The Book of Ebenezer le Page Page 20

  The fellows dropped everything they was doing: he looked so fierce. They thought he was going to murder Clive. Clive took no notice whatever, but, lost to the world, went on playing his piece to the end. The Sergeant stood listening with one eye screwed up, and the other swivelling round like a lobster’s, in case any fellow dared to move, or make a sound. When Clive had done playing and put his violin back in its case, Strudwick said, ‘Report to me in the Orderly Room! At once!’ and marched out. ‘Poor old Clive!’ the fellows said. ‘Twenty days C.B.,’ said one. ‘Twenty years, more likely,’ said another.

  Raymond was never tired of talking to me about Clive Holyoak; even after he hadn’t seen him, or heard from him for years. Raymond was a boy of deep feelings and never forgot anybody he had once admired. Horace remained first in his heart always; but I think Clive had a great influence on his mind. Raymond was the only one who knew what happened between Strud and Clive that morning. When Clive came back to the barrack-room, all he said was, ‘The sergeant wants to take charge of my violin for fear you fellows smash it.’ Actually, Strudwick had gone for him with all the blasphemous language of which he was a master, and which used to make the toughest fellows on parade quake and tremble in their Army boots. Clive didn’t tremble. He listened with a smile. Strud swore at him for joining the Army; when he didn’t join it: he was conscripted. Strud swore at him for imagining he could be of any use as a soldier; when he didn’t imagine anything of the sort. Strud swore at him for longing to get into the trenches as soon as possible and have his hand smashed by a bullet from a Boche. Well, he wasn’t going to be allowed to do it, that was all; and Sergeant Strudwick, with the help of God the Father and His disreputable Family up above, was going to see to it that he wasn’t. ‘Then I won’t, if you say so, Sergeant,’ said Clive sweetly.

  If the War had lasted twenty years, he would never have finished his training anyhow; for he was always having to do a part again, because he hadn’t passed the test. He was pulled up by every N.C.O., except Raymond, and given punishments galore. If he had done all the fatigues he was given, he would have dropped dead; and if he had done all the C.B., he would never have got out of the barracks at all. For some mysterious reason his name was for ever left out on the defaulters’ roll. The nearest he came to being punished was over Church Parade. He was like Archie Mauger and objected to going on Church Parade; but he wasn’t dishonest enough to change his religion when it suited him. He did go on Church Parade once ‘For the experience’, as he said; but he refused to go again. He was warned and warned, and almost begged on bended knees to go; until at last, against everybody’s wishes except his own, he had to be brought up before Colonel Nason, or the whole business of Military Discipline would have been made ridiculous. When the fellows in his barrack-room said it was rotten luck, he said, ‘It will be interesting to experience the luxury of martyrdom.’ They gaped. I knew Colonel Nason from when I was in the Militia. He was more of a Colonel than any Colonel on the stage ever was; and I could just see young Clive standing to attention in front of him, rooted to the spot by the Colonel’s glass eye. The Colonel’s other eye would be searching hopelessly for help, while he was wondering what the hell he could do to get himself out of an awkward corner with flying colours. ‘Now tell me, my man,’ said the Colonel to Clive, ‘on what grounds do you object to attending Divine Service conducted by the Very Reverend Dean Penfold, the Chaplain of our Battalion? I see you have attended once.’ ‘I was bored,’ said Clive. ‘BORED!’ bawled the Colonel. ‘Never in my whole military career has a man dared to stand up and tell me to my face that he was bored by Church Parade! Dismiss!’

  Though he wasn’t punished by the Colonel, he was marked on his papers as having no religion; and Sunday mornings those who had no religion was put on fatigues, usually cleaning out the latrines. Actually, he was put on scrubbing the floor of the Sergeant’s Mess. He was down on his knees just going to begin, when in walked Sergeant Strudwick. The Sergeant’s Mess nearly caught fire from his language. Clive didn’t scrub the floor. Sundays he spent with various people on the island who was interested in music. He was soon known among the officers and played at Regimental Concerts, and was the first violin of the string quartette used to play for Sir Reginald Hart, the Lieutenant Governor, when he gave one of his dinners. Clive was given what amounted to a permanent pass to go out of the Fort whenever he wanted to. The guard was instructed to let him pass the Barrier Gate any time he was carrying a violin case. The little monkey bought an empty violin case he kept under his bed in the barrack-room and, when he wanted to go out and wasn’t going to play anywhere, he walked out with it and dumped it in a hedge along the Fort Road, and picked it up on his way back. Naturally, when the ’flu broke out, he was among the lucky ones to be stranded on Fort Hommet; and Raymond said he used to pass his time sitting on the rocks playing to the gulls.

