Читать книгу The Oaken Heart - Margery Allingham - Страница 3

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This village of Auburn might be so complacently picturesque if it weren't for the shop which Albert and his father built of public washroom brick slap in the middle of the Square, that we owe the two of them a debt of gratitude if only for that alone.

The building brings the whole place down to earth, sobers it up and takes it out of fancy dress, so to speak.

Albert still maintains that it is a lovely shop. He and his father have always liked it; in fact they built it twice with their own hands. They had just got it up once in all its nakedness directly in front of one of the only two genuine maypoles in England when the Council came along and wanted the road wider, so Albert and his father pulled the shop down again, all two storeys of it, carefully, brick by brick, and set it up again once more fifteen feet or so further back, where it stands (at least at the time of writing) a visible sign that the village is not an old-fashioned musical comedy backcloth.

The maypole is not used as a maypole now, of course. There is nothing arty about the place, which is still agricultural. The pole, which is only a pole, has a weathercock on top of it, and at its foot, where one waits for the bus, grow two may-trees, one red and one white, which the Old Doctor and Mrs. Graves put there forty years ago when they were uncrowned kings of the village.

Behind the maypole there is Norry's forge, which has not been altered in the last hundred years at least and which looks like one of those very neat and restrained advertisement plates in big American magazines, the kind beneath which the copy begins "In olden days fine craftsmen worked under difficulties..." You never saw such ordered clutteredness, and when the fire is in full blast and he and his second eldest brother Jack (the Mycroft of the family) are at work there in their goatskin aprons, clinking and clanking on the largest anvil, which rings like a firebell all over the village, the effect, if they will forgive me for saying so, is quite extraordinarily reminiscent of the diamond mine scene in Snow White. This is especially true on a dark and windy autumn day, when the black clouds pile up over the low roof of red pantiles and there seems to be no horizon.

Reg's grocer's shop, the Auburn Stores, is in the Square too, and so is the Queen's Head, which stands back in its own yard with a great sign swinging on a rather nice post which the brewers put up.

The Post Office is next door to the Queen's, and it does look a little as if it had come off a toffee tin. It has bow windows with small panes, one of which has been taken out to let in a red tin letterbox, and at one time it must have been a very important shop. Auburn is perhaps a little like that; not degenerate or decaying, but "retired." Most of the medium-sized houses used to be shops in the days when the ten miles to the town meant ten miles on foot or astride. Norry says that when he was "a little owd boy" the man who had Reg's shop had five assistants, each with a clean white tablecloth apron every Monday morning, and it was "Forward One, please" and "Two, are you serving?" which sounds mightily impressive and, considering the size of the building, astonishing.

As well as the Queen's there are two other pubs, which is plenty, since there are only six hundred odd of us counting the outlying farms, and a large percentage of the population is elderly and stays at home. One of these inns, the Thatcher's, is kept by Norry's brother Jack and their two sisters, Miss Vic and Miss Susie, and there they've got the ham in the glass case. This ham was cured for the christening of one of Norry's uncles, but never cooked or eaten because of a word or two over Church or Chapel which delayed the ceremony indefinitely. The ham has been there for ninety years and has shrunken till it is no bigger than a brown leathery hand, which it resembles.

The Lion lies up at the other end of the village, on the way to the church. That's a very popular house, and was even more so before Cis joined the W.A.A.F.'s. There used to be another house called the Wheatsheaf, but the village sold the licence a long while ago and invested the money, so that since then we have been one of the few parishes in England which possess a little capital of their own. In our case this is not a large sum. It represents three or four thousand pounds at the outside, but it means that we have our own row of council houses up past the school, and it also means that we're not quite so beholden to the Rural District Council or even to the County Council as we might be. Parochially, we have money in our purse.

