The Man who Missed the War (7 page)

‘D’you think you’d be able to get a crew that was willing to cross the Atlantic in an open boat?’

‘It would be a powerful cabin launch with bunks and a galley, so I don’t see why not. Lots of people have crossed under sail for the fun of the thing in far less comfortable conditions. Besides, we’ve always agreed that the first trip ought to be made in the summer, so the odds would be all in favour of good weather.’

‘That’s true. Well, how much money do you think you’d want to build a convoy of ten fifty-feet-square rafts and to finance such a trip?’

Producing a pencil and an old envelope from his pocket, Philip made a few rapid calculations before replying: ‘Ten to fifteen thousand pounds; fifteen ought to cover it easily.’

‘And you’d be prepared to supervise all arrangements and bring the convoy across?’

‘I’d jump at the chance; but the devil of it is that I doubt if it
would be any easier to find fifteen thousand than one hundred and fifty thousand.’

The Canon smiled. ‘Much easier, Philip. The greater sum is far beyond my means, but my mother left me the best part of £25,000, so by selling out capital I can easily provide you with the sum you require, and a good bit more if necessary.’

‘But,’ expostulated Philip, ‘say the whole thing is a failure—your income would be reduced by more than half!’

‘That’s a risk I must take,’ answered the Canon imperturbably. ‘I’ve often felt like breaking into this money in order to further various interests I have at heart; but I’ve always resisted the temptation from the feeling that in the long run I should be able to do more good if I kept the capital intact and applied the income each year to charity. But this thing is bigger than any charity, and it may be that I was meant to save the money until now for this purpose.’

‘If you really feel like that about it I’ll work out exactly how much I shall need and begin putting matters in hand right away.’

‘That’s it! There’s not a moment to be lost if you’re to make your attempt as soon as the weather is suitable. The sooner you succeed the sooner the Admiralty will be convinced and give orders for the big rafts to be made in large numbers.’

Philip laughed. ‘You’re taking it for granted that I shall succeed!’

‘Of course you will! I’ve felt from the beginning that we were receiving Divine guidance in this just as Noah was inspired to build his Ark. Because a number of parties of Atlanteans escaped the Deluge that is no reason to discount the story of Noah, you know. All accounts agree that the Atlanteans were warned of the impending catastrophe, and Noah set himself to preserve not only his family but as much of the culture of his nation as he could. He would naturally have taken on board a selection of domestic animals for breeding purposes, but the “Zoo” was no doubt symbolical of the many other things he saved for future generations. He could not save his people, because they would not hearken to him; but you and I may perhaps save ours if we follow with unflinching resolution the counsel which the gods have put into our hearts for their own high purposes.’

Elated as he was on his way home that night, Philip could not
but feel some slight misgivings when he thought of certain practical steps which he must take before he could actually launch his enterprise. He would have to give notice at the works, and also inform his father of his intentions.

In the course of the next week he wrote a number of letters, making further inquiries about the cost of rafts of a reduced size, smaller quantities of tackle and the prices of sea-going motor launches which might be for sale in the largest American ports. He then got down to lists of the stores that would be required for himself and a crew of five on a three months’ voyage. When the replies came in he made a final cast and decided that the job could be done for £13,000. Putting all particulars into a large envelope, he delivered it at the Rectory the next morning on his way to work. That night he found a note from the Canon waiting for him at home. It read:

Philip knew there was now no turning back, and that day he gave in his notice. The Works Manager was surprised and distressed but they finally parted with mutual expressions of good will, and Philip was told he might go at the end of the week.

The last few days at the works passed very swiftly. Philip called twice on the Canon, but on each occasion he was out at meetings of the new committee he was forming to undertake first aid and other war activities.

On the Sunday night Philip decided that he must face his father. All his boyhood fears of his reserved and practical-minded parent had returned with redoubled force, and he knew there would be a most unholy row about his having chucked up his job to go off on what his father would call a wild-goose chase. By the time dinner was over he had worked himself up into such a state of inward panic that he felt convinced that his father would turn him out of the house.

He went through a positively ghastly hour after dinner in the sitting-room, waiting for his sister Ellen and Pin Marlow to go to bed. Between surreptitious glances at the clock which seemed to crawl, he pretended to read a book, but Ellen was more than usually irritating with her affected chatter, and even old Pin unconsciously added to his torture by declaring she meant to finish the jersey which she was knitting before going upstairs. The clock eventually struck ten, their usual hour for saying good night, but tonight they sat on, and it was his father who at last brought the boy’s agony to an end by remarking, a few minutes later:

‘Well, I think I’ll begin to lock up.’

Without even knowing that he was about to speak, Philip heard himself say in what seemed to him a strained and remote voice: ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with you before you go to bed.’

There was another interval while the women collected their belongings and said good night. But Philip did not mind now; the die was cast. The moment the door had closed behind them he stood up and blurted out the gist of what he had to say.

His father did not interrupt him, but simply stared at him, his mouth hardening into a thin straight line; then as Philip’s spate of words petered out, Captain Vaudell began to speak; quietly at first, but with gradually rising anger.

He declared that his son was an impracticable visionary, and the Canon a fool for encouraging him. Neither of them knew the first thing about the sea and its titanic power which would fling
these crazy rafts about as though they were matchsticks. He demanded that this absurd project should be given up immediately and that Philip should make his apologies at the works and ask to be reinstated.

