Rule Britannia Page 3

  “Perhaps, darling,” Emma ventured, “the exercise has to be realistic to make an impact. Otherwise it would be a waste of time. It’s a good thing they picked on half term, and the boys didn’t have to catch the bus to school—they’d never have made it.”

  Mad turned and looked at her granddaughter. Her sudden smile was confident, the blue eyes bright. “Tell Dottie to serve them double rations of eggs and bacon for breakfast. It may be their last square meal for the day.”

  “Oh, honestly, Mad…”

  “I’m not joking. And keep them indoors. Not just the little ones, this goes for Joe and Terry too. Andy is not to climb the chimney, but he can help Sam clean up their room, as long as he doesn’t frighten the squirrel.”

  “There’s a pigeon as well this morning,” murmured Emma, feeling like an informer.

  “Oh, really?” Mad looked thoughtful again. “That’s interesting. It might be a carrier. Had it a note under its wing?”

  “The wing was broken. Anyway, trailing.”

  “H’m. Could be a sign…”

  The trouble was, you never could tell whether Mad was acting or not. Her life nowadays was so frequently an elaborate game of make-believe, but whether to encourage the latent powers of imagination in the boys, or to amuse herself now the pulse of the blood was tame, Emma never could decide. Pa said it was neither, but from force of habit, like cleaning her teeth, his mother was obliged to give two performances daily to audiences long dead. Which was rather cruel, when you came to think of it, but then Pa, being a banker, had little time for sentiment.

  “Look,” said Mad suddenly, pointing to the plowed field beyond the garden wall. “There are some men coming up from the beach, they must have landing craft of some sort, I’ve forgotten what they’re called these days—they used to be dukus or dugs, or something. Run down at once and give my strict orders that no one, repeat no one, is to leave the house. I’ll be down myself in a moment to supervise, as soon as I see where all these men are going. And whatever you do, don’t let Folly out.”

  Folly was the Dalmatian bitch, now fourteen years old, blind in one eye and partially deaf, who lived on a chair in the corner of the library and seldom stirred, except to crouch, twice a day, on a plot of grass that had become dried and barren from her attention.

  Emma flung one last look over her shoulder, and stopped in astonishment. Her grandmother was right. There were men, soldiers, wearing that idiotic camouflage they all wore no matter what army they represented, coming up across the field, spread fan-wise, rifles at the ready, tin hats on their heads.

  “I know,” said Emma, and she laughed, because it suddenly seemed so obvious, “it’s a film, they’re making a film, they’re here on location. And those men at the top of the road mucking about with the telegraph wires weren’t soldiers at all but the camera crew. Oh no, they mustn’t frighten the dog…!”

  Spry, the farm collie, a wizard with his master’s sheep but terrified of all explosive sounds, from thunderstorms to aircraft flying low, must have escaped from his safe lair at the farmstead over the hill, and was now running as if for his life across the field in front of the advancing soldiers. One of the men paused and took aim, but did not shoot. Then, as another helicopter roared low over the roof, Spry, in panic, turned at bay towards the advancing soldier, barking fiercely as was his wont with strangers upon his territory, and this time the soldier fired.

  “God rot his guts!” cried Mad.

  Spry was no longer the guardian of his master’s flock but something bleeding and torn, not even a dog. Mad put down her field glasses, rose from her chair and walked across the room.

  “Did you say a film?” she flung at Emma, and preceded her downstairs.

  It isn’t true, thought Emma, bewildered. It can’t be true. Soldiers don’t shoot animals, they have them as mascots, they love them, and then before Mad had reached the bottom of the stairs Emma heard her call sharply, “Sam, come here!” There was the sound of the front door being thrown open, and from the top of the stairs Emma saw the small flying figure of Sam running across the lawn to the gate, out onto the driveway and the orchard and so to the field beyond. Sam had seen what had happened. Sam had gone to the rescue of his friend the collie-dog Spry. Hysteria, panic, qualities hitherto unknown, seized upon Emma. If the men shot animals, they would shoot children too.

