with us,” said George. “He said it was a shame to spoil the beauty of this coast-line, but if beauty had to be spoiled, he might as well be the first to do it. If I can commute my pension,after getting total disability, buying this land may prove a better investment than Angora rabbits. What do you think, Phillip?”
“Oh, I’m not a business man, George. How’s journalism going?”
“I’ve got a good idea for an article on bell-ringing, which ought to go well at the New Year! I used to be a ‘colt’, ringing with the team at the old pater’s church. My idea is to have six copies of the same article made, then send them out just after Christmas, to six papers. One of them is sure to take it, and it will save time sending the same article back and forth, and so missing the ’bus.”
The talk came round to spiritualism; an argument developed and continued on the sands: Phillip in sympathy with Bob, who was devout in his beliefs in life after death and in the power of spiritual healing; George deriding what both said.
“Yes, you believe in it, I don’t doubt that for a moment, old bean, but what proof have you got? The old pater knows a lot of rogues in his parish, some of them pretend to believe in spiritualism only to get money out of a number of war-widows who haven’t been able to get another husband. You ought to hear the old pater on the subject! He doesn’t believe a word of it, and says it’s against the teachings of Holy Writ.”
“I’m not saying that there aren’t any f-f—frauds, but I have p-proved that the dead can m-m-materialise,” stuttered Bob.
“Belief is a matter of sensibility,” said Phillip. “‘The fool sees not the same tree that the wise man sees’, as William Blake wrote.”
“Nor does the fool see the same tree that the dog sees!” chortled George.
The upshot was that Phillip proposed a test.
“Let’s have a séance tonight in my cottage, and Bob shall show us what he thinks are manifestations.”
“Why not in my place?” said George. “Then we can combine it with sampling my whit-ale! It’s just mature, and I can guarantee a more substantial kind of spirits if the other kind doesn’t turn up!”
Chapter 3
THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
The Pole-Cripps’ came over after supper, Georgie waving a catalogue.
His enthusiasm was now for a Home Knitting Machine, on which his wife could knit a combination of golosh and stocking to go over a lady’s shoes to prevent cold feet when being driven in winter in an open car. He would breed Angoras, and Boo would turn them into overboots!
A cold mist had drifted in from the sea, so Phillip lit the driftwood on the hearth. Young Maundy, heir to possible millions via the Lloyd George Election Fund, lay asleep in his wicker cradle on one side of the hearth. In another basket on the farther side lay Rusty, Lutra, Moggy, and the tail of a mouse she had brought in for her foster-child from whose joyous embraces she was ever ready to escape by leaping on table, book stand, and if necessary up trees. But now, filled with herrings, Lutra slept on his back, legs in air and Moggy across his neck, while Rusty groaned underneath.
“Half a jiffy, before we start,” said George. “I’ll just dash down to my place to see if I’ve left the fire-guard in front of the fire.”
“We made up a good fire, hoping that you will all come over afterwards and take coffee with us, and crab sandwiches,” said Boo.
“Don’t forget the whit-ale!” called out Georgie from the open door.
“We mustn’t be late,” said Doris. “We plan to make an early start tomorrow, it’s such a long way back to Romford.” She sat with impassive face on the settle.
When George returned they sat round the table. A single candle burned on the book-stand against the wall. Phillip put on a record of Debussy’s La Mer. When it stopped he got up, lifted off the sound box, and sat down again quietly.
Bob Willoughby was staring at the table. He drew a deep
“Oh, I’m not a business man, George. How’s journalism going?”
“I’ve got a good idea for an article on bell-ringing, which ought to go well at the New Year! I used to be a ‘colt’, ringing with the team at the old pater’s church. My idea is to have six copies of the same article made, then send them out just after Christmas, to six papers. One of them is sure to take it, and it will save time sending the same article back and forth, and so missing the ’bus.”
The talk came round to spiritualism; an argument developed and continued on the sands: Phillip in sympathy with Bob, who was devout in his beliefs in life after death and in the power of spiritual healing; George deriding what both said.
“Yes, you believe in it, I don’t doubt that for a moment, old bean, but what proof have you got? The old pater knows a lot of rogues in his parish, some of them pretend to believe in spiritualism only to get money out of a number of war-widows who haven’t been able to get another husband. You ought to hear the old pater on the subject! He doesn’t believe a word of it, and says it’s against the teachings of Holy Writ.”
“I’m not saying that there aren’t any f-f—frauds, but I have p-proved that the dead can m-m-materialise,” stuttered Bob.
“Belief is a matter of sensibility,” said Phillip. “‘The fool sees not the same tree that the wise man sees’, as William Blake wrote.”
“Nor does the fool see the same tree that the dog sees!” chortled George.
The upshot was that Phillip proposed a test.
“Let’s have a séance tonight in my cottage, and Bob shall show us what he thinks are manifestations.”
“Why not in my place?” said George. “Then we can combine it with sampling my whit-ale! It’s just mature, and I can guarantee a more substantial kind of spirits if the other kind doesn’t turn up!”
Chapter 3
THE ROAD TO EN-DOR
The Pole-Cripps’ came over after supper, Georgie waving a catalogue.
His enthusiasm was now for a Home Knitting Machine, on which his wife could knit a combination of golosh and stocking to go over a lady’s shoes to prevent cold feet when being driven in winter in an open car. He would breed Angoras, and Boo would turn them into overboots!
A cold mist had drifted in from the sea, so Phillip lit the driftwood on the hearth. Young Maundy, heir to possible millions via the Lloyd George Election Fund, lay asleep in his wicker cradle on one side of the hearth. In another basket on the farther side lay Rusty, Lutra, Moggy, and the tail of a mouse she had brought in for her foster-child from whose joyous embraces she was ever ready to escape by leaping on table, book stand, and if necessary up trees. But now, filled with herrings, Lutra slept on his back, legs in air and Moggy across his neck, while Rusty groaned underneath.
“Half a jiffy, before we start,” said George. “I’ll just dash down to my place to see if I’ve left the fire-guard in front of the fire.”
“We made up a good fire, hoping that you will all come over afterwards and take coffee with us, and crab sandwiches,” said Boo.
“Don’t forget the whit-ale!” called out Georgie from the open door.
“We mustn’t be late,” said Doris. “We plan to make an early start tomorrow, it’s such a long way back to Romford.” She sat with impassive face on the settle.
When George returned they sat round the table. A single candle burned on the book-stand against the wall. Phillip put on a record of Debussy’s La Mer. When it stopped he got up, lifted off the sound box, and sat down again quietly.
Bob Willoughby was staring at the table. He drew a deep
Similar Books
