Parade's End

did not commit suicide. He wasn’t the man to do so. So Valentine was not his daughter and there was no incest. It is all very well to say that you care little about incest. The Greeks made a hell of a tragic row about it…. Certainly it was a weight off the chest. He had always been able to look Christopher in the eyes — but he would be able to do it better than ever now. Comfortably! It is uncomfortable to look a man in the eyes and think: You sleep between incestuous sheets.

That then was over. The worst of it rolled up together. No suicide. No incest. No by-blow at Groby…. A Papist there…. Though how you could be a Papist and a Marxian-Communist passed his, Mark’s comprehension…. A Papist at Groby and Groby Great Tree down…. The curse was perhaps off the family!

That was a superstitious way to look at it — but you must have a pattern to interpret things by. You can’t really get your mind to work without it. The blacksmith said: By hammer and hand all art doth stand!… He, Mark Tietjens, for many years interpreted all life in terms of Transport…. Transport be thou my God…. A damn good God…. And in the end, after a hell of a lot of thought and of work the epitaph of him, Mark Tietjens, ought by rights to be: “Here lies one whose name was writ in sea-birds!” As good an epitaph as another.

He must get it through to Christopher that Marie Leonie should have that case of stuffed birds with Bamborough and all, in her bedroom at Groby Dower House. It was the last permanent record of her man…. But Christopher would know that….

It was coming back. A lot of things were coming back…. He could see Redcar Sands running up towards Sunderland, grey, grey. Not so many factory chimnies then, working for him, Mark Tietjens! Not so many! And the sandpipers running in the thin of the tide, bowing as they ran; and the shovellers turning over stones and the terns floating above the viscous sea….

But it was great nights to which he would not turn his attention; great black nights above the purple moors…. Great black nights above the Edgeware Road where Marie Leonie lived… because, above the blaze of lights of the old Apollo’s front, you had a sense of immense black spaces….

Who said he was perspiring a great deal? Well, he was perspiring!

Marie Leonie, young, was bending over him…. Young, young, as he had first seen her on the stage of Covent Garden…. In white!… Doing agreeable things to his face with a perfume like that of Heaven itself!… And laughing sideways as Marie Leonie had laughed when first he presented himself before her in his billycock hat and umbrella!… The fine, fair hair! The soft voice!

But this was silly…. That was nephew Mark with his cherry-red face and staring eyes…. And this was his light of love!… Naturally. Like uncle, like nephew. He would pick up with the same type of woman as his uncle. That made it certain that this was no by-blow! Pretty piece against the apple boughs!

He wanted great nights, then! — Young Mark, though, should not pick up with a woman older than himself. Christopher had done that and look!

Still, things were takking oop!… Do you remember the Yorkshireman who stood with his chin just out of the water on Ararat Top as Noah approached. And: “It’s boon to tak oop!” said the Yorkshireman…. It’s bound to clear up!

A great night, with room enough for Heaven to be hidden there from our not too perspicacious eyes…. It was said that an earthquake shock imperceptible to our senses set those cattle and sheep and horses and pigs crashing through all the hedges of the county. And it was queer: before they had so started lowing and moving Mark was now ready to swear that he had heard a rushing sound. He probably had not! One could so easily self-deceive oneself! The cattle had been panicked because they had been sensible of the presence of the Almighty walking upon the firmament….

Damn it all: there were a lot of things coming back. He could have sworn he heard the voice of Ruggles say: “After all he is virtually Tietjens of Groby!”… By no fault of yours, old cock! But now you will be cadging up to him…. Now there speaks Edith Ethel Macmaster! A lot of voices passing behind his head. Damn it all, could they all be ghosts drifting before the wind!… Or damn it all, was he himself dead!… No, you were probably not profane when you were dead.

He would have given the world to sit up and turn his head round and see. Of course he could, but that would give the show away! He credited himself with being too cunning an old fox for that! To have thrown dust in their eyes for all these years! He could have chuckled!

Fittleworth seemed to have come down into the orchard. What the devil could Fittleworth want? It was like a pantomime. Fittleworth in effect was looking at him. He said:

“Hello, old bean….” Marie Leonie was looking from beside his elbow. He said: “I’ve driven all these goats out of your hen-roost…” Good-looking fellow, Fittleworth. His Lola Vivaria had been a garden-peach. Died in child-birth. No doubt that was why he had troubled to come. Fittleworth said: Cammie said to give Mark her love for old time’s sake. Her dear love! And as soon as he was well to bring her ladyship down.

Damn this sweat. With its beastly tickling he would grimace and give the show away. But he would like Marie Leonie to go to the Fittleworths’. Marie Leonie said something to Fittleworth.

“Yes, yes, me lady!” says Fittleworth. Damn it, he did look like a monkey as some people said…. But if the monkeys we were descended from were as good-looking… Probably he had good-looking legs…. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of them that bring good tidings to Zion!…

Fittleworth added earnestly and distinctly that his sister-in-law, Sylvia, begged Mark to understand that she had not sent that flock of idiots down here. Sylvia also said that she was going to divorce his, Mark’s, brother and dissolve her marriage with the sanction of Rome…. So they would all be a happy family down there, soon…. Anything Cammie could do… And because of Mark’s unforgettable services to the country…

Name was written in…. Lettest thou thy servant… divorce in peace!

Marie Leonie begged Fittleworth to go away now. Fittleworth said he would, but joy never kills! So long, old… old friend! The clubs they had been in together!…

But one went to a far better Club than… His breathing was a little troublesome…. It was darkish, then light again.

Christopher was at the foot of his bed. Holding a bicycle and a lump of wood. Aromatic wood, a chunk sawn from a tree. His face was white; his eyes stuck out. Blue pebbles. He gazed at his brother and said:

“Half Groby wall is down. Your bedroom’s wrecked. I found your case of sea-birds thrown on a rubble heap.”

It was as well that one’s services were unforgettable!

Valentine was there, panting as if she had been running. She exclaimed to Christopher:

“You left the prints for Lady Robinson in a jar you gave to Hudnut the dealer. How could you? Oh, how could you? How are we going to feed and clothe a child if you do such things?”

He lifted his bicycle wearily round. You could see he was dreadfully weary, the poor devil. Mark almost said:

“Let him off, the poor devil’s worn out!”

Heavily, like a dejected bulldog, Christopher made for the gate. As he went up the green path beyond the hedge, Valentine began to sob.

“How are we to live? How are we ever to live?”

“Now I must speak,” Mark said to himself.

He said:

“Did ye ever hear tell o’ t’ Yorkshireman…. On Mount Ara… Ara…

He had not spoken for so long. His tongue appeared to fill his mouth; his mouth to be twisted to one side. It was growing dark. He said:

“Put your ear close to my mouth…” She cried out!

He whispered:

“’Twas the mid o’ the night and the barnies grat

And the mither beneath the mauld heard that.”

“An old song. My nurse sang it…. Never thou let thy barnie weep for thy sharp tongue to thy goodman…. A good man!… Groby Great Tree is down….”