Rule Britannia Read online

  Folly had limped into the room from the library, and advancing towards the stranger smelt her stockings. The result must have been disappointing, for her tail drooped and she turned away to leap into the nearest chair.

  “She’s a bitch,” said Mad, “nearly fifteen years old, blind and deaf, which I shall probably be in a few years’ time. This is my granddaughter, Emma.”

  “How do you do, dear,” smiled Martha Hubbard. She turned once more to Mad. “Now, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I do want you to know how sorry I am that you did not stay for the rest of the meeting last night. I did understand your natural feelings, and my heart went out to you. You are someone for whom I’ve had a great admiration for many years, if you’ll pardon my saying so, and all I want to do, right here and now, is to try and explain our program to you and win your sympathy.”

  “Program?” asked Mad, assuming a puzzled expression. “Are the Forces going to give us some sort of entertainment?”

  Oh Lord, thought Emma, she’s going to do her vague thing, and deliberately misunderstand every word this Hubbard woman says. She glanced at Lieutenant Sherman, who had colored slightly and was still standing at attention. “Please do sit down,” she said hurriedly. After all, one had to be hospitable.

  Martha Hubbard’s rush of teeth appeared to stretch from ear to ear. “I don’t know what the Forces have in mind,” she said, shaking her head gently at Lieutenant Sherman. “I don’t represent the Services, and I’m not political either. No, I’m just a member of CGT, the association which is over here on special duties for USUK. We are to form branches right through the country, and this is where you can help.”

  “CGT?” repeated Mad, and this time her puzzled air was not assumed. “The letters sound familiar, or have I got them the wrong way round? Didn’t we have a GTC some years ago? Girls Training Corps? I can’t remember what they did, but it was something to do with Girl Guides.”

  Martha Hubbard continued smiling. At least, it wasn’t exactly a smile but the way her mouth was formed, like the man in the French thriller L’Homme Qui Rit.

  “No, dear,” she said, and Emma felt that the “dear” was a bit daring, but people were inclined to use it to elderly people, “no, dear, this is not GTC but CGT, quite a different thing. The letters stand for Cultural-Get-Together. The people of the United States and the United Kingdom. The association is designed to bring us one and all into a harmonious and meaningful relationship.”

  She paused for breath, the breath that had been taken away by the flower arrangement of the dried hydrangea heads.

  “Cultural-Get-Together,” said Mad thoughtfully. “Well, that sounds very interesting. Something like the Women’s Institute, perhaps? Swapping recipes and showing colored slides? I have some excellent recipes in the kitchen drawer, and some old colored slides of my husband’s tucked away somewhere.”

  “No, no,” Martha Hubbard hastened to explain. “I feel sure these things would be of interest to our members too, but I was thinking of a more intellectual approach. The reading of plays, books, poems, the interchange of drama, philosophy, the mutual discussion of the great problems of today that engage our thoughts and motivate our lives.”

  “Motivate, motivate,” murmured Mad, and then, “Oh, you mean direct. The problems that direct our lives?” She still looked puzzled.

  “You, with your great dramatic powers and your knowledge of stagecraft,” continued Martha Hubbard, “you could bring so much to the movement. There is the problem of increased leisure too. I don’t know if it is yet common knowledge, but I understand your government and ours, acting in partnership, are to create a Ministry of Leisure, which will be of special significance to you all in the west country.”

  “Oh?” said Mad. “Because of our high rate of unemployment? You mean the people out of work don’t know how to fill their time? I wouldn’t have called that a problem of leisure myself.”

  “USUK have tremendous plans for all of you,” smiled Martha Hubbard. “We know how you depend, ever increasingly, on the tourist trade, and the CGT movement intends to help with that too. Why, take this little bit of Cornwall alone—you haven’t started to develop its historical potentiality. Some of our people are highly enthusiastic about it, since they’ve heard of the association with Tristan and Isolde, and King Arthur too, very naturally. Pageants, displays, the local inhabitants dressed up possibly in the costumes of the times—you could stage the arrival of Tristan with his uncle’s bride from Ireland right here on Poldrea beach.”

  Mad continued to look thoughtful, which Martha Hubbard took as a sign of encouragement. The retired and aged star was evidently impressed.

