas
Nicholas patted Pheasant’s hand. “Read Piers’s letter, my girl, and see what he had to say for himself.”
“Perhaps Alayne has more to read.”
“The rest of the letter is purely personal,” said Alayne, glancing over the last page. “Do read Piers’s letter.”
Nicholas sat beaming through tobacco smoke. “What a triumph,” he said. “What a triumph for the Jalna stables! And to think I was against his buying that horse!”
“I’ll never forget,” said Ernest, “when the news came over the radio. I was sitting here alone, alone, mind you, listening to one of those horrible soap-flake advertisements, when the news came on. When I heard the words — Grand National — I leaped to my feet. When I heard that Renny had won the race I almost fell down again. I know I walked in a circle. I went into the hall and told the dogs. They were as excited as I, and —”
“Yes, yes,” said his brother, “we’ve heard all that before.”
“Shall I read Piers’s letter?” asked Pheasant.
“Yes, do.”
She read aloud: —
D
EAREST
P
HEASANT
, —
I was very glad to get your letter with the nice little one from Nook enclosed. I think it is a splendid scheme for you and the boys to live at Jalna and let our house to Sarah. It will make quite a difference in our budget. Please thank Alayne for me. Well, at the moment, everything seems unimportant compared to the great victory at Aintree. Renny is giving Alayne details of that, so I shall only add that it was a grand race and that Johnny the Bird is the best buy Renny ever made. Old Redhead was in the seventh heaven after the race. I wish Alayne could have seen his face. There was a big dinner at the hotel but I was tired and went to bed early.
“Ho, ho, ho!” interrupted Nicholas.
“Don’t interrupt, Nick,” said Ernest.
Pheasant proceeded: —
I promised you that I would go to Ireland to see young Maurice at the first opportunity. Well, Cousin Dermot wrote that he was bringing him to Liverpool for the race. However, he was laid up with lumbago and couldn’t come. So I went to Ireland two days before the race, leaving Renny in Liverpool. It was a pity I had such a short time to stay for I enjoyed it thoroughly and so did Mooey enjoy having me. You would be very glad you let him go for this visit if you could see him. I’ve never seen him look so well. He had a fine colour in his cheeks and he’s grown much taller. It’s easy to see that he’s the apple of the old man’s eye. It’s going to be a wonderful thing for Mooey. Cousin Dermot remarked my striking resemblance to my grandfather but he was shocked to see me in private’s uniform. Well, my wish is to get a crack at the Huns. If all goes well I expect to leave for France in a few days. By the time you get this I’ll be in the thick of it.
My love to all at home and don’t worry.
Your loving
P
IERS
“I’m so glad about Mooey,” said Alayne.
“And so am I,” said Nicholas.
“A very nice letter,” added Ernest.
Pheasant drew a deep breath. “Yes. Very nice!” She rose with the letter pressed between her hands. “I’ve things to do upstairs.” She left the room, walking rather uncertainly.
“Poor little Pheasant,” said Alayne. “It’s hard for her, parting with both Mooey and Piers. Not knowing when she’ll see either of them again.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed Ernest. “Piers has probably been in France for a fortnight, in the thick of it.”
Nicholas puffed silently at his pipe.
“I never can agree,” said Ernest, “that Piers can compare with our father, though he is a fine-looking fellow.”
“He hasn’t the distinction.”
“Or the true elegance of proportion.”
“Or the manner.”
“Or the dignity.”
The door opened and Mrs. Wragge appeared. She held a telegram in her hand. She looked anxious.
“It’s for Mrs. Piers,” she said, in a whisper.
“Good God!” exclaimed Nicholas. “Something’s happened to Piers!”
“Who is to open the telegram?” asked Ernest, turning ashen.
“I will,” said Alayne. She took the yellow paper from Mrs. Wragge and held it in tense fingers.
“Would it be about Johnny the Bird perhaps?” asked Nicholas. “Surely it’s not bad news.”
Ernest rose and gripped the back of his chair in his hands. “We had better hear the worst,” he said.
Alayne read — “Regret to inform you that Private Piers Whiteoak is missing.”
“Read it again,” said Nicholas. “I don’t take it in.”
She read it again.
