“Mad…” Her cry was panic-stricken, beyond control, and Ben, in the midst of his second apple, turned and stared, his eyes rolling. Everybody stirred. Colin sat up as if shot, throwing off his blanket. Andy grasped his bow. Dottie opened her mouth, not to scream, but to let forth a gigantic yawn. Sam stretched out a hand to Folly, who stood on three shaking legs, the fourth tucked up by her haunch, useless as always after hours of immobility. Only Mad slept on, indifferent to the waking world, peaceful, happy, an oilskin under her head for pillow, a car rug, riddled with moth and unseen since the previous winter, across her knees.
“Madam’s worn out,” whispered Dottie, “and no wonder. Let her sleep on.”
The boys were yawning too, stretching themselves, rising to their feet, looking curiously and rather disdainfully at Emma, who had awakened them with her panic cry.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It was the smell of oil, the smell of chemicals. Don’t you notice it? For a moment I thought…”
She didn’t finish her sentence. The smell had gone, or, if not entirely vanished, was no longer strong. The boys sniffed, shrugged. Andy went to the cellar door and opened it. The vapory mist still clung to the trees above and drifted inward, but the air was fresh.
“No sound of aircraft,” he informed them, “no sound of anything. It must be over. Let’s go upstairs and see.”
“Be careful,” warned Emma. “Don’t open doors or windows, we don’t know what’s happened, it might be dangerous.”
She ran after them up the stairs, but they were too quick for her. They had sped through the kitchen and into the hall, and had thrown open the front door and the porch as well. The morning mood was too strong for discipline. Cramped through the night in the basement, hungry, stiff with fear, morning had brought release, the day had come, and a day like any other day, foggy, still, without explosions, without bangs and crashes and other ominous sounds.
“Come back,” Emma called, “come back.”
They disregarded her, running out into the garden, laughing down the garden path, flinging wide the gate.
“Let’s go to the lookout,” shouted Andy. “Let’s see if all those explosions meant more wrecks.”
Emma followed them, with the vain thought that if there should be chemicals there on the plowed field the earth would have turned black, and this would prove to them her fears had been well-founded, but when they came to the wall and looked out across the bay they could see nothing but the drifting mist, harmless, odorless, damp as the stems of grass under their feet. A vehicle came looming across the field towards them and Emma gripped the shoulders of the nearest boy, preparing to turn and run back to the house, for this could be the first of ten, of twenty, of heaven knows how many motorized enemy units, even tanks, and then something familiar about the sound of the engine, about the shape, brought reassurance.
“It’s the Land Rover!” shouted Andy. “It’s the Land Rover from the farm, and Mr. Trembath is driving it.”
The relief, the wonder of it, the snapping of unbearable tension! And as the boys jumped down over the wall, shouting and laughing, she jumped with them, and there was Jack Trembath himself, climbing out of his seat, setting down a crate of milk bottles and a great basket of eggs. The boys were leaping up and down and he was laughing too, although surely greyer, thinner, with stubble all over his chin, and Emma stumbled over the plowed furrow in the ground and threw her arms round him, as if she were Myrtle.
“There, my dear, there,” he said. “You’ve had it rough, we all have, but I put down we’re over the worst of it, things are on the mend. Did you get your windows broken, any slates gone from the roof?”
So many questions to answer, but more important to ask hers first.
“When did you get back, Mr. Trembath? Did you escape? Won’t they be after you again?”
“Escape?” He shook his head. “No suggestion of escape, they were letting us go regular, forty or fifty at a time, no reason given, just dumped out on the road and told to hoof it.”
“They flew you in, then, by helicopter, to the mainland?”
He stared at her. “Mainland? We were never off it. They had us packed like peas in a pod inside Lanhydrock, guarded, of course, but I don’t know what the National Trust will say when they go inside the mansion to clean up after us.” He grinned, and began handing out the milk bottles to the four boys. “Mixed bunch we were, I can tell you that. Farmers, dockers, lawyers, clay-workers, the odd parson or two, doctors—yes, your Dr. Summers was there—each one of us hauled in to be questioned and saying nothing, I can tell you. It was the good humor that broke the buggers, nothing else. If we’d turned nasty they’d have had us there still.”
