Old Filth - Jane Gardam [37]
A couple of days later and after no luck with the High House telephone though Eddie tried several times, a letter came to him from Pat in dithering writing.
Dear Ed,
I’m fine now but staying home.
I’ll not be coming back, lad,
When all the trees are green,
I have to join the pack, lad,
And drink my Ovaltine.
Take the lead soldiers we had at Sir’s. Melt them down for plough-shares or a sixth bullet, whatever. Will you gather up my stuff?—Pa forgot it and so did Matron-La-Booze. Hang on to it till—when? The clothes-brush you always fancied, my godfather’s, it’s from Bond Street (he used eau-de-cologne and had a mistress in Clarges Street) you can have but it will cost you a penny.
Regards PI
A few days after the news that Jack Ingoldby was missing came the news that he was certainly killed. It was the sort of notice the Head was giving out repeatedly at assembly that term. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people in East Kent saw the planes from the dogfights of the Battle of Britain come spinning and flickering down to sizzle in the Channel or burst into flames in the orchards. Parachutes blossoming out would raise a cheer; but most pilots were invisible and people went on with what they were doing, like harvesters in medieval France during the Hundred Years War. Nevertheless, a certain and recorded and undeniable filmed death was a shock.
There was no further card from Pat nor response to a second letter from Eddie to High House. Half-term was coming but there was no sign that he would go as usual to the Ingoldbys. He was, it seemed, to go at last to his guardians, for a jokey invitation had been received by the Headmaster from the Bolton aunts. But still he hung about the school until the very last minute in case a call should come from Pat.
As the cab to take him to the train for Bolton was arriving, he tried once more with a thumping heart to telephone High House.
“Hullo?”
“Who’s that?”
“Is that—the Ingoldbys?”
“It’s Isobel.”
“Oh. Hullo. It’s Eddie. Teddy Feathers.”
“Oh, hullo.”
“I just rang to see . . . To hear . . .”
“Yes?”
“It’s half-term. Should I come over?”
“Oh no. I shouldn’t do that. Pat’s not here. He’s gone off somewhere to volunteer again.”
“How is—Mrs. Ingoldby?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Very patriotic, you know.”
“I’d love to see her.”
“I’ll tell her.”
“Actually, would you tell her that I won’t be in England much longer?”
“Joining up?”
“Not exactly. I’m too young. My father’s sent for me.”
“Whatever for?”
“Could you tell them? The Ingoldbys?”
“What?”
“Well, say goodbye. And s-s-so many many thanks. I’ll be on the other side of the world.”
“So will a lot of people.”
“Say I’ll write. I’ll always write. Thank them for . . .”
“OK. Bye.”
“I’d love to hear . . . .”
But she was gone.
So Eddie picked up Pat’s belongings and shook hands with Oils, and stepped into the taxi for Bolton where, even with Pat’s extras, there was not enough luggage to justify a taxi from the station, so he walked to the house, surprised that he remembered how to get there after a single visit long ago; the half-term holiday after the Didds’ business in Wales. His father had come to England for the first and only time and had taken the eight-year-old Eddie to see his sisters.
It was a sleek, boastful, purple-brick house like a giant plum standing back from the road behind a semi-circle of lawn with shaven edges and Victorian (purple) edging tiles. In a round bed stood the winter sticks of roses.
Aunt Hilda appeared, flinging wide an inner vestibule door of rich cream paint and crimson and blue glass panes, and cried out, “Muriel! He’s here. It’s the boy. Come in, come in. We should have written. You’ve arrived—well done! We’ve sorted everything out. Your passport should be here by Christmas. Excellent. Muriel.”
They were in the hall now and Aunt Muriel was coming down the stairs in tweeds and a hat. “Dear old chap—how like Alistair.”
“There’s a pretty important golf today,” said Hilda, “and we’re just off. Not a tournament nowadays of course, the links