  “Sam!” she screamed, tumbling down the stairs. “Sam…”

  Then she felt Mad’s hand in hers. Restraining, hard and cold. “Don’t worry,” she said, “they’ll turn him back. The man who shot Spry won’t repeat his mistake. He’ll be in trouble anyway from his platoon commander, or whoever is in charge of this fantastic outfit.”

  The tears were coursing down Emma’s cheeks. The sudden horror of seeing the dog destroyed, the dog they all knew, who came courting poor old Folly when she was on heat, and Sam running headlong into murderous fire, this did not belong to the world she knew, this was nightmare.

  “How can you be so calm?” she sobbed. “How can you?”

  She looked out across the orchard field. Sam had reached the gap in the hedge, and was about to climb through the gap when one of the men, approaching from the opposite side, came swiftly forward and spoke to him. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam turned and pointed towards the house. The man appeared to hesitate a moment, then shouting some order to the soldiers behind he climbed through the gap in the hedge, with Sam beside him, and both of them walked slowly across the orchard towards the house. The rest continued to advance up the plowed field, some making for the woods, others for the paddock that led to the lane and the main road beyond. Raised voices, arguments, children’s high-pitched questions arose from the kitchen. An agitated Dottie appeared in the hall, closely followed by Terry.

  “What’s going on, Madam?” she flustered. “We heard a shot and Sam said something about a dog. It’s not Folly, is it? Sam went tearing through to the front and I couldn’t stop him.”

  “I’ll get him,” interrupted Terry. “Those chaps are everywhere, just look at them crossing the paddock. Of all the bloody cheek! You leave it to me, Madam, I’ll sort them out, I’ll…”

  “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Mad. “You’ll do as I tell you. Get back to the kitchen and stay there. You too, Dottie. Send Joe to me. Sam is going to need someone to comfort him. There’s been an accident. None of the other boys are to come through to the front without my permission.”

  Terry turned on his heel, muttering under his breath. Dottie hesitated a moment, murmured, “Yes, Madam,” and retreated. Mad’s lips were pursed in a soundless whistle, a danger signal to all who knew her. The soldier, Sam at his side, had crossed the orchard. Soon they would reach the gate separating the front lawn from the drive. Emma felt someone touch her shoulder. It was Joe. He said nothing, but his eyes questioned her. Joe, now nineteen, was the eldest of Mad’s adopted brood, and the most dependable. His open, honest face would have been handsome but for the irregular features and long upper lip and the scar beside his right eye. He was neither an orphan nor illegitimate. An only child, his fault had been that he had never learned to read or write—a disability that was still little understood when he had started to go to school—and his parents, both schoolteachers, had been unable to cope with the situation and had emigrated to Australia, leaving Joe in the care of a grandparent who had since died. “If it were not for Joe,” Mad sometimes said, “I would give up. He is the only person, except for myself, who can be relied upon.” Mad never wasted a flow of words on Joe; he understood, and followed, all instructions.

  “They’ve shot Spry,” she said. “Sam won’t understand, and will be distressed. I want you to take him upstairs at once to his room away from the others and stay with him there. Help with the pigeon that has the trailing wing. I’ll deal with the man.”

  She seized a stick from the stack of walking sticks in the hall, and for one terrible moment Emma wondered if her grandmother was going to attack the soldier, who by now had
opened the gate and was walking up the garden path.

  “Do be careful,” she said involuntarily.

  “Don’t worry,” replied Mad. “If they don’t shoot boys they won’t shoot old women… yet.”

  She descended the steps to the garden, Joe at her side. Emma, curiosity overcoming panic, stared at the man. Apart from his fighting gear and his gun he looked quite ordinary. Strained, perhaps, a bit on edge. Sam wasn’t crying. He seemed in a state of shock. Joe walked down the path, picked him up in his arms and went back to the house without a word. The soldier came to a halt. He even stood to attention and saluted. It must be basic training, thought Emma, because he couldn’t have expected someone as old as Mad to come down the steps, looking like Mao Tse-tung.

