Black August Read online

  Kenyon smiled. He liked the candid way in which she told him about herself. ‘What is Uncle Timothy like?’ he inquired.

  ‘A parson—and pompous!’ the golden eyes twinkled. ‘He’s not a bad old thing, really, but terribly wrapped up in the local gentry.’

  ‘Do you see a lot of them?’

  ‘No, and I don’t want to!’

  ‘Why the hate—they’re probably quite a nice crowd.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve nothing against them, but I find my own friends more intelligent and more amusing—besides the women try to patronise me, which I loathe.’

  He laughed suddenly. ‘The truth is you’re an inverted snob!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, with a quick lowering of her eyelids, the thick dark lashes spreading like fans on her cheeks; ‘but they seem such a stupid, vapid lot—yet because of their position they still run everything; so as I’m inclined to be intolerant, it is wisest that I should keep away from their jamborees.’

  Kenyon nodded. ‘If you really are such a firebrand you’re probably right, but you mustn’t blame poor old Uncle Timothy if he fusses over them a bit. After all, the landowners have meant bread-and-butter to the local parson in England for generations, so it is only part of his job.’

  ‘Church and State hang together, eh?’

  ‘Now that’s quite enough of that,’ he said promptly, ‘or we’ll be getting on to religion, and that’s a thousand times worse than politics.’

  ‘Are you—er—religious?’ she asked with sudden seriousness.

  ‘No, not noticeably so—but I respect other people who are—whatever their creed.’

  ‘So do I,’ her big eyes shone with merriment, ‘if they leave me alone. As I earn my own living I consider that I’m entitled to my Sunday mornings in bed!’

  ‘How does that go in Gloucester Road?’

  ‘Perfectly—as we all have to make our own beds!—that, to my mind, is one of the beauties of the place.’

  ‘What—making your own bed?’

  ‘Idiot!—of course not, but being able to stop in it without any fuss and nonsense.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘you’re right there—rich people miss a lot of fun, they have to get up because of the servants!’

  The train rumbled to a halt in the little wayside station of Elmswell. The carriage door was flung open, and an unusual figure stumbled in. Kenyon drew up his long legs with a barely concealed frown, but he caught the suggestion of a wink from Ann and looked again at the new-comer.

  He was very short, very bony, his skinny legs protruded comically from a pair of khaki shorts and ended in a pair of enormous, untanned leather boots. He carried the usual hiker’s pack and staff, and a small, well-thumbed book which he proceeded at once to read. The close print and limp black leather binding of the book suggested some religious manual. Its owner was of uncertain age, his face pink and hairless, his head completely bald except for a short fringe of ginger curls above his ears.

  As the train moved on again Kenyon turned back to Ann. ‘What were we talking about?—getting up in the morning, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, and how rottenly the world is organised!’

  ‘I know, it’s absurd to think that half the nicest people in it have to slave away at some beastly job for the best years of their lives when they might be enjoying themselves in so many lovely places.’

  ‘Would you do that if you had lots of money?’

  ‘I might….’

  ‘Then I think you would be wrong.’ The tawny eyes were very earnest. ‘I’d love it for a holiday, but everybody ought to work at some job or other, and if the rich people spent less of their time lazing about and gave more thought to the welfare of their countries the world might not be in such a ghastly state.’

  ‘Lots of them do work,’ he protested, ‘what about the fellows who go into the Diplomatic—sit on Commissions—enter Parliament, and all that sort of thing?’

  ‘Parliament!’ Ann gurgled with laughter. ‘You don’t seriously believe in that antiquated collection of fools and opportunists, do you?’

  ‘Well, as a matter of fact I do. A few wrong ’uns may get in here and there, but it is only the United British Party which is holding the country together. If it hadn’t been for them we should have gone under in the last crisis.’

  ‘United British Claptrap!’ she retorted hotly, ‘the same old gang under a new name—that’s all.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to have leaders of experience, and there are plenty of young men in the party.’

  ‘Yes, but the wrong kind of young man. Look at this Marquis of Fane who’s standing in the by-election for mid-Suffolk.’

  ‘Lord Fane?—yes, well, what about him?’