Our other public possessions include a railway, composed of one derailed coach (which quite recently contained a poster which enquired fatuously, "Why not winter in Prague?") and a very small train indeed which goes there and back in the morning and there and back at night. This train, or rather the line upon which it runs, and which links us with the main track five miles away in one direction and Flinthammock-on-Estuary one and a half in the other, was the subject of a tremendous battle in the 'eighties. Since then, what with the petrol engine and one thing and another, the Auburn Flyer has not been quite so important; but it still runs twice a day, a memorial to the public spirit, enterprise and unconquerable obstinacy of our grandparents in the wars of the council rooms.

It is a nice little train, with a high-pitched tootle and a fearsome tendency to rock like a boat in the high winds from over the saltings; but it is very useful indeed for freight too bulky for the Osborne family's buses, which are our main means of transport.

At the other end of the village, on the main Auburn-Flinthammock road, is the school. It is my honest opinion (and certainly speaking for myself) that most of us were so busy fighting to keep the school open that we completely missed the first rumblings of the war. That is the worst of a Cause. The more parochial and intimate it is the more absorbing it becomes. I notice M. Maurois, in his heart-rending What Happened to France, accuses the English of thinking so much of their little green lawns that they did not see the danger until too late. That is terribly true, except that it was not our lawns but our little evergreen liberties which engrossed us then as ever. To be really free takes a lot of time and trouble.

I think probably the first occasion that most of us in Auburn ever seriously considered the possibility of another European war in our time was one night when Mr. Vernon Bartlett came out with a sudden note of alarm in that chatty voice of his on the radio. The wireless is odd like that. It seems to do the same thing to a voice as an overbright light does to a face. Anything genuine leaps out at one. Anything false grates on one's nerves. I cannot remember the exact date of the talk, but it was when Germany left the League. The family was listening attentively because Charles Ulm was flying to Australia at the time, and he had been to see us, and so everyone was anxious to know if he was going to be all right. That broadcast on foreign affairs was the first of all the radio talks to turn our hearts over suddenly, although I don't honestly think it was fear of fighting or even dying which gave us that sudden chill inside. It was rather the first of the misgivings, the first hint that this new world which we were knocking together so fast, and wherein time and distance were so happily vanishing, might not produce the universal brotherhood after all, or at least not overnight. There was even a sneaking presentiment, I remember, that to know all might not be to forgive anything, and to live in proximity to the other nations might not be to live in harmony.

Unfortunately that incident was only a flicker of an eyelid, only a turning over in our sleep. I seem to think there was some sort of fuss about that talk. Anyhow, there certainly was a general piping down on the subject of war altogether after that.

Meanwhile we in Auburn had our school to think about. I do not want to convey that the entire village became absorbed in the school to the exclusion of everything else. It did not. But the thing I can only call its public mind did become rather preoccupied with the subject for the best part of two years before the war.

In a very small village the public mind is apparent. What the village thinks is clear, definite, and usually highly important. In the ordinary way most of us do not think a great deal about national affairs, except as they concern us directly, but I have noticed over and over again that when a national question does at last begin to worry us to the point of provoking open speech about it, then Parliament settles the matter in double-quick time and in our way, as if it realised its job depended on it. This puzzled me for a long time, until it occurred to me that the explanation was obvious and was simply that we were not the unique group of individuals that we see ourselves but merely an echo, a reflection, of thousands of other little rural communities, all thinking and feeling the same thing, sometimes the wrong thing, with an instinctive unity which must be pretty impressive when seen from the middle.

Auburn felt strongly about the school. To be honest the school is not very big--in fact it's about as big as the train--and it lolls by the side of the road under enormous elms and is warm and sunny and just exactly as hygienic as the law demands, but no fancy-work. It was built by public subscription in Auburn, and generations of Auburn people have learnt to read and write and add there. Moreover, what is highly important, they have also had a little religious instruction there, since it is a Church School and not one of the new-fangled places who, in order to avoid interdenominational strife, have thrown away the baby with the bath water and done away with the Catechism and the Ten Commandments altogether.

