Читать книгу The Battle Within - Philip Gibbs - Страница 9

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Irene Haddon saw the effect of the eight o’clock news upon the inhabitants of Ashleigh Heath when she went into the village stores to order the week’s rations and get a cake for Myra Lehmann, if one happened to be left, which was highly improbable.

“Grand news,” said a white-haired lady, Mrs. Dewhurst, who had given up her big house as a convalescent hospital and was living with an unmarried sister in a cottage near by. “Mussolini won’t be able to eat his spaghetti today. Hitler will have an epileptic fit, I hope. It’s the victory we’ve been waiting for so long.”

Mrs. Haddon made a laughing remark to her, but inside her own mind she marvelled at the spirit of Mrs. Dewhurst. One of her sons—a colonel in the Rifle Brigade—had been killed before Dunkirk. As a general’s widow she made no moan at the price paid for victory. These brave old women thought the death of their sons an inevitable and glorious sacrifice for England’s sake. If Peter were killed she would not feel like that.

Another lady spoke to her while waiting for a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. Mr. Garvice behind the counter was busy filling a woman’s string bag with a peck of beans. It was Mrs. Arkwright, one of the devotees of bridge, which she played with Mrs. Marlow, the clergyman’s wife.

“I can’t pretend I heard the eight o’clock news. I never get down to breakfast before nine. But my little maid was bursting with it. She has a brother in the Eighth Army. Well, it looks good, doesn’t it, Irene? Dear old Winston can treat himself to an extra cigar today. He deserves it.”

Mrs. Haddon nodded and smiled.

“The darkest days are behind us,” she said. “Better than when we were waiting for invasion.”

Other women came into the stores, all very cheerful, all chattering about the news. Most of them said good morning to the doctor’s wife, getting a smile from her. One woman held her hand for a moment and squeezed it. It was a gardener’s wife whose latest baby had been brought into the world by Dr. Haddon.

“I wish my Alf ’ad been ’ere to know we’re winning,” she said in a low voice. “Of course I’m glad and all that, but—”

Her Alf had been a boy of nineteen in a merchant ship sunk off the coast of Ireland at the beginning of the war.

“He helped us to win,” answered Mrs. Haddon. “And I’m sure he knows.”

She felt a sudden pang of pity and self-reproach. She was always agonizing about Peter. This other woman had already lost her son. So had three others in the village, still going on bravely.

“Hullo, Irene,” cried a gay voice. “Sorry you can’t make a fourth at bridge. You’re most unsociable. I suppose you’re too spiritual for bridge.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Haddon, laughing. “But I’m a doctor’s wife. I don’t get much time.”

“You work yourself to the bone,” said Mrs. Marlow. “And virtue comes out of you, and you always look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” said Mrs. Haddon. “I wish I could believe it.”

She had a few words with Mr. Garvice behind the counter and then left the village stores with a cheery good morning to her group of friends there.

Even the birds seemed to have heard of good news. The thrushes were singing more loudly in the cottage gardens, she thought, where children were playing noisily. Catmint was in full bloom.

Old Mrs. Mickleham, who was weeding her flower-beds, looked up and gave the Victory sign, which Mrs. Haddon answered with a laugh.

They all deserve a bit of good news, thought Mrs. Haddon. They kept their nerve through the bad days and nights, when we had our share of bombs round here, and knew that the worst might happen.

She was in her own garden for an hour of peace before Myra Lehmann called. She loved this old garden behind the Queen Anne house with its low-tiled roof and red brick walls, weathered to a rose colour by sun and rain. The fruit trees now were laden with blossom as though snow had fallen from the blue sky. The bees were busy in the catmint. Lovely shadows fell across the lawn with the tracery of branches from the apple tree by the garden wall, and the sun was almost hot on the crazy paving of the path which she was stooping to weed.

Langfield, the gardener, who came twice a week, was mowing one of the lawns, and she liked to hear the whirr of his machine.

“Might I ’ave a word with you, ma’am?” he said presently, after wiping some sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

“Do,” said Mrs. Haddon, though she wanted to be alone and quiet in this place of peace drenched with beauty.

“It’s about my girl, Phyllis,” he said. “She’s goin’ wild, as you may say, ma’am. I’ve no control over ’er. Quite out of ’and, you may say.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Langfield,” answered Mrs. Haddon. “She does her work very well and we couldn’t do without her.”

Langfield looked at her sombrely under his battered straw hat; his eyes were very blue and his hands and arms were very brown.

“She’s carrying on with one of them Canadians,” he said.

“Why shouldn’t she?” asked Mrs. Haddon. “If he’s a nice Canadian.”

“Most likely he has a wife at home,” said the gardener. “And, anyway, I don’t like a girl of mine behaving like a slut.”

“Phyllis couldn’t behave like a slut,” said Mrs. Haddon. “She has nice manners.”

Langfield, who had not been called for by the Ministry of Labour because the last war had left a murmur in his heart, looked somewhat reassured by this praise of his daughter. “Well, I may be mistook,” he said. “But if I catch ’er fooling round with Canadian soldiers or any others I’ll give ’er the thick end of a stick, as the saying is.”

He moved off and went on with his job.

Mrs. Haddon was stooping over a flower border and presently saw Myra Lehmann come through the garden gate. She looked pale and ill though quite beautiful, thought Mrs. Haddon, who loved beauty of form and colour and sound and spirit. She had big, dark, mournful eyes and was like a Madonna by Murillo.

