Chapter 4

At the end of November the bells rang for the advance at Cambrai—old Dallington tower rocked with its chimes, and even the little tin clapper at Brownbread Street tinkled away for an hour or more. Mr. Poullett-Smith and his organist spent half a dozen evenings trying to make a dodging choir face a Solemn Te Deum approved by the Gregorian Society. Unluckily, the singers who would have easily blustered through Stainer in F or Martin in C, grew hang-dog and discouraged in the knots of Tones and Mediations, so that by the time the Te Deum was ready, Bourlon Wood had been evacuated by the British and the victory of Cambrai became something perilously near a fiasco. Fortunately the capture of Jerusalem soon afterwards saved the Te Deum from being wasted.

These alternating victories and disasters were very bad for Mus’ Beatup, for he celebrated them all in the same way at the Rifle Volunteer. The only difference was that from some obscure sport of habit he celebrated a victory in gin and a defeat in whisky. He was very bad after both aspects of Cambrai, and Jerusalem brought him to ruin.

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Soon after nine there was a loud knocking at the back door, rousing all the Beatups who had fallen asleep in the kitchen. Nell was asleep because she always seemed to be tired and drowsy now, Mrs. Beatup was asleep because she reckoned she wouldn’t have much of a night with Maaster, Zacky and Harry were asleep on the floor in front of the fire, curled up together like puppies—Zacky because it was long past the time he ought to have been in bed, Harry because he had had a hard day ploughing the clays. There was great confusion and rubbing of eyes, and the knock was repeated.

“Go and see who it is, Nell,” said Mrs. Beatup. “Harry, I dreamt as we wur being bombed by Zepperlians like the folk at Pett.”

“I dreamt of naun—I’m going to sleep agaun.”

He dropped his head back against Zacky—and just at that moment Nell reappeared in the doorway, with a terrified face.

“Mother—it’s father; he’s been hurt....”

“Hurt!—you mean killed....”

“I don’t—I mean hurt. There’s a man with him, helping him in.”

“I’m a-going,” and Mrs. Beatup seized the lamp and waddled out, followed by her scared and sleepy offspring.

In the passage a big soldier was propping up a Mus’ Beatup who looked as if he was stuffed with sawdust.

“He’s had a bit of a fall,” said the soldier as he staggered under his burden. “I was seeing him home like, and he slipped in the yard.”

“I reckon every boan in his body’s bruk,” said Mrs. Beatup—“that’s how he looks, surelye. Let him sit down, poor soul.”

Mus’ Beatup slid through the soldier’s arms to a sitting posture on the floor. Harry pushed forward and offered to help carry him into the kitchen.

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“Someone ud better go fur a doctor,” said the escort. “I don’t like the look of him.”

Mrs. Beatup held the lamp to her husband’s face, and Harry at the same time recognised the soldier as the eldest Kadwell from Stilliands Tower—not he who had loved and ridden away from Jen Hollowbone, but another brother in the Engineers. Mus’ Beatup’s eyes were open and dazed, his mouth was open and dribbling, and his limbs were dangling forlornly. When they tried to pick him up, they found that his right leg was broken.

“Zacky—run up to Dallington and fetch Dr. Styles this wunst,” ordered Harry. “Tell him it’s a broken leg—he’ll have to bring summat to mend it with.”

Zacky ran off agog, and Nell, who had been through a first-aid course in the early days of her rivalry with Marian Lamb, forced herself to swallow her repulsion of the drunken, stricken figure on the passage floor, and come forward with advice.

“He ought to be put to bed at once ... he might collapse.”

“He’s collapsed,” said Mrs. Beatup in the indifferent voice of shock.

“But he must be kept warm—I’ll heat a brick in the oven. Harry, you and Mr.——”

“—Kadwell,” put in the soldier, with a bold look into Nell’s eyes.

“Mr. Kadwell—please carry him up to bed. Can you manage him up the stairs?”

“Reckon we’ll have to,” said Harry. “Stand clear, mother.... Got his shoulders, Mus’ Kadwell?—I’ll taake his legs.”

They had a dead weight to carry to the upper floor, but Harry, though short, was a strong, stuggy little chap, and Steve Kadwell was enormous. He stood four inches [223] over six foot and was proportionately hullish of girth. He was a handsome man, too—as he passed Nell, she noticed his brawny neck and great rolling quiff of fair, curly hair; she also noticed that he looked at her in a way no other man had done. The lamplight fell becomingly on her pretty scared face, and suggested with soft orange lights and melting shadows the curves of her little breast. At first she was pleased by his frank admiration, then something in it made her feel ashamed, and she drew back angrily into the shadow.