Читать книгу The Anxious Days - Philip Gibbs - Страница 11

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Commander Compton left the house in Church Street, Chelsea, and walked back to his club in St. James’s Square at a steady pace. There was hardly a soul in the streets now, except a policeman here and there to whom he said good-night, receiving a friendly rejoinder, with the word “sir”. Splendid fellows, and good to see them again.

It was very good to walk in London again after equatorial heat and abominable exile. The shops in the King’s Road were shuttered, and the living-rooms above them—flats now—were in darkness, except for one or two where lights were still burning behind the window-blinds. A cat slunk against his leg as he stopped to light a cigar, and he stooped down to tickle it behind the ears. It was nice to see a London cat! Across the world, in a wooden bungalow, a Borneo toad would be missing the man who had made friends with it. Some heavy lorries rattled through Sloane Square and then towards Eaton Square, taking vegetables or milk to Covent Garden, he supposed. It was only in exile that a man knew how much he loved the old country. He had yearned for it with a kind of passion. Now he was back again for good, walking the old pavements, lit by the old lampposts....

Eaton Square.... He had gone to parties as a boy in one of those stucco-fronted houses. He had worn an Eton jacket, and his ears had stuck out above the white collar. Funny little devil he must have looked! Some of these people in Eaton Square would be hard hit by the income tax. It was rather astonishing that they could still keep up such big houses, what with death duties and all the rest of it. Probably they had got rid of half their servants and sold their country houses. It was democracy’s day out, but they hadn’t made a good job of it. There must be a lot of misery in mean streets, in spite of the dole, or because of it. If they could get back to work, it would be better for them than the dole. But everything seemed to be slipping. World trade was bad everywhere. The War had left a trail of ruin because of all the debts. England was in pretty poor shape. Poor old England! Nobody wanted its coal, or its iron, or its cotton, or its shipping—in anything like the same quantities. Perhaps the old country was going downhill. Helen Lambert said the Empire was going. “We’re all on the way to ruin,” she had said, laughing as though it were a kind of joke. Most people talked like that nowadays. Perhaps if they didn’t believe it so much it wouldn’t happen.

Surely what was wanted was a new leadership and a call to the old spirit which he believed was still in the blood and bones of the people. Those girls at Horridge’s looked so wonderfully vital. Some of their young men looked as though they had some stuffing in them. But they were all a bit bewildered by a changing world—and no wonder!

Out in Malay he couldn’t make head or tail to it. He had tried to think out the causes of this world slump and to get the hang of things. What was happening in Russia, for instance? What was going to happen in India? And China? Why was the United States so amazingly prosperous when other nations were so stricken? Madge had asked that question, and he hadn’t been able to answer it. It was difficult for the younger crowd to see a straight line ahead when middle-aged men like himself were so utterly befogged. An elderly gentleman! Madge had called him that, not knowing that she had stabbed his vanity. He didn’t feel like an elderly gentleman. He refused to feel like an elderly gentleman.

That woman on the boat—Mrs. Merrington—had made love to him. He was still young enough to interest a pretty woman, thank God! Well, that was silly. Now he had Madge....

He passed Buckingham Palace, and looked up at the flagstaff. Yes, there was the Royal Standard, hanging limp. The sentries were pacing outside the gates. Two policemen stood motionless, silhouetted blackly under the brilliant lamps.

He raised his hand to his hat in a naval salute. God save the King! God save old England! He felt emotional at the sight of that Standard hanging limp above the palace. He belonged to the old school. He was an old-fashioned type. He had lost an arm at the battle of Jutland. He believed in tradition and loyalty. Yes, after all, he was an elderly gentleman! No getting away from that.

The night porter in his club in St. James’s Square nodded to him over the desk.

“I suppose Labour will get into office,” he remarked. “It’s the strongest party as far as the results show. Well, I don’t suppose they’ll do much ’arm, sir, one way or the other.”

“I hope not,” said Compton.

He went to his little bedroom. He felt lonely again on his first night back in the old country.