  I heard him play first at a smoking concert for the troops in the canteen of Morley Chapel with Raymond at the piano. I must give it to Clive Holyoak he was a wonderful violin-player. I will never forget the way he used to rise up on his tip-toes on his little short legs to reach the top notes. It wasn’t so much as if he was playing the fiddle as if the fiddle was playing him. That night he played good pieces first, and the few officers present in the front rows gave him a loud clap. I don’t think the fellows liked those pieces much; but they kept quiet while he was playing, and gave him a few claps at the end. Then he let them have what they liked. He played ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’ and ‘There’s a long, long, trail of winding’ and ‘Way down in Tennessee’; but from the way he slammed his old violin, you could tell he felt nothing but contempt for what he was playing and for the fellows he was playing it to; yet he roused them to singing and roaring and cheering and, when they gave him encore after encore, he just smiled.

  I didn’t take to him as a fellow when I met him at Raymond’s. He was great while he was up in the clouds playing, and he played lovely music Raymond said was by Mozart and was like clear water singing; but when he came down to Wallaballoo, Braye Road, he wasn’t so good. I can understand how it was Raymond was for him. He was so much out of it at the Fort, and yet managed to hold his own, though he wasn’t given a bad time. By all accounts, the fellows treated him as a pet and was quite proud of him really. I reckon the ordinary run of chaps in the Army was much better natured than he was. He struck me as a mean little sod. He wasn’t even very nice to Raymond, considering he was staying in the house for nothing. He said to me, ‘Ray is going to be a Bible-puncher. Asinine!’ Raymond laughed. ‘I’m not going to punch the Bible,’ he said, ‘it’s much too hard!’ Clive said, ‘Bernard Shaw says “He who can, does: he who cannot, teaches.” I say “He who can, lives: he who cannot, preaches.”’ Raymond said, ‘How about if preaching is my way of living?’ Clive said when he was sixteen he played at a Revival Meeting in Birmingham and was converted by Gipsy Smith. ‘When I recovered,’ he said, ‘I came to the conclusion there is no God.’ I said to Raymond after, ‘I don’t mind people attacking this religion, or that, but I don’t like to hear anybody say there is no God. It’s unlucky. It come back on you.’ Raymond said, ‘Clive has more faith in his little finger than you have in your whole body, you old infidel!’ I could never get the better of Raymond in an argument.

  2

  La Prissy heard the music going on next door and may be it was what put ideas into her head. Anyhow, she made a great friend of her sister-in-law, Lil Stonelake, who was quite a flighty piece and who she had hardly spoken to before. It was a dig at Hetty. Hetty wouldn’t have nothing to do with Lil Stonelake because of the famous law case was still going on between Dick Stonelake and Harold over the money from Ronceval. Dick had been over age to go in the Army, but had served as a Special Constable. As far as I know, all he did to win the War was to stop me one night from riding my bike without a rear light, so that I had to walk with it until I was out of his sight. After the War, a sister of his came over from England with her three chil
dren, two boys and a girl. They had left school but hadn’t started work yet. It seemed it was hard to get work in England with all the fellows coming back from France, and there wasn’t all that much work to be had on Guernsey either. I was lucky to be in a sure job.

  The sister stayed at Ronceval and came with Lil to visit Prissy; but the children spent most of their time at Timbuctoo from Easter to September, and ate and slept there. ‘I like having young people about the place,’ said Prissy. ‘It’s hard when you haven’t got none of your own.’ She had always been very active, and didn’t mind having a houseful of people to look after. The boys got to know girls, and the girl got to know boys, and there was parties galore. Prissy didn’t invite me. Although I was like my mother and didn’t want to take sides in the Battle of the Martels, I had managed to land myself on the side of Harold and Hetty. I have often found myself doing that and having to take sides, when I really thought it was six of one and half a dozen of the other.