  ‘Well, what can a Duke’s son know about imports and taxation? Huntin’ and shootin’ and gels with an “e” and gof without an “I” are about the extent of his experience I should think. It is criminal that he should be allowed to stand; Suffolk is so hide-bound that he’ll probably get in and keep out a better man.’

  Kenyon grinned at the flushed face on the opposite side of the carriage, and noted consciously how a tiny mole on her left cheek acted as a natural beauty spot. It was amusing to hear this pocket Venus getting worked up about anything so dull as politics. She had imbibed it at Girton, he supposed. ‘You think this Red chap, Smithers, is a better man than Fane then?’ he asked.

  ‘Probably—at least he is in earnest and has the good of the country at heart.’

  ‘I doubt it. Much more likely he is out for £400 a year as an M.P. It’s quite a decent income for a chap like that, you know.’

  ‘Nonsense—that’s just a little childish mud-slinging, and you know it. Anyhow, things will never get any better as long as these hoary old conference-mongers cling to office.’

  ‘Yes, I agree with you there, and that’s probably what Fane and all the younger men think too—but nobody can just become a Cabinet Minister—they’ve got to get elected and work their way up.’

  ‘Oh, that sort of pampered imbecile will arrive all right,’ she prophesied grimly. ‘He’ll get an under-secretaryship by the time he’s bald and there he’ll stick.’

  For a second he felt inclined to laugh at her bitter antagonism to the existing order, but it was growing upon him every moment what an unusual little person she was. Not merely pretty as he had thought at first—although her eyes would have made any man look at her a second time; but with her dark curling hair, clear healthy complexion and firm little chin, she was virtually a beauty. Not striking perhaps, because she was so short, but her figure was perfectly proportioned and her ankles were a joy—yet above all it was her quick vitality, the bubbling mirth which gave place so quickly to sober earnestness, that intrigued him so much.

  ‘Well, you may be right about Fane,’ he said after a moment, ‘but the United British Party is the one hope we have of staving off Revolution. It stands for everybody who has a stake—either by inheritance or personal gain—in this England our ancestors have made for us; and that applies to the tobacconist with the little shop, or the girl who has fifty quid in the bank, every bit as much as these titled people you seem to think so effete. The Party is fighting for the continuance of law and order here at home while the world is cracking up all around, and that is why I think a girl like yourself should put aside your theories for the moment and use any influence you’ve got at Orford to help Fane win this election.’

  ‘There will be no election!’ came a sudden harsh interruption from the far end of the carriage.

  They turned to stare in amazement at the small, bony man. His pale eyes glittered strangely in his pink, hairless face as he glared at them.

  ‘The time is come,’ he cried in accents of fierce denunciation. ‘The money changers shall be cast cut of the Temple—the wine bibbers shall be choked with their excess—the women shall die filthily in the chambers of their whoredom. Those who have read the wisdom of the Pyramid shall see the light. Praise be to the builder for he
was the architect of the Universe; but few shall survive, for the third Era of Azekel is at hand. As the great middle Empire of the Egyptians went down into Chaos—as Rome fell before the hordes of the Barbarian—so shall the strength be sapped from the loins of the people in this day. The Moon of Evil cometh with the opening of the month—and that which is written in the stone must be accomplished in human blood. Man shall be chastened yet again for his ungodliness. Nation shall war against Nation—Brother against Brother—and the Strongest shall go down into the Pit.’

  He ceased as abruptly as he had begun and, apparently oblivious of their startled stare, reverted to the contemplation of his little book.

  Further conversation seemed impossible in such circumstances and after a quick exchange of significant glances, Ann and Kenyon fell silent until the great blocks of indro-steel dwellings, which had recently sprung up outside Ipswich, came into sight. Then he leaned towards her again:

  ‘Will there be anyone to meet you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied softly. ‘Uncle Timothy, I expect, with the slug on wheels.’

  ‘With what?’

  She smiled. ‘His ancient car I mean.’

  ‘I see, well can I help you with your luggage or anything?’

  ‘No, I’ve only got one suitcase—but it is nice of you to ask.’

  ‘Not a bit—but look here. There’s one thing I would like to know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What is the number of the house in Gloucester Road?’

  ‘Why?’ she hesitated for a moment, ‘do you mean that you want to see me again?’

