Some Do Not … - Ford Madox Ford (non fiction books to read TXT) 📗

better let the mother bring up the child.⁠ ⁠… Besides, it won’t hurt a Papist boy to have a father with dishonoured cheques as much as it would a Protestant. They’re not quite English.”

“That’s true too,” Mark said.

He stood still by the railings of the public garden near the Temple station.

“Then,” he said, “if I’d let the lawyers write and tell you the guarantee for your overdraft from the estate was stopped as they wanted to, the boy wouldn’t be a Papist? You wouldn’t have overdrawn.”

“I didn’t overdraw,” Christopher said. “But if you had warned me I should have made enquiries at the bank and the mistake wouldn’t have occurred. Why didn’t you?”

“I meant to,” Mark said. “I meant to do it myself. But I hate writing letters. I put it off. I didn’t much like having dealings with the fellow I thought you were. I suppose that’s another thing you won’t forgive me for?”

“No. I shan’t forgive you for not writing to me,” Christopher said. “You ought to write business letters.”

“I hate writing ’em,” Mark said. Christopher was moving on. “There’s one thing more,” Mark said. “I suppose the boy is your son?”

“Yes, he’s my son,” Christopher said.

“Then that’s all,” Mark said. “I suppose if you’re killed you won’t mind my keeping an eye on the youngster?”

“I’ll be glad,” Christopher said.

They strolled along the Embankment side by side, walking rather slowly, their backs erected and their shoulders squared because of their satisfaction of walking together, desiring to lengthen the walk by going slow. Once or twice they stopped to look at the dirty silver of the river, for both liked grim effects of landscape. They felt very strong, as if they owned the land!

Once Mark chuckled and said:

“It’s too damn funny. To think of our both being⁠ ⁠… what is it?⁠ ⁠… monogamists? Well, it’s a good thing to stick to one woman⁠ ⁠… you can’t say it isn’t. It saves trouble. And you know where you are.”

Under the lugubrious arch that leads into the War Office quadrangle Christopher halted.

“No. I’m coming in,” Mark said. “I want to speak to Hogarth. I haven’t spoken to Hogarth for some time. About the transport wagon parks in Regent’s Park. I manage all those beastly things and a lot more.”

“They say you do it damn well,” Christopher said. “They say you’re indispensable.” He was aware that his brother desired to stay with him as long as possible. He desired it himself.

“I damn well am!” Mark said. He added: “I suppose you couldn’t do that sort of job in France? Look after transport and horses.”

“I could,” Christopher said, “but I suppose I shall go back to liaison work.”

“I don’t think you will,” Mark said. “I could put in a word for you with the transport people.”

“I wish you would,” Christopher said. “I’m not fit to go back into the front line. Besides I’m no beastly hero! And I’m a rotten infantry officer. No Tietjens was ever a soldier worth talking of.”

They turned the corner of the arch. Like something fitting in, exact and expected, Valentine Wannop stood looking at the lists of casualties that hung beneath a cheaply green-stained deal shelter against the wall, a tribute at once to the weaker art movements of the day and the desire to save the ratepayer’s money.

With the same air of finding Christopher Tietjens fit in exactly to an expected landscape she turned on him. Her face was blue-white and distorted. She ran upon him and exclaimed:

“Look at this horror! And you in that foul uniform can support it!”

The sheets of paper beneath the green roof were laterally striped with little serrated lines: each line meant the death of a man, for the day.

Tietjens had fallen a step back off the curb of the pavement that ran round the quadrangle. He said:

“I support it because I have to. Just as you decry it because you have to. They’re two different patterns that we see.” He added: “This is my brother Mark.”

She turned her head stiffly upon Mark: her face was perfectly waxen. It was as if the head of a shopkeeper’s lay-figure had been turned. She said to Mark:

“I didn’t know Mr. Tietjens had a brother. Or hardly. I’ve never heard him speak of you.”

Mark grinned feebly, exhibiting to the lady the brilliant lining of his hat.

“I don’t suppose anyone has ever heard me speak of him,” he said, “but he’s my brother all right!”

She stepped on to the asphalt carriageway and caught between her fingers and thumb a fold of Christopher’s khaki sleeve.

“I must speak to you,” she said; “I’m going then.”

She drew Christopher into the center of the enclosed, hard and ungracious space, holding him still by the stuff of his tunic. She pushed him round until he was facing her. She swallowed hard, it was as if the motion of her throat took an immense time. Christopher looked round the skyline of the buildings of sordid and besmirched stone. He had often wondered what would happen if an air-bomb of some size dropped into the mean, grey stoniness of that cold heart of an embattled world.

The girl was devouring his face with her eyes: to see him flinch. Her voice was hard between her little teeth. She said:

“Were you the father of the child Ethel was going to have? Your wife says you were.”

Christopher considered the dimensions of the quadrangle. He said vaguely:

“Ethel? Who’s she?” In pursuance of the habits of the painter-poet Mr. and Mrs. Macmaster called each other always “Guggums!” Christopher had in all probability never heard Mrs. Duchemin’s Christian names. Certainly he had never heard them since his disaster had swept all names out of his head.

He came to the conclusion that the quadrangle was not a space sufficiently confined to afford much bursting resistance to a bomb.

The girl said:

“Edith Ethel Duchemin! Mrs. Macmaster that is!” She was obviously waiting intensely. Christopher said with vagueness:

“No! Certainly not!⁠ ⁠… What was said?”

Mark Tietjens was leaning forward over the kerb in front of the green-stained shelter, like a child over a brookside.