  “Don’t you see,” she went on, warming to her theme, “that what you have to sell here in the U.K. is not sunshine or bathing beaches, but historical background. Why,” she turned to Emma and the lieutenant too, “the whole of the west coast from north Wales down to Cornwall here can be developed as one vast leisure-land. With the good Welsh folk dressed in their costumes, tall hats and cloaks, serving potato cakes to the tourists from the States, they wouldn’t be talking anymore of unemployment. The same in Cornwall. Now, we in the States don’t need to purchase your clay, but construct a miniature Switzerland out of your white mountains and train your unemployed as ski instructors and sleigh-drivers…”

  “I beg your pardon,” interrupted Mad, “did you say slave-drivers?”

  “No, dear, sleigh. They run on rollers, very picturesque. I tell you, I’m just bubbling over with ideas for the USUK Cultural-Get-Together, and with your assistance as president of the local branch…”

  She broke off in mid-sentence, because the door burst open and Colin and Ben charged into the room.

  “Ben has learned a new word,” shouted Colin.

  “Oh no,” said Emma swiftly, “we don’t want to hear that. Come along, boys, I’ll take you to the playroom, Madam is busy, she can’t have you in here at the moment.”

  But Martha Hubbard, struck dumb at the sight of a golden-haired cherub holding a small darkie by the hand, leaned forward in her chair and beckoned them towards her.

  “You little darlings, you,” she said. “Do you eat candy? Does grandma there allow you to eat candy?”

  Colin frowned. He had never heard the word candy in his life. Did the person with teeth mean candles? He flashed a look at Emma, who was plainly ill at ease, and then at Madam, who encouraged him with a wink and a brief nod of the head.

  “Madam is Emma’s grandmother,” he said, “not mine. We use candles when there is an electric cut but Dottie doesn’t like them, she says they’re dangerous and spill grease on the floor. I’ve never tried eating them.”

  Martha Hubbard threw back her head and laughed. “Candles?” she exclaimed. “Isn’t he cute? No, when I say candy, dear, I mean sugar-sticks. See?” She dived into her bag and brought forth two sticks of pink-and-white rock. “I heard there were boys in this house, so I came well prepared.” She presented a stick each to Colin and Ben, and dived once more into the capacious bag. “And I’ve something else for you besides candy. In fact, I’ve brought quite a collection of these, to put on your car and wave in the air when you go walking. All the children in the neighborhood will be presented with them besides you little fellows.”

  She drew out of the bag a bunch of flags and shook them in front of Colin’s eyes. At first Emma thought they were Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes mixed up together, but as Martha Hubbard spread them out she saw that the flags were of a new design, and bore the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes side by side. The effect was somewhat dazzling, if hardly harmonious.

  “Flown over from the States last night,” declared the proud presenter, “thousands of them. In a larger size they’ll be erected on all your public buildings, and on ours too.”

  “Good God!” said Mad.

  Luckily she said it sotto voce, and Martha Hubbard was so engaged in pressing the flags upon the boys that she did not hear the murmured exclamati
on. Lieutenant Sherman did, though. He looked rather awkward and rose to his feet.

  “We mustn’t keep you,” he said. “I know you have a lot to do. Colonel Cheeseman’s compliments, though, and to tell you that he understands the local children missed their Guy Fawkes celebrations and their bonfire over the weekend because of the state of alert. He begs pardon for this, and would I tell you we’ll be building a bonfire for the local children tonight, and your boys will be very welcome. We will supply the fireworks.”

  “How kind of Colonel Cheeseman,” replied Emma. “I’m sure my grandmother…”

  She glanced nervously at Mad, without the slightest idea what the reaction would be, but to her surprise, and to her relief as well, Mad smiled at the lieutenant.

  “How thoughtful of Colonel Cheesering,” she said. “As he is supplying the fireworks, my boys and I will bring the guy.”

  Oh dear, wondered Emma, what on earth will she think up now, but Lieutenant Sherman seemed delighted and thanked her warmly.

  But Martha Hubbard had not finished with Ben, who was still staring at her from over the pink and white rock. She wished to show that despite anything Britishers might think she, Martha Hubbard, Boston-born, had no color prejudice.