THE RESCUE
S
IX WEEKS LATER
Finch and Wakefield were dining together in a small restaurant. Finch had arrived from Canada and Wakefield was on leave. Their meeting was a happier one than, at their last, Finch would have thought possible. He could not keep his eyes off Wakefield, wondering what was in his heart. He looked handsome in the RAF uniform and he was full, even a little boastful, of the excitement and hazards of his training. Evidently he and Paris were better friends than ever and Finch judged that they had had some wild times together since returning to England. It was a relief yet, in a subtle sense, a disappointment to see Wakefield so master of himself. Finch thought, somewhat ironically, that no matter what Wakefield did or how he did it he himself was never quite pleased with him. It’s the same old jealousy, he thought. If he looks aloof and melancholy I think he’s posing. If he looks reckless and hard I think he has no real depth of feeling. I wish I could get over this stupid criticism of him and just enjoy being with him again.
They were a great contrast as they sat at table, their faces lighted by the amber glow from the table lamp. Finch’s movements were hesitating, often awkward. He slumped in his chair or raised himself suddenly, straightened his shoulders, and turned his eyes toward the black-curtained window as though he longed to see the sky. He was obviously hungry and ate what was put before him without a discriminating glance. Yet there was something arresting about him that made people turn to give him a second look. Wakefield sat as though unconscious of his body. His movements were swift and sure, with the studied assurance of the actor. He ate less than Finch but ate it with more relish. His eyes saw everything that went on in the room. Taciturnity and melancholy seemed to have left him. He looked lively, hard, and reckless.
An orchestra was playing and there was some desultory dancing. There would be much more later. A strained excitement was in the air.
“There’s a very attractive girl over there,” said Wakefield. “I’ve met her. Would you like to dance?”
Finch shook his head. “Gosh, no! I’ve no heart for anything like that. Not since we heard about Piers.”
Wakefield’s eyes darkened but he gave a little laugh. “Well — we may as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here. It probably won’t be for long.”
“Do you think there’s a chance that he’s living?”
“Not the slightest. As far as I can find out his unit was practically blown to pieces. Let’s have a liqueur. What would you like?”
“You choose. I like anything.”
Wakefield ordered Benedictine with their coffee. He was really grown-up, Finch thought, with more poise than he himself would ever have. He sipped the liqueur and then said, in a low voice: —
“It was a terrible time at Jalna. Pheasant is heartbroken. The uncles took it very hard too.”
Wakefield moved uneasily in his chair. “I know. I know. Let’s not talk about it.”
Finch persisted — “Piers was always the strongest of us all. I just can’t believe in this.”
“I tell you I don’t want to talk about it!” exclaimed Wake. “I’ve got to keep my nerve for flying. I’ve no time for worry about Piers. I worry more about Renny. God knows where he is! Somewhere — in that ghastly retreat! To think of four hundred thousand of them — cut off over there — fighting for their lives! They’ve no chance. They’ll be annihilated.”
Finch raised his glass in a shaking hand and took a gulp of the liqueur. Wakefield’s swift change from reckless liveliness to this passionate outburst of apprehension for Renny had made Finch almost lose his self-control. The lights in the room shook. The music became a frightening drone.
But the liqueur steadied him. He was able to answer quietly enough — “Perhaps something will happen. A miracle —”
Wakefield interrupted — “I’m done with miracles. One happened to me. Wasn’t it a miracle that Molly and I should come together? A hell of a miracle! No — nothing can save them. They’ll be blown to pieces. We’ve seen the last of Renny.”
The girl Wakefield had pointed out rose from her seat and, passing through the dancers, came to their table. She was strongly made, with waving dark hair, wide-open hazel eyes, and a rich colour in cheeks and lips. Her voice was deep and rather husky but agreeable.
The brothers rose and Wakefield introduced Finch to the girl.
“But I can remember only your Christian name,” he said to her. “It’s Val, isn’t it?”
“Yes and that’s enough for tonight. May I sit with you? I’ve something terribly important in my mind.”
They all sat down.
“Have a liqueur?” asked Wakefield.
“Thanks. Now you know this appalling retreat that’s going on in France. I’ve an idea. I thought of it as soon as you came in and I’ve been working it out in my mind ever since.”