In common with most of my generation I would blush to call myself deeply religious, but I do find it odd that as a nation we will fight and die for principles which we cannot find time to teach in our free schools. However, that is as may be, and, as I was saying, about the time when Hitler was thinking of taking over Austria there was a minority movement in Auburn which aimed to shut the school for ever. The senior children--that is, those over eleven--were already bundled off to the town every morning and brought home at night in a special bus, and the argument was that since there were only twenty-odd babies left it seemed unnecessary to keep two schoolma'ams to look after them and that they might as well go into the town with their elders. The new arrangement was made somewhat perfunctorily, and the school was marked for closing.

Auburn's reaction was prompt and indignant. It was the same sort of reaction which you might get if you took a very old hat away from a dotard snoozing in the sun, with a brisk "You don't need that any more, do you, Grandpa? Here comes the salvage van."

It was in many ways a remarkable and even an epic struggle lasting the best part of two years. There was genuine bitterness in it, and real triumph; fear, exasperation, astounding endurance and tenacity of purpose, together with as much brains and leverage on both sides (as well as nearly as many distinguished people) as it takes to get a controversial bill through its second reading in Parliament.

Finally the closing order was rescinded at the eleventh hour and the school remains, if only to prove that the present generation of Auburn men is much the same as its predecessors. With the train the Church School is ours, small, obsolete, and remarkably if obscurely useful.

Yet all this time, according to even our kindliest critics, we ought to have been watching the Germans. But to be honest, I do not see what good that would have done. We hardly ever watch foreigners ourselves for the simple reason that, as old 'Anry said over in Suffolk, "we can't make head nor tail on 'em." Moreover, we have got our work cut out when it comes to watching, keeping an eye on Flinthammock in the east and Heath in the west. Flinthammock, in our possibly somewhat biased opinion, is "wuss nor Paris, if a b'y gets down there alone." They have a population of nearly two thousand people down there, and there, according to Auburn, everybody is fabulously rich and "nobody don't do no work, which is remarkably strange, so it is now." This rank libel has no foundation whatever in fact, but it goes to show that we have not by nature quite that broadminded imagination which would let us as individuals become citizens of the world without considerable mental and moral discipline.

Still, if we are very busy living our own lives and governing our own castles, we do keep an eye on our own politicians, noting carefully from their antics which way the wind blows. The relationship between the ordinary countryman and the politician is so seldom mentioned at home that it may be often misunderstood abroad. One sees frequent references to the fickleness of the public towards its leaders and to the short memory of the common man.

From childhood these observations have seemed to me to be wildly misleading. To begin with, the one thing we have obviously not got is a short memory. Some of our memories are so long that they embrace our fathers' and grandfathers' as well, while that word "leader" is largely a politeness.

The ordinary English countryman, in Auburn at any rate, has a very clear idea of democratic government. I doubt if he thinks of it in the Greek, but to his eyes it seems fairly clear that the country is governed by the public in the end, call it by what name you like. We--me and thee and the parson and all the other lads of the village--constitute the public, and the politicians are our servants. They apply for the job (often rather obsequiously we notice with instant suspicion), we give it to them, we pay them in honours or cash, and we judge them solely by results. Sometimes we come to a bad patch when the men applying for this all-important work are not quite all we could have desired. There has been a patch like that these twenty years, and some of us cannot forget that lost generation in 1914-15. We lost too much good stuff there, stuff we could very well have done with now. Still, as we say so truly if inelegantly, "If you can't get fat bacon, you must do with bread and pull-it and take the best there is to give you."

The job of running the country is so important that only the best men at their best are safe to be left with it, and our anxiety about their capabilities before they get the appointment is boundless. Once they are on the job, however, it is a rule, born out of long experience and so firmly implanted that it has become a sort of instinct, that we stand back and let them get on with it unmolested until and unless things look really dangerous.

This does not mean that we lose interest, of course, or that we have no other hand in the matter. On the contrary, our part is often very arduous. In our experience, we have to watch for the little indications they give us to show us how they want us to play up. As many of these indications have to be invisible to the foreigner, our joint performance is not without merit.

