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Authors: Henry Williamson
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I’ve disturbed you. I’m sorry.”
“Well, what is done is done, I suppose.” Richard sighed inaudibly , and murmured, “Well, I did my best, and now I begin to see I failed. Oh well, my father and mother fell out, now historyrepeats itself.” He half-sat up, levering himself on elbows that revealed forearms almost all yellow skin. His eyes seemed larger. “Don’t bother about me any further, old chap! I’m a goner, and I know it. But Billy—he was such a bright little chap. We used to play chess of an evening. Very good he was, too. I’ll miss Billy,” he murmured, lying back with his mouth open.
The son put a hand on the father’s forehead. God help this poor lost father of mine. I ought to stay with him, Laura. What will you think if I do not return this night? Might we look after him together?
And Lucy, he must see her on the morrow. My poor father. Are you watching by us now, Mother, as you in a dream saw Grannie waiting to take Hughie away, when he died when I was a boy? And Father mocked your tears, when you told us at breakfast that you knew your brother was dead, and we three children sat silent at the table.
His father seemed to be sleeping. Phillip crept out of the room. As he was closing the door he heard his father utter a deep prolonged groan of despair. He went back to the bedside. Richard’s eyes were open.
“Father, I know it’s no consolation, but think of Billy, he and his crew had to bail out over the Alps, and Billy was held by his parachute on a crag, and frozen to death. Your grandson was a brave boy, Father.”
Richard turned his face to the wall, and Phillip heard what were to be the last words from his father.
“I begin to see you are against me too, are you? Well, you must be on your way—I must not keep you.”
FATHER DIED THIS MORNING
FUNERAL FRIDAY ELIZABETH
Chapter 5
GOTHIC INTERLUDE
Michaelmas Law Sitting of the Court of Admiralty, Probate, and Divorce. Gothic arches of black, acid-eaten stone. Everything, animate and inanimate suffers ruin; changes; dies. Corridors dim with musty smell. The writing room. People sitting at little tables, some with solicitors. Men in neat suits, women subdued, pairs of hands clenched, one dabbing eyes with twisted handkerchief. Save for the orderliness it might have been an Aid Post in some church after an air-raid, without blood, without dust, without rubble. Yet in spirit all was there, on the battlefield; the desperate and aggressive were now in retreat, some ruined in name—others to be, by petrifaction.
His solicitor was approaching. “You have not changed your mind?”
“No. My literary reputation is gone anyway. My publisher says, ‘You have lost your public’. So I shall not contest.”
“Your wife’s solicitor tells me the Judge will hear the case in chambers before the court opens. At nine o’clock reporters won’t be here, so there should be no publicity.”
“Shall I be able to see her afterwards?”
“It’s not altogether advisable. Judge Aaronson is fairly hot on anything that looks like collusion.”
When the solicitor had left, Phillip wandered about in the hope of seeing Lucy. He would raise his hat and smile, no more. Where was chambers? The robing room behind the Court? It was five minutes to nine.
The man called ‘Buster’, now in plain clothes, was standing by a table, listening to be-wigged Counsel with his solicitor. Replies in monosyllables, lips hardly moving, he looked straight ahead, sometimes nodding. When the barrister went away, brief bag slung over shoulder, followed by the solicitor, he remained standing there, looking neither to left nor right. Phillip went over to him and said good-morning.
“Good-morning to you, sir.”
“Laura told me you are writing a book.” A lame enough remark; stupid; verging on the personal.
“Well, I’m trying my ’prentice hand at biography. The trouble is I find words a little difficult. Well, how are you? We’re all in the melting pot, I
“Well, what is done is done, I suppose.” Richard sighed inaudibly , and murmured, “Well, I did my best, and now I begin to see I failed. Oh well, my father and mother fell out, now historyrepeats itself.” He half-sat up, levering himself on elbows that revealed forearms almost all yellow skin. His eyes seemed larger. “Don’t bother about me any further, old chap! I’m a goner, and I know it. But Billy—he was such a bright little chap. We used to play chess of an evening. Very good he was, too. I’ll miss Billy,” he murmured, lying back with his mouth open.
The son put a hand on the father’s forehead. God help this poor lost father of mine. I ought to stay with him, Laura. What will you think if I do not return this night? Might we look after him together?
And Lucy, he must see her on the morrow. My poor father. Are you watching by us now, Mother, as you in a dream saw Grannie waiting to take Hughie away, when he died when I was a boy? And Father mocked your tears, when you told us at breakfast that you knew your brother was dead, and we three children sat silent at the table.
His father seemed to be sleeping. Phillip crept out of the room. As he was closing the door he heard his father utter a deep prolonged groan of despair. He went back to the bedside. Richard’s eyes were open.
“Father, I know it’s no consolation, but think of Billy, he and his crew had to bail out over the Alps, and Billy was held by his parachute on a crag, and frozen to death. Your grandson was a brave boy, Father.”
Richard turned his face to the wall, and Phillip heard what were to be the last words from his father.
“I begin to see you are against me too, are you? Well, you must be on your way—I must not keep you.”
FATHER DIED THIS MORNING
FUNERAL FRIDAY ELIZABETH
Chapter 5
GOTHIC INTERLUDE
Michaelmas Law Sitting of the Court of Admiralty, Probate, and Divorce. Gothic arches of black, acid-eaten stone. Everything, animate and inanimate suffers ruin; changes; dies. Corridors dim with musty smell. The writing room. People sitting at little tables, some with solicitors. Men in neat suits, women subdued, pairs of hands clenched, one dabbing eyes with twisted handkerchief. Save for the orderliness it might have been an Aid Post in some church after an air-raid, without blood, without dust, without rubble. Yet in spirit all was there, on the battlefield; the desperate and aggressive were now in retreat, some ruined in name—others to be, by petrifaction.
His solicitor was approaching. “You have not changed your mind?”
“No. My literary reputation is gone anyway. My publisher says, ‘You have lost your public’. So I shall not contest.”
“Your wife’s solicitor tells me the Judge will hear the case in chambers before the court opens. At nine o’clock reporters won’t be here, so there should be no publicity.”
“Shall I be able to see her afterwards?”
“It’s not altogether advisable. Judge Aaronson is fairly hot on anything that looks like collusion.”
When the solicitor had left, Phillip wandered about in the hope of seeing Lucy. He would raise his hat and smile, no more. Where was chambers? The robing room behind the Court? It was five minutes to nine.
The man called ‘Buster’, now in plain clothes, was standing by a table, listening to be-wigged Counsel with his solicitor. Replies in monosyllables, lips hardly moving, he looked straight ahead, sometimes nodding. When the barrister went away, brief bag slung over shoulder, followed by the solicitor, he remained standing there, looking neither to left nor right. Phillip went over to him and said good-morning.
“Good-morning to you, sir.”
“Laura told me you are writing a book.” A lame enough remark; stupid; verging on the personal.
“Well, I’m trying my ’prentice hand at biography. The trouble is I find words a little difficult. Well, how are you? We’re all in the melting pot, I
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