The boys were drinking the milk, spilling half of it, the creamy froth running down Ben’s chin.
“I don’t understand,” said Emma, bewildered. “We were told all the prisoners were being held on the Scilly Isles.”
“Not us, my dear, not us. There may have been others, I wouldn’t know about that. Anyway, they let us go last evening, as I was saying, and your two were in fine fettle. The doctor is only waiting for transport to get Terry to hospital to have his plaster off, and something put in the heel of a shoe. You’ll have ’em home today.”
He gave Emma a bottle of milk. “Go on,” he said, “drink it, you’ve been living on short commons for the past day or two, according to what Peggy and Myrtle told me when I got back. And what old boy Willis told me too this morning when he arrived to give a hand, not knowing I’d be there. Ah, that reminds me.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a small object sealed in an envelope. “For you,” he said, “with his compliments. It seems he’s had enough of it for the time being and is packing up and moving on. Wouldn’t say where, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s off and out of his shack by this evening. Peggy told me he’d been very helpful, she and Mick and Myrtle couldn’t have managed without him, and yet… Well, it doesn’t sound kind, but he made her feel uncomfortable, she said.”
Uncomfortable, yes. But we couldn’t have done without him… Emma looked at Andy, who was tilting his head back, and like Ben the milk was running down his chin. He was standing on the plowed furrow where he had shot the corporal dead.
“Mr. Trembath,” she said, one hand clutching the packet he had given her and the other holding the milk bottle, “if the commandos have let everyone go and aren’t holding men in detention any longer, what was going on last night? Why all the gunfire and aircraft and explosions?”
“Submarine in the bay, so Mr. Willis said. Unidentified. The Yanks were letting off depth charges. He got this off his homemade radio.”
Emma handed the milk bottle to Ben, who was grabbing for it. “I rather doubt,” she said, “if you can believe everything Mr. Willis tells you.”
“Pinch of salt? I reckon you’re right. But submarine or no submarine, something’s shifted them. They’ve stripped the camp and gone to St. Mawgan to take off. It seems what we started down here in Cornwall is spreading all through the country, and into the cities, and the ordinary folk digging in their toes and saying they don’t want to be Yankee-ridden or government-ridden, so the troops will be needed further up the line, I reckon—London and the Midlands, I shouldn’t wonder. Maybe we in the west are too small beer for them to bother with right now. Anyway, we’re free of ’em. No more roadblocks, no more barbed wire, no more rules and regulations. You’ll find your water will have been turned on, and your electricity too, and the telephone back. How long for we don’t know, but at least it’s a breathing space. Tell me, is your grandmother all right? How did she stand the strain?”
“Marvelously,” said Emma, “but she’s tired today. We all spent the night in the basement, and when we came away just now she was sleeping still.”
“Lovely job,” replied Jack Trembath. “Well, give her my regards, and I’ll be up to see her soon.”
He turned back to the Land Rover and climbed once more into the driver’s seat. The mist was clearing
and the sun was struggling to shine. Already Emma could catch a glimpse of the glassy waters out in the bay.
“Gone,” she said to the boys. “I can’t believe it. What would be the reason? What would have made them go?”
“Windy,” said Andy. “Like when the ship first went to Falmouth because of the gale. Now it’s an unidentified sub and they’ve beaten retreat.”
“No,” said Sam, “I think they’ve thought it all over and realized coming here was a mistake. They didn’t enjoy it, nor did we. It’s like mixing a new flock of sheep onto the grazing ground with our lot, specially if they’re a different breed. They don’t get on.”
“Or p’raps too many people laughed at them,” suggested Colin, “like when we burned the guy on the beach, and I let off the snake in the playroom in the officer’s face.”
“It doesn’t matter what it was,” said Emma. “The thing to remember is that life is going to begin all over again.”