Naturally I am not talking now about those politically minded folk who form themselves into groups and do good or bad work as the case may be, nor to the M.P. who will never be a statesman and who thinks of us and treats us as if we were always an election crowd, which is absurd. All this only applies to the ordinary person, the chap who only thinks of himself as British and East Anglian and as nothing else, whose social class doesn't bother him either way, who votes sometimes for one party and sometimes for another, who plods along steadily towards what he hopes to God is peace, freedom and that glorious economic state which is always to have five bob to spare, and who corrects his mistakes and reforms his judgments as he goes. His ideal major-domo is the statesman who knows and loves his country and who never makes the mistake of underestimating his employer, either in intelligence or strength.

No one knows this arrangement better than the two bodies concerned, and the great statesmen always seem to have kept their place and their dignity, as good servants should. In fact the greater the statesman the deeper and closer is the understanding and co-operation between him and the countryman. Theirs is a man-and-master relationship which is packed with sentiment on both sides but which contains not one grain of sentimentality or false kindness. The master knows his very life depends on the job being done well, and the statesman knows that any mistake he makes may be forgiven but for dear safety's sake will never be forgotten, neither in his own lifetime nor in his son's.

I can only explain this collaboration by saying that it is a sort of horse-and-rider arrangement, but seen from the point of view of the horse.

In Auburn we feel we are very reasonable (as no doubt others do elsewhere) about these riders of ours. We realise that to help us to negotiate different obstacles we need the ingenuities of different men. Earl Baldwin, who made some of us eye him very anxiously when we saw him over in Ipswich carrying a pipe so large that it must have been a sample or a theatrical prop, certainly underestimated Hitler (as well as us on that occasion), and that mistake might well have sent us hurtling over the precipice with our hooves flying. This vital lapse of his has destroyed our faith in his reliability as a Prime Minister, but on the other hand our long memory--which is like an animal's memory, without fancy intellectual thoughts to mutilate it--does not let us belittle his behaviour when he handled a very private and intimate disaster of ours with complete understanding, and did not let us put a foot wrong at a time when every step was an agony to us.

I have met clever people since that time who have solemnly accused Mr. Baldwin of deposing a King of England alone when the country was not looking. These people have simply forgotten. Now, when the bombers come every night to scatter careless death over our big cities and our little fields, when everybody's life is at stake and there is no telling every morning who of our lifelong friends may have died in the darkness, I am open to bet that not a tenth, not a twentieth of the tears are shed in any one week as were poured out all over the island on any day in that period of disillusion and bereavement in 1937.

Where the Government is concerned Auburn people have, I think, one other foible in common with many of their countrymen: they do not like to hear about dishonest politicians. In fact few things annoy them more than a tale of chicanery in Government circles, and they would far rather not know and put any shortcoming down to something else. In other countries, and among many of their compatriots, this peculiarity is often quite incomprehensible and usually passes for extreme stupidity or sentimentality. However, once one sees these men from our point of view--that is as grooms, so to speak, in charge of our most dignified and precious equine person--it is easy to realise the insult and the intolerable sense of shame which any perfidy on their part must produce in us. I do not say that most of us think this in so many words, but we feel it and react accordingly.

After the Anschluss, which startled us considerably, we cocked an anxious eye at the Government, but received no warning dig in the ribs from it. There was none of the time-honoured rumbling on the drums, no sudden and gratuitous reminder that the army was a man's life; nothing, only an insistence on social improvements at home, which as everybody knows, indicates an all-clear abroad.

The effect of this was to make us feel that, odd though it looked, there must be something in the inside story (which we never expect to know until afterwards) which made all the difference, and it was all right for us to go on putting the final touches to our recovery from the last war. What never occurred to us was the incredible fact that the men in charge at that time were mainly afraid of the horse.

The habit of confusing the strong urge towards a fairer chance for everybody with red revolution has been very common, but from a country point of view--which thinks in generations, or at least in decades--it still seems extraordinary that there should have been any real excitement anywhere about the country going anti-capitalist, when already we were the only state in Europe wherein by common consent money was taken regularly in cash from the rich and paid regularly in cash to the poor. We are anti-capitalist--in a Tory fashion--and have been so for some years.