  ‘Of course—may I?’ His blue eyes were very friendly. ‘How soon will you be back in London?’

  ‘On the thirtieth.’

  ‘All right—if I drop you a line will you dine with me one night?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she spoke doubtfully, and a little wistfully, he thought, ‘you see, in some way that I can’t quite explain you are rather different to most of the young men that I know—so I might!’

  ‘Tell me the number then.’

  ‘Two seven two,’ said Ann, but he only just caught her words for as the train pulled into the station the strange man closed his book and burst into speech once more.

  ‘By numbers did the Architect build, and by numbers he shall destroy. The third Era of Azekel is at hand, and with the coming of the New Moon his reign of destruction shall begin. That which is written in the stone must be accomplished, and man chastened yet again for his ungodliness.’

  As Kenyon pulled Ann’s suitcase from the rack some superstitious current in her mind compelled her realisation of the fact that the new moon was due two days after her return to London. Two days, in which she might have seen this tall, auburn-haired, blue-eyed man again…. Would life hold a new interest for her by the coming of the August moon?

  They had hardly stepped down on to the platform when a newspaper placard caught their eyes:

  ‘FIRST RESULT OF THE AMERICAN EMBARGO—GOVERNMENT TO RATION VITAL SUPPLIES’

  With a little nod of farewell to Kenyon, Ann turned to wave a greeting to the scraggy-necked clergyman who was hurrying through the crowd towards her. Yet even as they moved apart both caught the tones of a harsh voice in their rear—crying out from the depths of the carriage.

  ‘Nation shall war against Nation—Brother against Brother—and the Strongest shall go down into the Pit.’

  2

  The Tramp of Marching Men

  Ann Croome lay back in the largest of the three arm-chairs which, with a dilapidated settee, constituted the principal furniture in the sitting-room of 272 Gloucester Road.

  Opposite to her stood Mr. Rudd, the landlord of this strange caravanserai. His yellowish hair was close-cropped and bristling at the top of his head, but allowed to grow into a lock in front which he carefully trained in a well-greased curve across his forehead. A small, fair moustache graced his upper lip, but as he always kept it neatly trimmed it failed to hide the fact that his teeth badly needed the attention of a dentist. His eyes were blue, quick, humorous and friendly.

  ‘It’s this way, Miss,’ Mr. Rudd twirled a greasy cap in his hands—the only headgear he had been known to use during his twelve years’ tenancy in Gloucester Road. ‘White’s white, an’ yeller’s yeller—if you take my meanin’. It wouldn’t be fair to you an’ the others ter take a Chinese fella inter the ‘ouse—so Mrs. P. can say wot she likes abart ’is art an’ all—but the second floor front remains empty.’

  Ann knew that Rudd’s slender income was the shadowy balance between what he received from his tenants and the rent he paid for the house; and that he found it necessary in order to make both ends meet to act as storekeeper, loader, and occasional vanman to Mr. Gibbon—the grocer whose shop occupied the ground floor.

  ‘It means a serious loss to you,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe, Miss—but my old lady sez to me afore she died: “Ted,” she sez, “seing’ this ain’t egsactly a posh ‘otel, it’s recommendations wot counts—so, if you’re ever in any quandairy, think of the comfort of the lodgers wot ye’ve got, an’ you’ll be orlright.”’ She’s married wiv an ‘usban’ an’ all, but I sez there’s Miss Croome and Miss Girlie ter be thought of. But I’m scared now she may take the needle an’ ’op it to another ‘ouse.’

  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Pomfret won’t move just because you’ve turned their yellow friend down,’ Ann assured him; ‘they’re far too hard up.’

  ‘That’s so, Miss—seven week ’e owes me for, an’ not that I likes to discuss one person’s business with another, but I don’t get no credit with me rates. Still, ’is new book’s comin’ out on Friday ’e tells me—so we’ll soon be touching the spondulicks now.’

  ‘It’s a rotten time to bring out a new book.’

  ‘Yes, business is that bad everywhere, it’s a poser ter me ’ow any of ’em carries on at all. Did you ‘ear about poor old Mr. Watney darn the street?’

  ‘No—do you mean at the dairy?’

  ‘Yes—put ’is ‘ead in the gas oven ’e did—’im an’ ’is missus as well!’