“Yes?” Wakefield’s eager eyes were on her face.
“The Admiralty has sent out an order for every sort of craft on the South Coast. They’re going to save these men. Not just a few thousand of them but as many as is humanly possible. My brother-in-law is over there. Well, he owns a yacht. It’s a motor yacht. It’s at his summer place near Ramsgate. What I want is to go on it myself and help with the rescue work. But I need a couple of men with me and I wondered if you —”
“I’d like nothing better,” said Wakefield. “What about you, Finch?”
“I’m your man,” said Finch. He rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet.
“But will they let a girl go into this?” asked Wakefield.
“I’ll put on some of my brother-in-law’s things. I make a first-rate boy. What about you? How long is your leave?”
“Three days.”
“Can we go now? I’ve a car outside.”
In ten minutes they were on their way.
It was dark in the cottage. Val went in and turned on the light in the living room.
“Wait here,” she said, “and I’ll tell my sister.” She ran upstairs.
“The miracle’s beginning,” said Finch.
“God, I’m glad to be able to do something!”
After a little Val came down with her sister, Mrs. Williams, who bore no resemblance to her but was small and delicate-looking. She carried a bundle of clothes.
“These are old yachting things of my husband’s,” she said. “You’d better change into them and have some sleep and get an early start. I’ll have breakfast for you.”
They changed and lay down in two small rooms next each other. They could smell the sea and hear its low murmur. The liqueur had had its effect on Finch and he dropped off quickly. But Wakefield lay thinking for a long while. He felt that he had had only a short sleep when a knocking on the door woke him. Val was there, wearing a pair of duck trousers and a dark blue jersey and tweed jacket. She had cropped the hair from about her face and pulled a soft hat low over her eyes.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“I’d never have guessed you were a girl,” said Wake. Then he added — “But you shouldn’t do this. It’s going to be terribly dangerous. Do you understand that we’ll be under fire? I think Finch and I —”
She interrupted — “What do you know about the yacht? Or the coast?”
“I’m afraid — nothing.”
“Besides, I want to go. I want it more than anything on earth. Come down and have breakfast.”
They collected Finch and went downstairs. Mrs. Williams had bacon and eggs waiting. She fluttered about them nervously and, when they left, followed them to the beach, a fragile but courageous little figure. They rode out to the launch in a dinghy and set about preparing it for the voyage down Channel. Finch had a strange feeling of hilarity, mingled with a sinking at the stomach. Val had a chart open in front of her. She was self-possessed, wasting no words. They found themselves joining craft of all sorts. Yachts, fishing boats, tugs, even canoes, all bound on the same mission.
There was a terse intimacy among the three as though every bit of their energy must be conserved for the work in hand.
There was almost a crush at Ramsgate. Owners of all manner of craft were crowding about, getting directions. They were given rifles and life belts, shrapnel helmets and first-aid outfit. They were told to go to La Panne, to arrive there the next day at daybreak if possible.
Across the Channel the motley flotilla set out. For a while it was peaceful and they had a strange holiday feeling, mingled with a piercing sense of great adventure and impending tragedy. Finch felt light and strong, as though he never could be tired again. Wakefield sat beside Val, learning how to handle the yacht. Suddenly she exclaimed: —
“Look!”
In the distance they saw planes fighting, two falling into the sea but too far away to make out their nationality. A little further on a British fighter streamed above them toward England, with smoke pouring from her, enveloping her. Then a German bomber flying toward France pursued by British planes unloaded her bombs. The bombs fell in front of the yacht. It rocked horribly. The three clung to their seats with frightened grins on their faces. Finch was tumbled to the deck.
“Gosh!” he got out as he picked himself up. “It’s really beginning.”
All about them dead fish, big and little, rose and turned up their bellies. Millions of fish were on the surface of the sea, glistening in the pale sunlight. The planes disappeared and there was quiet again. Then they saw a launch overturned in the distance but they could not go to her help.
“Are you much frightened, Val?” asked Wakefield.
“Terribly. But I’d not turn back for anything.”
Mrs. Williams had well provided them with food and drink. The sea air was fresh. They were hungry.
“Did you say you had one brother over there, or two?” asked Val.