I think had we realised then that the Government was nervous of us and was humouring us, as if we were an unbroken colt, while the road was growing wilder and wilder and the storm clouds were piling up like an illustration in the family Bible, we might have panicked badly. As it was, it set us back on our heels when we did see it, but by that time we had immediate danger to steady us and one of the last real statesmen in the nation to gather up the reins and jerk the bit tight in our mouths.

Even as late as July 1938, although no one in Auburn could help realising that something was going to happen, the general impression was that it could hardly be war because none of the signs were right. No one analysed it naturally, but it was as if one looked up at a sky flecked with peculiar coloured clouds and decided that whatever else it was going to do it would not rain ordinary rain.

We were all talking one evening out in the yard. It was very peaceful and a little too good to be true, as Auburn often is, with the leaves thick and luxurious overhead and the smell of dry grass pleasant in the air. The preparations for the August cricket party were in full swing, and Sam, who is Auburn's captain and who also sees to our garden, had come up with P.Y.C. and Grog from a long and earnest inspection of the pitch. Albert had wandered in to have another look at the big shed we used as a garage, to see if we could do anything with it as a dining-room if our luck didn't hold out and it should rain for the Feed.

Norry was there too. He had stepped over from the forge and was mucking about in the stables, talking to Cooee and having a busman's holiday at what he charmingly calls "horse pleasure." This may mean anything from plucking a tail or drenching a beast with the tin bottle to, as on this occasion, speculating on the chances of an unborn colt becoming a champion show-jumper, a point-to-pointer, or even, in wilder moments, the winner of the Newmarket Town Plate. Cooee's mare, Struan, hung out of her box and looked introspective. Her foal was due in May.

The talk was completely idle. Sam thought the sand P.Y.C. had invested in and that Sam's Grandpa had thrown over the pitch earlier in the year had been a mistake, and the others were inclined to agree with him. The general feeling was that we should see the benefit in 1939 or 1940, and that meanwhile the important thing was to get the hay in from the outfield.

Then someone mentioned the shadow which lay in the back of all our minds and remarked that the wireless "was dull," which was a direct reference to the Sudeten trouble and typical of the national gift for understatement. No one made any comment, and there was one of those very long silences which punctuate, and sometimes take the place of, most Auburn summer conversations.

Of all of us there just then only Norry had been adult during the last war. He had been a vet's smith in the army, and his martial reminiscences mainly concern food and mules. But we others were all in the early or mid-thirties, and our generation remembers the time when war was life, when there seemed to have been no beginning and to be no end to an intolerable condition of strain in which our elders struggled irritably and which we appeared to be on the point of inheriting.

Out in the yard that evening my own immediate reaction to the sudden thought of war was much the same, I suppose, as most of the others'. I was ten years old in 1914, and very vivid impressions received at that age never alter but come on one unexpectedly afterwards, bright and bald as they were at the time: War simply meant death to me; a soldier galloping up on a fat grey horse to kiss my tearful nurse goodbye over the wall under the chestnut trees, and then death.

It was not ordinary dying, either, nor even death in its more horrible forms, but death final, empty and away somewhere. I had a sudden recollection of women and old people all in black, as country people were in those days on a Sunday, standing about in the village street reading enormous casualty lists in a very small type which seemed to fill whole pages of the paper; a boy on a bike with not one telegram spelling tragedy but sometimes two or even three at a time; and long sad services in the small church which had been a barn and still smelt of hay.

It was a dreadful picture of annihilation, of ending off, of the hopeless destruction of practically all a whole human crop. I remembered names I had not thought of for twenty-five years: George Playle and a big cowman they used to call "Long 'un." I remembered the food shortage at the boarding school I went to later, and the miserable darkness too; but the principal thing was the hundreds and hundreds of far away deaths.

Then, of course, there had been the cleaning up as one grew and the effect that had had on us all.

When we of our generation were just preparing to break the earth over our heads we found that practically the whole batch of youngsters immediately in front of us had disappeared, and naturally that meant that most of us had heavy responsibilities from the first. This in itself is not very extraordinary, but added to it there was our very odd upbringing.

