The Power of the Dead Read Online Free Page A

Lucy who he was.
    “It’s Major Crichel, I think.”
    “Why doesn’t Phillip want to see him?”
    “Oh, I don’t really know, exactly. I think it’s something to do with politics. He’s the local Conservative chairman, I think.”
    Hilary went after his nephew. “Major Crichel has called. You must see him.”
    “But I don’t want to have anything to do with politics. Anyway , I believe in socialism.”
    “Well, the sooner you learn sense the better. You’ve come to live in the country, so you must take your place in the normal life of a country gentleman. And politics apart, it’s a matter of common courtesy to greet a guest, for whatever purpose he comes. You can’t allow Lucy to stand there by herself. Come along.”
    They went out as Major Crichel raised his cloth cap. Lucy said, “How very good of you to come all this way, Major Crichel. You’re just in time for tea! This is Captain Sir Hilary Maddison—Major Crichel.”
    After a few words Major Crichel excused himself, saying he had to be on his way, but might he include their two names on his list? Having made a tick against the names he enquired about the corn harvest and left.
    Hilary approached his nephew on another course.
    “I thought Crichel looked a thoroughly decent fellow. Why don’t you like him?”
    “He wouldn’t let his wife read The Constant Nymph, which I lent her when she came to see us, but sent it back the next day by his gardener, with a terse note of thanks.”
    “That’s a very slight reason for not wanting to see him, surely?”
    “Just before I lent the book he asked me if he could count on my vote at the next general election.”
    “Well?”
    “I told him that I felt I couldn’t allow him to count on me, as I was unreliable politically.”
    “Why couldn’t you say straight out what you meant?”
    “I thought I had.”
    Hilary turned away impatiently. He faced his bearded nephew again. “What’s all this nonsense about your being a socialist?”
    “But mayn’t I decide for myself at the polls, Nuncle? Probably I shan’t vote at all in the next General Election.”
    “It’s high time you learned sense. And don’t call me by that awful name.”
    Lucy came in with the tea tray. The guest settled himself in the only armchair in the room—it had come from his old home—and read The Morning Post. Soon he was snorting about the unrest in the Durham coalfields.
    “Here you are, Phillip. You ought to read Birkenhead’s speech, and learn what your precious socialist agitators are responsible for—unsettling the men, so that the Geordies won’t do an honest day’s work.” He looked round, “Hullo, where’s he gone, Lucy?”
    Phillip had crept quietly upstairs; he had heard what was said, and thought, Five thousand poor bloody Geordies lying out on July the First, in Sausage Valley. You’re right, they hadn’t done an honest day’s work, the machine guns from Ovillers and the Glory Hole got them first. Then, not wishing to cross Nuncle further, he pretended to sneeze and returned downstairs after blowing his nose.
    “I’m afraid there’s a lot of doust, as the men call it, in the barley sheaves, Uncle. It gets in the nostrils.”
    After tea Hilary let down an aerial from his bedroom window, and pushed a portable copper earth into the flower-bed below. Having heard the 6 o’clock news, he disconnected the battery and said to Lucy, “I don’t suppose you’ve had much chance of leavingthe house while the harvest was on, why not drive with me over the downs, to Stonehenge? We’ll take Uncle John with us. There’ll just be room for Billy beside us.”
    Left alone, Phillip went up to his room, and tried to write, but his mind was crossed. He wondered where he could go. On the Norton to Stonehenge? No: he wasn’t wanted—there had been plenty of room in the dickey seat. So he went to Colham, and sat in The Rising Sun, drinking beer and playing skittles with the landlord, a fish-poaching ruffian named