They walked back to the house, Andy and Sam carrying the basket of eggs and the milk. Emma let them go ahead, and when they were out of sight she opened the packet. It was the small recorded tape. There was a note attached to it, written in a curious spidery hand.
“A promising debut,” it ran. “Despite the disturbance in the night it was heard by many, and appreciated. I have been sent for elsewhere and so will be moving on, but one of these days I trust we shall meet again. My humble regards to both you ladies.” The note was signed Taffy.
And so it’s something I shall never know, Emma told herself, never find out, if he was really working for Celtic nationalism or anyone else and truly sent out this tape over the air to hundreds of listeners in Cornwall, Scotland and Wales, or whether it was all fabrication, fantasy, something to console himself with. Console for what? An uneventful life, one that had miscarried? A sop to the ego, as Mad had said about herself, adopting the six boys because she had always wanted seven sons? Perhaps Mr. Willis had longed to be a leader of men, and in a flash of perception had glimpsed a subconscious desire in Emma herself to show off, to spout verses, to declaim.
Two sounds greeted her as she entered the hall. Normal sounds, belonging to the everyday world that seemed to have been absent for so long. One was the television, which the boys had switched on in the library. The other was the telephone. She decided for the television because it must be just on eight and with luck the announcer would be reading the local news. “Hurry,” shouted Andy. “It was a sub, Mr. Willis was right.” She went and stood beside them, first of all drawing the curtains to let in light and air, and there was the young announcer, looking a bit paler than usual and wearing his terrible purple tie, and he was saying, “… Depth charges were dropped and the combined forces of USUK were put on the alert, but no statement has been issued from joint high command, and it is not yet known whether a submarine was in fact involved and, if so, whether it was identified. It is now reported, but this again has not yet been confirmed, that the explosion which destroyed the U.S. vessel some days ago at anchor in Poldrea bay with severe loss of life may also have been caused by torpedo action. In any event, the recent security regulations affecting the local population have now been relaxed, and the marine commandos have relinquished the port and beach of Poldrea for the time being and handed them back to the local authorities, who state that it may be a few days before things return to normal.” He looked down at a piece of paper in his hand. “A Cabinet meeting will be held in Downing Street this morning. It is understood there is some conflict of opinion among members regarding policy in general and the future of USUK. There will be a further bulletin at nine o’clock.”
The telephone was still ringing. Emma ran from the library to the cloakroom.
“All right,” she shouted to Dottie, who was emerging from the kitchen, “I’ll get it.”
“Praise be,” said Dottie, “the electric’s back. I’m doing scrambled eggs for everyone, Sam’s just brought them in.”
Emma snatched up the receiver. “Hullo? Who is it? What do you want?”
Why in heaven a foreign voice, at least it sounded foreign, with its staccato, “One moment, please”? Then a pause, and unbelievably, though on second thoughts inevitably, the staccato tones of Pa.
“Is it you? Is it Emma? Why did nobody answer? They’ve been ringing you for ages, couldn’t get through. I’ve about five minutes before a conference, the pressure’s tremendous. What’s happening, what’s everyone doing?”
“Look, I can’t begin…” Emma tried. “Where are you speaking from?”
“I’m in Zurich. I flew in from New York last night. I shan’t know until the conference is over whether I catch a plane back to London or fly on to Tokyo. Turmoil… turmoil… and the whole issue of USUK at stake. Everyone seems to be losing their heads back at home, and the rot started, so I’m told, with a lot of pig-headed people down in your part of the world, who didn’t know what was good for them. I gather the infection is spreading through the whole blasted country like an epidemic of smallpox, and the Americans may decide to pull out and leave us to it. Bankruptcy, that’ll mean, very likely, but why should they care? They’ve given us our chance. Or else it’ll be a complete takeover, and martial law. That’ll learn you… Incidentally, I rang to wish the old beloved many happy returns.”
Many happy returns. Oh God, she had forgotten. They had all forgotten. It was Mad’s eightieth birthday.