  Prissy said to my mother, ‘I’m going to spend my money while I’m alive, me: not leave it to other people for them to laugh at me when I’m dead.’ My mother said, ‘In that case, you got to have the money to spend.’ My mother was right, as usual. Prissy was running up bills here, there, and everywhere. If it hadn’t been for Harold, Percy wouldn’t have been able to pay his taxes, let alone keep the place going. His line of business showed no sign of improving after the War; and the young chap who had been clever with his chisel came back with three fingers blown off his right hand. Harold’s side was doing well, for houses and bungalows was going up everywhere; and he allowed Percy a percentage, as well as paying him a wage. It only meant more parties for young people. Prissy had Percy’s work-shop done out and decorated for the young people to have a place to dance in. She bought a gramophone, and night after night you would hear the ‘Destiny Waltz’ and the young people dancing and laughing: while all around outside, the tombstones that hadn’t been sold was standing like ghosts and the cherubs climbing up the crosses.

  Raymond passed his exam. He had to go to the Ladies’ College to sit for it and got distinctions in French, History and English Literature; as well as passing in Greek and a number of other subjects. It was good because he had only studied on his own in his spare time, and came out better than those who was in the College, or at the Pupil Teacher Centre. When I said to him he had done well, he said, ‘I nearly didn’t pass in mathematics. For the rest, I happen to have a good memory, that’s all.’ I said, ‘I bet your mother is proud of you.’ He said, ‘She is proud to see my name in the Evening Press.’

  It was that summer, I think it was the last week in July, when I was in Town on the Saturday evening and who should I meet coming arm-in-arm down Contrée Mansell but Christine Mahy and Liza Quéripel? They was deep in some very confidential conversation. I didn’t even know they knew each other. Christine stopped and said, ‘Hullo, how are you?’ I said, ‘I’m wondering what you two are talking about.’ ‘Ah, women’s secrets!’ said Christine. I said, ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’ Liza said, ‘I think we have met before.’ ‘Have we?’ I said. I wasn’t taking no nonsense from Liza. ‘He is a terrible little man!’ she said to Christine. ‘Terrible! You don’t know the half!’ but she was giving me her loveliest smile. I said, ‘Not so much of the little, either!’ She said, ‘I do know you are an inch taller than I am. I will grant you that. I have a forgiving nature.’ ‘Thank you very much,’ I said.

  Jim Le Poidevin passed along the other side of the road with his stump of a leg and his crutches and said ‘Wharro!’ I made him a sign to come over, but he winked and went on. He had said to me when he came back that no girl would ever want to have anything to do with him again, except from pity; and he didn’t want pity. I wished he hadn’t had to see me with those two. It wasn’t only Liza: there was something about Christine. She wasn’t as tall as Liza, and had more sloping shoulders and wider hips and was fuller breasted, and you could see she would be fat when she got older; but she drew the men’s eyes. She was in half mourning for her brother, and was wearing a black frock with a tight bodice and a full skirt and a silver peacock embroidered across the front. ‘I like your frock, Christine,’ I said. It was only to say something to please her. She answered as if she was speaking from heaven. ‘I made it myself out of curtain material.’ She’d got fuller in the face, and I thought how much she looked like a cat. She looked at you with those big mysterious eyes, as if she was looking into your very soul; but I know damn well it was only her own soul she was seeing, if anything. She didn’t know anybody else was there. As she was the only woman Raymond ever went with, I am not surprised he thought women are not human beings.