Those of us who were in our 'teens when the war ended came out early, even in Auburn, into a disillusioned world wherein everything, including God, was highly suspect.

To most of our elders--and they were considerably our elders--this was a passing phase, a temporary lack of faith in humanity, a time of exhaustion after great trial; but to those of us who were green and rather frightened, as all people are at that age, there was nothing but broken planks wherever we trod. Nobody knew anything at all for certain. The most elementary morals were in considerable doubt. Every formula for behaviour whose use was not instantly apparent had been thrown overboard. Our parents, school teachers and clergy, sickened by a catastrophe which everybody said was the direct outcome of a world in which most of them had lived happily and innocently, turned from any thought of instructing us with weary self-disgust. Having lost their younger brothers and their elder sons, apparently through some unspecified fault of their own or their fathers', they had nothing they dared tell us. We were given doorkeys and the freedom of a shambles. The pseudo-scientists and the demolition merchants became the prophets of our more sophisticated contemporaries and their doctrines filtered through to us, showing us at least how we could get to work for the time being, if it was only shovelling away more of the debris.

Since then the whole generation has had to find out how to live by trial and error, with the main result that it has learnt what little it does know very thoroughly indeed. It has found out from bitter personal experience the consequences of most of the commoner sins and the value of many conventions. Above all things it has learnt to watch, to hesitate, and never to be surprised by the worst.

War reminiscences told on the sea-wall or on the benches outside the pubs, or published in books and coming round in the library vans, filled us with a horror of war which far outstripped any evangelical horror of hell, and twenty years of vigorous anti-war propaganda had given us an impressionist picture of modern warfare whose lack of detail could be augmented by the vilest nightmare each individual mind could conceive.

Moreover, from the beginning something had had to be done about our material fortunes, for very few of us were in the position in 1918 to go on with the programme for which we had been prepared in '11 and '12. My own father, for instance, gave up trying to keep up our big old house down the road in late '17, and we all went to London to live in a top flat in Bayswater, where we felt like pigeons in a sealed dovecot. It was close on fifteen years before we younger ones, by solid hard co-operative working, got back again to home ground, and by that time someone had let the house go to ruin and we had to come here, a little further down the road, to the Old Doctor's house in Auburn.

We were not alone in this sort of experience by any means, and it is an agonising business to be jerked out of one scheme into another when one is thirteen or so. Agony of that kind at that age generates power, and the present popular theory that it is a sin to be rich is due, I fancy, not only to the fundamental urge towards universal equality, but also to our passionate efforts at self-defence at that time when it was still a sin to be poor.

That evening in the yard the prospect of another war, of the generation after us going the same way as the one before us, was not only horrible but seemed hardly to be borne.

It was not as though we had made no progress. Looking round, it occurred to me that although none of us was rich we certainly had all recovered. We were all, after considerable effort, living something like the lives we wanted to live in the place we felt was our natural home.

Sam was the youngest of us, at thirty-one. He was born in Auburn, had never left it for long, and was married, with two remarkably fine children under five.

He was definitely not rich, but would have been very offended, and quite rightly, had anyone called him poor. As cricket captain, football secretary and collector for the Foresters he was a person of some small consequence, and as controller of a locally remarkable garden--the Old Doctor having made it a sort of legend in the district--he was well up in his profession and had done particularly well in the important annual flower shows.

He and I were still congratulating ourselves, not too privately, on our Finest Single Bloom award at the big town rose show, when a particularly lucky President Hoover had done the trick for us.

Sam had left the jam factory gardens at Heath some time before and had come to work in ours, where he was boss of his time, his acres, and incidentally his old grandfather, whom he refers to firmly as "my assistant." There was, and is, nothing whatever to stop him becoming Chairman of the Parish Council or local representative on either of the other Central Councils in time, if he is so minded.