  ‘How terrible!’

  ‘Crool, wern’t it?—but as I said ter Mr. Gibbon—“wot can you expec’?—an old chap ’oo’s conscientious like, an’ owin’ all them bills!”—’e owed Mr. Gibbon close on forty pound. An’ when you bin livin’ respectable all yer life it aint nice to owe people money—it ‘urts—but wot’s a man to do if people won’t pay ’im?’

  ‘But you wouldn’t take that way out yourself, would you?’ Ann inquired. Rudd’s views on life amused her, so she always encouraged him to talk.

  ‘Wot, me?—no fear, Miss!’ his broad grin displayed the ill-kept teeth. ‘I’m an old soldier I am—an’ you know wot they say—‘Old Soldiers Never Die—They Only Fades Away,’ but that ‘ud be a bit before your time I reckon. Lumme! come ter think of it, you couldn’t ‘ave bin born when we went an’ put the Kibosh on the Kaiser—yet it seems like only yesterday ter me.’

  ‘Was it really so terrible as the war books make out?’

  ‘Well,’ he scratched his head thoughtfully, ‘I don’t know about no war books—not bein’ a great reader meself, but I used ter get the wind up proper when Jerry ’ad one of ’is special ’ates on, an’ the little visiters used ter make yer itch somethin’ crool. Still, the War ’ad its compensations as yer might say. The grub was a treat—far better’n wot most people ’ad at ‘ome—an’ if you could nobble a bottle or two of that vin rooge from an estaminay ter push around the Crown an’ Anchor board in the billet of an evenin’—the War weren’t none so dusty!’

  Ann laughed. ‘It doesn’t sound very romantic as you put it, but I expect you did all sorts of brave things as well.’

  ‘Brave?—me?—not likely!’ Mr. Rudd’s kind blue eyes twinkled. ‘I wouldn’t never ‘ave seen a Jerry if it ‘adn’t bin fer Mr. Sallust.’

  ‘Mr. Sallust?’ Ann repeated with a puzzled note in her voice, as Rudd named the loose-limbed journalist with the
perpetual stoop, who occupied the big back room on the first floor.

  ‘Why, yes, Miss—’e was my officer in the War, an’ that’s why ’e lives ’ere tho’ ’e could well afford a better place. It’s just ’is bein’ a bit Bo’emian like, an’ me knowin’ all ’is little ways. Now ’e was a reel tiger—“Rudd,” ’e used ter say ter me when we was in the line—“what abart makin’ some little h’addition to h’our collection ter-night?” “Very good, Mr. Sallust, sir,” I used ter say—since seein’ I was ’is servant I couldn’t say nothin’ else, but I knew what that meant orlright—orlright. A couple of h’ours a-crawlin’ round in No-Man’s-Land till ‘e’d coshed an ‘Un wiv ’is loaded crop—an’ took ’is pistol or binoculars orf ’im!’

  Ann had always been interested in Gregory Sallust, although his caustic wit and avowed cynicism sometimes repelled her. Now she was trying to absorb this new view of him. But it was difficult to reconcile the lazy self-indulgent man she knew with Rudd’s picture.

  ‘I suppose that is how he got his scar,’ she remarked, thinking of the short white weal that ran from the outer corner of Sallust’s left eyebrow up into his forehead.

  ‘That’s so, Miss, one of them little Gurkhas give ’im that, mistook ’im in the dark for an Un—an’ ’is langwidge!—strewth!—I thought they’d ‘ear ’im in Berlin an’ put Big Bertha on us before I got ’im ’ome.’

  ‘Berlin!’ Ann touched the evening paper with her foot, bringing the conversation abruptly to the latest news. ‘Isn’t it terrible about this fire. Nobody seems to know if it is organised by Poles or Jews but it seems to be breaking out in a fresh place every hour or so, and they say it has gutted thousands of houses and shops in the last two days.’

  Rudd shook his head. They’ve ’ad a shockin’ time an’ no mistake. But it’s Glasgow as worries me! It ain’t in the paper o’ course but I ’ad it on the Q.T. from Mr. Sallust this mornin’. The troops was firin’ on the crowd lars’ night—an’ when it comes to that in this country….’