  “You haven’t thanked me for the candy, honey,” she said, “but before you do, you’re going to give me such a hug, and you’re going to put those little arms right round my neck…”

  Ben rolled his eyes and drew in his breath. “F…” he began, “f…”

  Emma rushed forward and snatched him up in her arms. “He’s terribly shy of strangers,” she said quickly, “I’ll say thank you for him.” And before Ben could utter she had borne him out of the room and into the kitchen, where Terry and Andy waited expectantly.

  “Did he say it?” asked Terry, eyes dancing.

  “No,” shouted Emma, “he did not. And if there’s any more trouble from any one of you I’ll to straight to Madam and tell her what you’ve been teaching Ben, that is, as soon as the visitors have gone.”

  “Don’t worry,” smiled Terry, “she knows all about it.”

  Emma crashed the kitchen door behind her and found Lieutenant Sherman waiting for her in the hall.

  “Your grandmother is very kindly going to show Mrs. Hubbard round the house,” he said, “and introduce her to the other kids.”

  I can’t cope, thought Emma. None of the beds will have been made, Dottie will have her face on, and if the little boys don’t say something frightful the middle boys will.

  “In that case,” she said, “my grandmother won’t need me. Would you like to come into the garden?”

  “I sure would,” replied the lieutenant, his relief at getting away from the two women in the music room almost as great as hers, and then, as soon as they were safely outside, he added, “I wish you’d call me Wally. It sounds more friendly somehow than Lieutenant Sherman.”

  “All right, I will,” said Emma, opening the side door that led to the shrubbery, and they ran full tilt into Joe with a wheelbarrow full of logs.

  “Hi,” said the lieutenant.

  “Morning,” nodded Joe.

  He looks disapproving, thought Emma. How ridiculous, it’s not my fault if the place is swarming with marines.

  “I’m just going to take the lieutenant to the end of the garden to show him the lookout,” she said unnecessarily.

  A silly remark, considering he had flown over it dozens of times in the helicopter. Joe did not answer, but turned his wheelbarrow towards the kitchen garden.

  “Anything wrong?” asked her companion. “He looks put out.”

  “Oh, Joe’s always uncommunicative,” replied Emma, “quite different from Terry.”

  “It could be,” suggested the lieutenant slyly, “that he doesn’t like you taking a walk with me?”

  “Joe?” Emma stared at him, then laughed. “Listen, we’ve all been brought up together. You’ve probably noticed, it’s a funny household.”

  They came to the walk overlooking the plowed field of unhappy memories. There was still a certain amount of activity around the warship in the bay.

  “I’ll tell you something I have noticed,” said Wally, “and that is that none of us are very welcome here with your grandmother. She made it darn clear to everybody last night down in Poldrea.”

  “Oh, she didn’t mean it,” said Emma hastily. “What I want to explain is that you know how old people get, so set in their ways, and you must admit that it’s all been terribly sudden and overwhelming, this USUK business. You can’t really blame her.”

  “I don’t blame her,” he answered. “I only regret her attitude. You see, we’re here to help everyone to make the whole union go smoothly. And your grandmother is so well known in this district that a welcome from her would make our work that much easier. People would listen to her, locally.”

  Emma considered the matter. “I don’t think they would,” she said, “I mean, she’s not that sort of person. She really only lives for the boys nowadays.”

  “And for you?”

  “And for me.”

  The lieutenant smiled. “I guess when your grandmother was young she looked a lot like you,” he said.

  “Thank you,” said Emma, “you couldn’t pay me a greater compliment.”

  They retraced their steps and waited in front of the house for the tour of inspection to finish.

  “Tell me,” asked Emma, “without giving away security or anything, is it really necessary to have those roadblocks, and passes, and the ship out there, with the helicopters buzzing about, and all your men so thick on the ground? I mean, if we’re united now, what’s it for?”

  Lieutenant Sherman looked grave. “For just exactly that,” he said, “to ensure that the union is solid, right from the start. We can’t afford to let it go wrong. There have been too many half-measures taken between nations during the past decade. See the mess they’ve got into in Europe falling out among themselves, although it hasn’t come to war yet.”