“I don’t know why I’ve come,” she said with a faint smile. “I shall only be a nuisance to you.”

Mrs. Haddon put her arm round her.

“Not a bit of a nuisance. Shall we have tea in the garden?”

“That would be very nice,” said Myra Lehmann. “It is very peaceful here. One may forget the cruelties in a garden like this. It is very wonderful, your fruit blossom. In Poland, I remember—”

She gave a deep sigh and her eyes looked troubled at the memory of Poland. Mrs. Haddon thought it would be better not to let her mind dwell on Poland, and took her by the hand to a flower-bed bordered by gentians.

“Are you fond of blue? Isn’t that the deepest blue of any flower in the garden? As blue as the sky over Venice on a June day.”

They had tea under the shadow of the apple tree.

Myra Lehmann was rather silent, until after half an hour she began talking.

“Of course everybody knows that I tried to commit suicide. They stare at me when I go down the village street. The boys and girls stop their play and look at me as though I were a witch, half-frightened of me. It is not very amusing. But of course I deserve it. It is not good to try to kill oneself.”

“My poor dear,” said Mrs. Haddon, “it certainly is not good, though I understand all that you have been through. But there is always something worth living for—all this beauty—and those birds singing—your lovely music. Besides, life is so brief. We ought to have patience to wait for the next world, don’t you think?”

“You believe in the next world?” asked Myra Lehmann.

“I couldn’t have any courage unless I did,” answered Mrs. Haddon. “Not that I have very much. I give way to fear sometimes, though I hide that from everyone. I’m a bit of a fraud as a brave woman.”

“No,” said Myra Lehmann. “You are brave, like all Englishwomen. I envy them this great courage. In the factory where I worked I used to watch them with wonder. They did not tremble or show any sign of fear when the air-raid siren went howling. It was only I who trembled and felt a little sick. They laughed, they talked about their boys. They sang to the wireless those foolish songs which make them laugh.”

“You must have suffered from that music,” exclaimed Mrs. Haddon. “After Chopin and Liszt it must have been dreadful to you.”

Myra Lehmann smiled and then was silent for a little time. Presently she began to talk again.

“It was the sense of loneliness which made me walk into the horse-pond. When I knew that all my family had been killed I felt very lonely. I was in my room that night I had heard Mr. and Mrs. Davenant go to bed. One of the children had a temperature and called out once or twice, and I heard Mrs. Davenant go to her bedroom door and listen. It was what my mother used to do when I was a child. Perhaps that memory was the cause of a great loneliness which seemed to swallow me. I am quite alone, I said to myself. My father and mother are dead. My sister killed herself. My grandfather and grandmother have been murdered by Hitler. I have been a wanderer in the world, and here in England I am alone, though they have been very kind. If I am dead, too, perhaps I shall not be alone, I thought. How is it best to kill myself? I thought of the pond on Fallow Green. I had heard a nightingale singing close to it. I will go to sleep in the pond, I thought. I crept out of the house and walked through the wet grass—”

“Don’t think back to that,” said Mrs. Haddon. “You were only walking in a kind of dream.”

“Yes,” said Myra Lehmann, “it was a kind of dream. I was in what you call a trance.”

“Think forward,” said Mrs. Haddon. “Think outside yourself, my dear. Try to forget your own troubles because other people want your help.”

“They do not want my help,” said Myra Lehmann. “I can do nothing for anybody.”

Mrs. Haddon laughed and held her hand for a moment. “You can do a great deal for everybody. You can play lovely music to them.”

“The English people are not very musical,” said Myra Lehmann.

“I think you’re wrong,” answered Mrs. Haddon. “I know you’re wrong. There is music in the heart of the people. And there are many other things you can do.”

“What things?” asked Myra Lehmann.

“You can teach small children. Miss Middleton, Fanny Middleton, wants somebody to help with her mites.”

“Small children would be afraid of me. I am too dark, my eyes are too big. I speak with a foreign accent.”

“They will adore you if you would cuddle them a bit and tell them fairy stories,” said Mrs. Haddon. “What you need, my dear, is to love someone even if it is only a puppy or a kitten, or some human soul in need of help. Try to love someone.”

Myra Lehmann smiled again, less mournfully.

“It is a good idea,” she said. “But who will give me something to love—or someone?”

“Leave it to me,” said Mrs. Haddon. “I will give you an adorable kitten. I will speak to Fanny Middleton about you. I will take you to someone who needs your help.”

Myra Lehmann took Mrs. Haddon’s hand and put it to her lips.

“It is impossible not to love you,” she said. “That is why I came. You are always so kind. You are always so brave.”

“Well, now,” said Mrs. Haddon, evading this personal tribute, “come indoors and play something to me. I thirst for melody. Pearl plays rather well but never touches the piano now.”

Myra Lehmann asked to be excused. “Perhaps another day.”

“You have done me much good,” she told Mrs. Haddon. “I am an egoist, no doubt. I will try to forget myself a little. Thank you a thousand times.”

Mrs. Haddon went to the garden gate with her and watched her walk into the village.

“A daughter of persecution,” said Mrs. Haddon to herself. “In her eyes are all the sorrows of her race.”

She went on with her weeding.