  Liza knew other people was there all right. Perhaps she knew it too well, poor Liza. Those lovely deep-set violet eyes looked at you straight; and she saw who she was looking at. It didn’t matter what she said to me that summer evening, it was plain she was glad to be speaking to me. She hadn’t made her own dress, and it wasn’t made of curtain material. I bet it was made by the best dressmaker in London. It was green with flecks of gold in it, and had a high collar open at the neck; and it fitted over her small breasts and her slim hips without a crease. She wouldn’t get fat when she got old. Christine knew she was being left out; and that didn’t please her. ‘I think we’d better be going, dear,’ she said to Liza. ‘Well, Ebenezer, I hope I’ll see you again soon,’ Liza said. ‘Same time, same place!’ I said. I meant half-past seven Thursday evening by the Weighbridge. She remembered. ‘I’m afraid it will have to be eight,’ she said. ‘I won’t be more than half-an-hour late.’ I said, ‘I will wait for you for five minutes; but not a minute longer!’ ‘There, you see,’ she said to Christine, ‘the terrible man he is!’ but I noticed she had left out the ‘little’; and she looked over her shoulder at me and laughed, as they went on down Mill Street.

  I was on my way to Henry’s at the bottom of Vauvert to get some gâche for my mother. She didn’t have the heart those days to make cakes like she used to. I got the gâche and went straight down to the tram. I know now I was a fool; but I really thought that evening I was going to be happy in this world. When I got home my mother was resting. She gave me a funny look as I came in. ‘Well, and what did that Liza Quéripel have to say for herself?’ she said. I was flabbergasted. I wondered how on earth she knew. When she was getting ready to go to bed, I said, ‘Who come to see you tonight, Mum?’ ‘Who d’you expect come to see me on a Saturday night?’ she said. ‘Nobody,’ I said. Well, either she was telling me a lie, and I have never known my mother tell me a lie, or it was the second sight like old Mère Quéripel was supposed to have: but my mother thought the second sight was of the Devil. I give up all hope of ever being able to explain how the news travel in Guernsey.

  When Thursday came and I was getting ready to go out, she knew all right who I was going to meet, though I didn’t tell her. I’d had my hair cut and spent about an hour scrubbing my hands with pumice-stone to get off the black stuff from handling the tomato-plants. I put on my new double-breasted grey flannel suit I had not long since had made to measure, and a cream silk shirt and a green tie; and I went without a hat. ‘’Bye, Mum!’ I said. ‘Ah well, fine feathers make fine birds,’ she said. I was sorry to have to go and leave my mother feeling vexed with me; but I couldn’t help it.

  Liza wasn’t even a minute late. The Town Church was striking eight when I saw her coming down St Julien’s Avenue. I crossed over to meet her. She took both my hands in hers and looked me over. ‘Oh, but you do look nice!’ she said. I said, ‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’ She said, ‘How good it is we can admire ourselves and each other!’ She was wearing another dress, white with a belt and covered with sprigs of green leaves and little gold flowers; and she had on a floppy white hat and white stockings and shoes. They was very good shoes, I noticed: of white suède with flat heels, and biggish for a woman. ‘Where are we going?’ she said. ‘Where you like,’ I said. ‘How about going to the end of the breakw
ater, eh?’ she said, quite Guernsey. ‘Righto,’ I said. ‘I promise you I won’t push the boys off the end into the sea,’ she said. ‘I don’t care, if you do!’ I said. I was so happy to be with her again she could do no wrong.

  She took my arm and we walked along by the new States Offices. The Courier was up on the patent slip. She was for ever in trouble, the Courier. She had been down I don’t know how many times; but she had always come up again. There was a Norwegian vessel in the Old Harbour stacked with timber for Mess Robilliard of La Piette; and Prince Albert was keeping his eye on things. When we passed the gardens on the other side of the Picket House, I was going to say ‘The Green Shutters used to be behind there’, but I thought I wouldn’t. When we turned down by the slaughter-house, she caught hold of my arm tighter and shivered. ‘Are you cold?’ I said. It was a lovely warm evening and there had been a cloudless sky all day. ‘It’s what’s done in there to those animals,’ she said. I said, ‘It’s done as quick and painless as possible.’ ‘I know,’ she said, ‘but they know it’s going to happen a long time before.’ I said, ‘Jim used to say that.’ She said, ‘That is why I was silly about the boys fishing. If people need the fish to eat, or sell, there’s an excuse: but to catch them for fun and then throw them back, if they are small, with their poor throats torn is cruel. However, I’ve seen too much suffering since to worry so much now.’