  “They’re only in a mess economically,” said Emma. “That’s why we ratted on them, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think you ratted on them, if that’s the way you put it, for economics alone,” replied the lieutenant. “You had strategic misgivings, or rather your government did. As I understand it, USUK is your only hope. We could get by on our own, but you couldn’t.”

  Emma was silent. He seemed to be saying what she had read in the newspapers that morning. She felt suddenly perplexed, uncertain of everything. It sounded very much like what Mr. Trembath had said in the town hall to Mad the night before. “We’ve got to behave ourselves, or else…”

  “Anyway,” said Lieutenant Sherman with a smile, “you’re far too young and far too pretty to concern yourself with grim things that may never happen. Will you come to our firework party down on the beach? We’ll give you a fine display, I promise you that.”

  “Yes,” said Emma, “I’ll come, if it’s only to keep an eye on my grandmother.”

  Mad and the lady from Boston came out of the house onto the path, and it seemed to Emma that Mrs. Hubbard’s smile was not quite so broad as it had been before the tour of inspection. She looked rather fatigued, and she was scribbling something in a notebook.

  “Just one more thing,” she said to Mad. “Now, the name of your lovely home is Trevanal. You tell me Tre is the prefix for home, then what does vanal mean?”

  “Oh, tithes,” explained Mad with a lavish gesture. “A tithe-barn is a skybervanal, but I thought skyber rather an ugly word, so I just kept the vanal. It was a barn, of course, in olden days.”

  “But,” said Martha Hubbard, still scribbling in her notebook, “I thought you told me when we were upstairs that King Mark slept in your guest room, and the recess in one corner used to hold Isolde’s bridal bed?”

  “It did,” said Mad, “but that was before the place became a barn. The recess was full of sacks when I bought the house twenty years ago. Grain everywhere. Oh, hullo, darling…”

>   She stared defiantly at her granddaughter. She knew, and Emma knew, that the lady from Boston had been accepting every word as gospel truth.

  “I do hope and believe,” said Martha Hubbard earnestly, shaking her hostess’s hand, “that you and I have entered into a meaningful relationship, and if there is any further explanation you need about the work of our movement within USUK, you have only to let me know.”

  “And you’ll bring the boys to the fireworks, and Emma too?” asked Lieutenant Sherman. “Not forgetting the guy?”

  Emma’s grandmother smiled as she escorted them to the waiting jeep. “Not forgetting the guy,” she said.

  No sooner had they disappeared up the drive than Mad called out, “Terry! Where are you?”

  “What do you want Terry for?” asked Emma suspiciously. “He’s supposed to be helping Joe in the kitchen garden.”

  “Then he can help me instead,” replied Mad, “and so can the rest of the boys. Didn’t you hear Lieutenant Sherman remind me to bring a guy?”

  She looked suddenly thoughtful as Ben came into the hall, a piece of pink rock still in his mouth and a bunch of flags in one hand. Martha Hubbard must have given him a cracker, too, for in the other hand he grasped a sparkler that fizzed and emitted little bursts of light.

  “H’m,” said Mad.

  Emma glanced at her grandmother. There was always an inner meaning to her “h’m’s.” Sometimes it meant that she was miles away, caught up in the past, or else it could have some practical significance, a clue to a crossword, the answer to an acrostic.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Mad watched the youngest of the brood advance towards her, his ebony face glowing with joy.

  “You could train that child to do anything,” she said.

  7

  The marines had cleared a piece of the waste ground between the marshes and the wire surrounding their encampment on Poldrea beach. A pile of driftwood held the center of the space. Crowds had already gathered to watch the entertainment that the troops had so generously offered to provide for them. Parents with their children, older boys and girls, the local traders, clay-workers, dockers, people from outlying villages and, of course, the marines themselves, good-humored, smiling, patting the various children on the head, chaffing the girls, and showing by their easy bonhomie what get-together meant, even if it was not so cultural as Martha Hubbard’s movement. The USUK flags were everywhere—Mr. Libby, the landlord of the Sailor’s Rest, had run up one of them on the pole beside the inn, and as it was a fine, clear evening, and mild for November, he had even brought out chairs and tables onto his frontage of mown grass, for his clients to drink their beer and enjoy the fireworks.