Philip stuck to his guns, and there followed an hour of bitter wrangling, until both of them found themselves repeating the same arguments over and over again. At last, Captain Vaudell saw that it was useless to persist further, and said:

‘All right, Philip. It’s clear to me that you have allowed Beal-Brookman to hypnotise you into visualising yourself as a kind of Crusader. But let me tell you that if you had any real sense of patriotism you’d stick to your job in the aircraft works, which is now one of the highest national importance. However, if he is determined to throw away his money I can’t stop him, and, as you are now of age, I can’t stop your doing what you like. But I will not conceal that I am bitterly disappointed in you, and you must not expect any support or sympathy from me in this connection.’

They left it at that, and all next day Philip could settle to nothing from distress over this quarrel with his father. In recent months they had been getting on so much better, and he hated the thought of leaving home in a few weeks’ time with this ugly breach between them. Yet he felt there was nothing he could do which would be likely to bridge it before his departure, and he was now more than ever determined to see his enterprise through.

In the afternoon he went for a long walk with the idea of trying to quiet his turbulent thoughts. Coming back he passed the church and saw the flag of Saint George flying from its steeple. He squared his shoulders and threw up his head. His course was set, and nothing should stop him. Nothing.

As he entered the house he found his father standing in the hall. There was no hardness in Captain Vaudell’s face today. His eyes were full of kindness, if a little sad, as he stepped forward and said:

‘Philip, I’ve been waiting for you.’

For a second Philip was filled with a new apprehension. He feared that his father was going to plead with him, and he knew that whatever it cost him he could not go back on his decision; but Captain Vaudell went on:

‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. I know how bitterly disappointed you’ll be, but the fates seem to be against your making your attempt to cross the Atlantic. The money to finance your project won’t be forthcoming after all.’

‘Why! What on earth d’you mean?’ Philip’s voice hardened suddenly. ‘You haven’t seen the Canon and persuaded him to call it off, have you?’

‘No, Philip,’ his father answered gently. ‘I wouldn’t do a thing like that. The Canon had a heart attack this afternoon. He’s dead.’

For the moment Philip was quite stunned by this totally unexpected and tragic news. Somehow, he could not think of the dynamic little Canon as dead, or realise that he would never talk and laugh with him again. Among the chaotic jumble of his thoughts he was conscious of his father’s statement that the money for the raft convoy would riot be forthcoming after all, and that he had thrown up his job to no purpose; but now, in the first shock of his personal loss, these seemed but minor matters.

‘I know what close friends you had become,’ Captain Vaudell went on, ‘so quite apart from your raft idea this must be a great blow to you. I’m most terribly sorry, and I only wish there was something I could do.’

‘Thanks,’ murmured Philip, ‘thanks; but I’m afraid there’s nothing you
can
do.’ He turned towards the stairs, adding: ‘I think I’ll go upstairs to my room for a bit, if you don’t mind.’

‘That’s right, old chap. Have a lie-down. In fact, I’d slip into bed if I were you, and Pin will send you up something on a tray for dinner. By the bye, I wouldn’t worry yourself about having given notice at the works. The way things are moving these days I’m sure they’ll be only too glad to have you back. Still, I think you could do with a bit of leave, so I should take things quietly these next few days.’

On the Tuesday Philip tried to reorient himself. He had not realised before how dependent he had become on the Canon, but it now seemed as if his whole world had fallen to pieces. There were a few young people whom he had known all his life living in the neighbourhood, but he had seen little of them since
he had gone up to Cambridge, three years before, and he had made no new friends since coming down. There was no one now to whom he could turn who really talked his language, and no one at all who knew about the rafts and could give him a glimmer of hope that it might yet be possible in some way or other to arrange a trial. As he thought how near he had been to proving the theories in which he had such confidence, he almost choked with rage and frustration.

On the Wednesday afternoon he went for a long walk, during which he strove to think of new avenues he might explore in the hope of finding backing for his venture. The very fact that the Canon had died seemed to make it more imperative that he should not be let down, and that a way should yet be found; but Philip cudgelled his brain in vain.

When he reached home Pin roused him from his futile mind-searching by telling him that a Mr. Pickering had rung up to say that he hoped that Philip intended to attend the Canon’s funeral the following day, as he would like to have a talk with him afterwards. Pin had no idea who Mr. Pickering was, and had assumed that he was a friend of Philip’s; but Philip had never heard of him, and was much puzzled as to what the stranger could want.

Philip and his father attended the funeral together. There were no coaches as the coffin had only to be carried across the road from the Rectory to the church; but the verger told them that seats had been reserved for them in one of the front pews, and this did not strike them as odd in view of the fact that they were relatives of the deceased. However, their connection with him was sufficiently distant for them to be surprised when a dapper, youngish man stepped up to them after the burial and, introducing himself as Mr. Pickering, the Canon’s lawyer, asked them to accompany him back to the Rectory.

A few other people had already congregated in the big book-lined room Philip knew so well: two old spinster cousins of the Canon, his doctor and another elderly man, both of whom proved to be executors of the will, his housekeeper and the other servants. Mr. Pickering announced that, up to a short time ago, certain well-selected charities would have materially benefited by his deceased client’s demise; but just before Christmas he had
instructed his solicitors to draw him a new will under which, while the original legacies to individuals remained unaltered, the bulk of his estate now went to his second cousin, Mr. Philip Vaudell.