“Pa,” she said, “it’s too dreadful, we’ve none of us remembered, Mad least of all, so much has been happening, Pa…”
He didn’t understand, he didn’t care.
“Give her a kiss and tell her I’ll bring her back a cowbell,” he said. “You can ring it all in turn to keep yourselves awake. You do nothing but sleep in the west country—or did until you started getting bloody-minded. I’ve had no sleep for twenty-four hours, I’m worn out, I’m exhausted. Disregard everything you hear on TV or the radio or read in the newspapers, rumors abound, they will have to be squashed. But apparently it’s true that the youngsters have done a bunk, landed in Wales and Scotland to rally the people and fight beside them if it comes to fighting, disregarded all constitutional advice, put their elders and betters in a jam, it will have to be sorted out… I must go, Emma darling, I must go… take care of yourself, and many happy returns.”
He had gone. The one link with sanity wasn’t sane at all. Pa was as crazy as Mr. Willis. And even now it was impossible to tell whose side he was really on, what he wanted to happen. Was he still for USUK, or had he turned against it? Why Zurich? Why Tokyo?
Replacing the receiver, Emma glanced out of the window up the drive. What now? Everything was happening at once. It was Bevil Summers’s car, and there was Terry in the front seat, and Joe behind.
“Dottie,” she called joyously, “Dottie, they’re back, they’re home. You must go down to the basement and wake up Mad. And do you realize, so awful of us, we’d forgotten about it being her birthday? That was Pa on the telephone ringing to wish her many happy returns.”
Dottie, saucepan in hand, stood open-mouthed at the entrance to the kitchen.
“I shall never forgive myself,” she said, “and there’s no orange juice, what’s more. Whatever is she going to say?”
The boys were at the gate, Terry without his crutches, Bevil Summers, Joe. She ran down the garden path and flung herself upon them.
“My boys, my boys,” she said, which was rather excessive really, and not her place to say. “If you knew, if you only knew, what we’ve been through.”
“That’s rich, that just about beats all,” exclaimed Terry, kissing her on both cheeks. “There we’ve been penned up in bloody old Lanhydrock, threatened with the rope, threatened with torture, all for our womenkind, all for love…”
“All for nothing,” said Joe, “except to say home again, and find all my beetroot gone.”
He held out his arms, and kissed her for the first time in his life without diffidence, without reserve.
“We’ve done it, we?
??ve done it,” said Bevil Summers. “I haven’t felt so bucked with myself since I passed my first medical exam. Civil disobedience, and the pundits who said it wouldn’t work are licked. I know we weren’t many as numbers go, but it started the ball rolling. And if you want proof of it, there go some of the stragglers, out of Cornwall into Devon, and by now I’m pretty certain they’ll get the same treatment there.”
The helicopters were coming out of the north and going east. One after the other, in line astern and then fan-wise, spreading out, engines roaring, blades whirring.
“You never know,” said Emma doubtfully, “they may come back.”
“Dampers, dampers,” mocked Terry. “We’ll be better prepared if they pay us a second visit. Anyway, it’s another day, and life is for living, isn’t it? How’s Madam?”
“It’s her birthday,” said Emma, “and she’s asleep in the basement, or was. We none of us went to bed last night.” She turned to Bevil Summers. “It’s really been rather a strain, but you know how she is, she never lets go. Now Joe and Terry are back all will be well. There, she is awake. What a happy birthday greeting for her.”
Mad was standing at the top of the steps by the porch. She was holding out her arms to both the boys. They were laughing and talking together, they didn’t see her. They went straight past her and into the hall. Had they done it on purpose, was it a joke? Mad was still standing there with her arms open, smiling at Emma. Then she wasn’t there anymore.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bevil Summers.
Emma did not answer for a moment. What was it her grandmother had said last night to Andy, on sentry duty at the cellar door? “We’re all together. What a good time to go.” Now it was true—they were all together, for Joe and Terry had come home.
When she spoke her voice was calm. “I think you had better go down to the basement. Mad has been asleep for a very long time.”