  “Sorry about your pet, ma’am,” he said. “An error of judgment on the part of one of my men.”

  Surprising. The accent was American. Then it was some sort of combined operation. Emma glanced at her grandmother, who showed no emotion.

  “It’s not my pet,” she said. “It belongs to Mr. Trembath, the farmer, and is, or was, a very valuable dog.”

  “The farmer will be compensated, ma’am,” replied the soldier. “All reports of damage will be dealt with speedily and effectively. Meanwhile, I would advise you to keep indoors, and remain indoors until you have notification to the contrary. Thank you, ma’am.”

  He saluted once again, but his courtesy was wasted on Mad. She advanced a further step down the garden path so that the soldier, to save his dignity, was obliged to retreat.

  “Would you mind telling me what this is all about?” she asked, her voice ringing loud and clear as though she was addressing the back row of a theater gallery.

  “Sorry, ma’am, I can only inform you that there is a state of emergency throughout the country. Keep tuned in to your local radio or television station. They should be on the air within the hour. Thank you, ma’am.”

  He clicked his heels, then turned and walked down the path, shutting the gate behind him, and walked smartly up the drive towards the main road. His companions-at-arms had all disappeared in the same direction.

  “What does he mean, a state of emergency?” asked Emma.

  “Just that,” said Mad dryly. “Go and make me a cup of coffee, and tell Dottie to carry on with breakfast. It’s exactly 9:35. If that man knew what he was talking about, there may be some announcement at ten o’clock. Switch the radio on in the kitchen, just before the hour. I’ll do the same with the television. If there’s anything doing I’ll give you and the boys a shout. This is something we’ve all got to share, children and adults alike.”

  Emma was without appetite, even for cereal. She could not forget the sight of the frightened dog turning at bay, then becoming instantly—nothing. The line upon line of men advancing up the hill. Sam’s state of shock…

  Breakfast was proceeding in the kitchen, but the atmosphere was tense. Terry, sullen because of Mad’s brush-off, wore his moody expression, his handsome face dark with resentment. Andy, banished without explanation from the room he shared with Sam, was plainly upset. Dottie, seated at the head of the table, wore her set look. Emma leaned over to the kitchen radio and switched it on. They were playing “Land of Hope and Glory.”

  “Mad thinks there will be some announcement at ten o’clock,” she said. “The soldier who brought Sam back told her to keep tuned in. He said there was a state of emergency throughout the country, and everyone has got to stay indoors.”

  Now I am being calm, she thought, now I’m the one in charge. It’s like being deputy for Mad, but not in the ordinary way of every day. This is crisis.

  “State of emergency?” questioned Dottie, her mouth agape. “Does it mean we’re at war?”

  “I don’t know. The soldier didn’t say. He was American, by the way.”

  “A Yank?” Terry, roused from his sullen mood, sprang to his feet. “Do you mean they were all Yanks there on the main road by the barricade? Well, what the hell were they doing? I mean, if the Russians land what’s the bloody use of a roadblock? It wouldn’t stop me, let alone a lot of Russkies.”

  “It would stop you if the Yank on the other side of the barricade had a gun.”

  Andy’s interruption was to the point, and for a moment Terry looked discomfited.

  “Well, but why should a bloody Yank raise a gun at me?” he queried. “I wouldn’t be doing anything.”

  “You might be running away,” said Andy, “like Spry.”

  There was sudden silence. Everyone, in his or her separate way, was reminded of the morning’s unhappy incident. Even Colin looked thoughtful. When Joe had whispered to him, on his way upstairs with Sam, that there had been an accident, and the farm dog had been hurt, he hadn’t connected it with the roar of planes and Terry’s excited chatter about soldiers.

  “Emmie,” he said slowly, “do you mean that some American soldier carrying a gun has been and shot at Spry?”

  Andy answered for her. “Yes,” he said, “and what’s more, shot him dead.”

  “It was an accident,” said Emma hastily, “the soldier came to apologize.”