His weekly earnings were then at the current rate, which is to say that he received thirty-five shillings and sixpence plus insurance. He found them entirely satisfactory, and would have left us, albeit regretfully for we like each other, if he had not. To explain why these figures were possible--why, that is, we should be able to afford to have a garden, and he to undertake to manage it--perhaps I should mention something of the economics of life in Auburn just before the present war.

The first and most important factor was, as always in England, public opinion.

In Auburn everybody makes a point of knowing all about everybody else. Most people are related, and those who have no kin here have most of them known their neighbours as long as and as well as most cousins, so that the family atmosphere, with all its good and bad qualities, is present all the time. If you do not see what this has to do with domestic economy, perhaps you will cross off from your own outgoings every penny you are forced to spend because the people you mix with do not know every turn and twist in your affairs. Then imagine a public opinion which criticised you far more bitterly for spending too much for the size of your income than for excessive thrift; a public opinion, in fact, which cannot see why you should want a new coat this year when the one you had last still looks as good as new.

Rents were, and are, very cheap. Three shillings to as high as seven and six a week will hire a very good cottage complete with garden.

As well as their gardens most Auburn men have allotments, or "little estates," as Sam prefers to call them, and these not only provide their owners' households but often send fruit and vegetables by the train to the city.

The various clubs take care of the extra insurance, and the Government provides the children's education and sometimes their milk.

I do not suggest that there was any super-civilisation about this state of affairs, but it was by no means bad and, what was more, it was getting visibly better, save that there were still not enough children in the place to the older people's minds, and the young ones were coming round to agreeing with them.

The class question was pretty well settled, at least among we middle and younger folk. Roughly it had boiled down to this: you could still touch your hat to Money or Blood; but, if so, Money must subsequently breed money in your pocket and Blood must give you service, or you were making an ass of yourself. This reversion to the very root and beginning of the whole business in a free England was typical of our trial and error age and was at least logical.

In Auburn at the moment a gentleman is treated as a gentleman only so long as he remains gentle, and a rich man as a rich man only so long as his riches get around, so that it is what else either of them may be which really decides their friends (at least after the first year or two), which is as it should be.

Thus in twenty years the grass had begun to grow thick again, and yet now it had suddenly begun to look as if we might have made some terrible and mysterious mistake, as had our fathers before us, unless of course it could be that it was they who had done it again. Anyhow, the wireless certainly was dull about the Sudetenland.

Sam remarked that he couldn't seem to make much sense of that Herr Hitler, he couldn't, and we all echoed him privately. After all, it is only very recently that Charlie Chaplin has been said to resemble Hitler. In those days Hitler was said to resemble Charlie Chaplin. There was nothing whatever Napoleonic about him until he made Napoleonic strides.

Albert said that he didn't believe that the Germans wanted a war and made a reference to the ex-servicemen who had been over to our local town as guests of the Legion, who in turn had been royally entertained by them in Germany.

There was a lot in this, or so we thought at the time, and the reflection was comforting. Now, of course, most of us are convinced that those were mere spying expeditions on their part, and that if only our men had known the language better they would have been able to detect the fraud.

Grog observed that no sane person wanted a war ever and that the whole thing resolved into blasted greed, and meanwhile where was the bat oil?

This return to what honestly seemed then the more important, since more imminent, matters in life cheered everyone up, and the preparations for the party went forward earnestly.

NOTE.

It occurs to me that, whereas Americans as a rule like to find out who people are as a book goes on, British folk usually prefer formal introductions, so for the purposes of this English edition perhaps I ought to explain here our various relationships.

P.Y.C. and Grog met at school when they were twelve and ten respectively, and have kept together ever since, and are practically brothers. My family and P.Y.C.'s have known each other since my father and his uncle were friends at Cambridge in the eighties, and P.Y.C. and I married about fourteen years ago. Cooee was a student friend of mine, and is the horse-lover of the group. She came to manage our house for me when I had to neglect it for my own work, and she introduced the animals into the establishment. Christine, whose family I have known since a child, is our housemaid. Margaret was cooking for us at this time. Albert is builder, plumber, and wireless expert to Auburn generally, and like everyone else mentioned is a neighbour and a friend.