Читать книгу Sackcloth into Silk - Warwick Deeping - Страница 18

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Karl was seventeen.—Rebecca had heard of boys of seventeen volunteering. Meanwhile, her other sons hung back. Rebecca had not regarded the war as a family affair, but when she realized that the dilatoriness of Augustus and George might expose Karl to other forms of persuasion, she became patriotic. Karl was not like his brothers. He had fine feelings, and was generous and impulsive.

The ruthlessness of Rebecca revealed itself. It became the duty of Augustus and George to go to the war. She did not confess to herself that in a crisis she would sacrifice both of them to retain Karl. Were Gus and George to do their duty, she too might claim to have done her duty as a mother, and feel herself justified in clinging to her beloved. Karl had such beautiful hands and ears; he was too fine and precious for that butcherly business.—Surely, England might leave an old woman her third son. Did she not need him to help her in the shop?

Rebecca became the passionate patriot. She had not seen George for five months, but one September evening George turned up, liquorish and flashy. He had come to show himself off, and his coffee-coloured lounge suit, and his green tie, and his yellow boots, and his gold ring. He looked fat and arrogant. Surely, his mother would welcome him?—“Well done, my sly and sheeny boy.”

Karl was out, and Rebecca seized her opportunity.

“Hallo, ma.”

“I’ve been wanting to see you, George.”

She led George into the parlour and sat him down. George laid his bowler hat on the table, and looked at his mother with cunning, bright little eyes. He had a well-greased air.

“Got any beer in the house, ma?”

Rebecca had not. She stood with her back to the door, and watched George draw a cigar from his breast pocket, and bite off the end of it.

“When are you joining up?”

George gave her a sudden, nasty look, and lit his cigar.

“Joining what?”

“You know what I mean,” said his mother.

George blew smoke and thrust out his yellow boots.

“Me—go to the war? Ta, ta, old dear.—I’m in munitions.—Some job.—We’re the chaps who are going to win this ruddy war.”

His mother observed him.

“With the—girls, George, as usual.”

“Good biz, ma.”

“And no mud on your nice boots.—You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You ought to be in the trenches.”

George laughed.

“I’m not such a bloody fool, old dear. Don’t you worry about me.—I’m dug in. What’s the wheeze?”

“A big fellow like you—doing a girl’s job. If I were a girl—I’d spit in your face.”

George flared up. He was not wholly insensitive to popular opinion, though he shrugged it off with a truculent swagger.

“You mind your own business, ma.—This war’s a bloody capitalist stunt.—Yes—I know what’s what.—I’m one of those who’s got the guts to stay out of it.”

Rebecca nodded her head at him.

“You’re a coward” said she—“that’s what you are.”