  “The question is, if we’re none of us supposed to go out and the telephone’s not working, how about letting Mr. Trembath know?” asked Terry. “He’ll be terribly upset, so will they all, especially Myrtle.” Myrtle was fifteen, and Terry’s girl of the moment. “Tell you what, I can slip down across the field, it won’t take five minutes.”

  “No,” said Emma, “no…” Terry stared at her defiantly, then stuck his hands in his jeans pockets and kicked at the leg of the kitchen table. But before he could start arguing the music on the radio ceased and a voice said, “In a few moments, after the time signal at ten o’clock, there will be an important announcement.”

  “This is it,” said Emma, snatching up the tray with the coffee. “You can all come through to the library, Mad said so, it will be on the telly. Shout for Joe and Sam, Andy.”

  She hurried out of the kitchen, closely followed by Dottie and the boys. Her grandmother was seated in her armchair in her sanctum, long-distance glasses on the top of her head, ready to descend instantly upon her nose. The television set was turned on. It showed a picture hitherto unseen, of two national flags side by side, joined together at the base. They were the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes. Colin settled himself on the stool at Mad’s feet, with Ben between his knees.

  “What’s it going to be, a Western?” he asked.

  “Sh!” said Emma.

  Joe came in, holding Sam by the hand, and they went and sat beside Terry and Andy on the window seat. Dottie, with a glance at Mad, drew up a hard chair. Emma perched on the arm of the sofa. The two flags faded, giving place to the face of the announcer, who looked nervous and harassed, unlike his customary debonair self.

  “Good morning to all viewers in the southwest,” he said. “This is your local station at Plymouth. There has been no transmission this morning owing to circumstances beyond our control. The reason for this will be explained to you by Rear-Admiral Sir James Jollif, acting Commander-in-Chief, Western Approaches, who is in the studio now. Admiral Jollif.”

  The cameras switched to the bald-headed Admiral who sent Mad Christmas cards and had once been to lunch. He appeared more forbidding in his uniform, with decorations, than he had done two summers ago, in shorts and a floppy T-shirt, playing badminton on the side lawn with the boys.

  “It’s Madam’s old buffer friend,” cried Colin delightedly, and Ben, between his knees, began to clap. This time it was Dottie who said “Sh!” Mad’s face was inscrutable, but she placed her glasses firmly on her nose.

  “Good day to you all,” said Admiral Jollif. His tone was grave, but not unduly so, and at least it must mean, thought Dottie, that Buckingham Palace had not been bombed and the dear Queen was safe. “It is my duty to inform you,” he continued, “that since midnight the country has been placed in a state of emergency. Measures have been taken throughout the United Kingdom to ensure the saf
ety of all members of the community, and to maintain power supplies and essential services. There will be no postal services, however, and after midnight trains will not be running for at least twenty-four hours, possibly longer. Telephone switchboards will be manned only for emergency calls. Except for those engaged upon essential work, everyone is instructed to stay at home until further notice, or to return there immediately if they have already left for work, or for any other purpose.

  “I am not, I am afraid, empowered to tell you any more at this moment. I do, however, want to impress upon you all that there is no cause for alarm. I repeat that, no cause for alarm. The aircraft you have seen and heard passing overhead this morning are friendly to us. The American Sixth Fleet is in the English Channel. The troops you may have observed in the towns and ports belong to the combined armed forces of the United States, and are here in the United Kingdom with our full knowledge and cooperation. Keep calm, keep tuned in to the radio and television, and may God bless you all.”

  His face faded. The two flags reappeared. And instead of “Land of Hope and Glory” the music started up with “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Mad rose to her feet, removed her glasses and switched off the set.

  “Is that all?” asked Colin, disappointed.

  “For the present, yes,” said Mad, “and quite enough too.”

  Everyone stood up. Somehow it was an anti-climax, for the younger members of the household anyway, as it was after the Queen’s speech on Christmas Day. What do any of us do now, Emma wondered. Sam came forward from the window seat and knelt beside the ancient Folly, who from the only comfortable chair in the room, apart from Mad’s, was endeavoring to scratch a lump of canker out of her left ear.