Other people would say 'Sir Henry,' or occasionally 'General,' but his father would never say more than 'sir' and the general would never say less than 'Mr.' which he rarely did for anyone else.
For a long time this exchange of greetings had baffled young Butler. When the owner of Chesney and Rawle's met the secretary of the Graphical Association union branch (and father of the Union Chapel at C & R) there should have been a certain wariness; when the president of the local Conservative Association met the chairman of the local Labour Party there ought to have been a clear antagonism; and when the man whose influence and organising ability had helped to break the General Strike in the town met the man who had been one of the strike's leaders, there could only be bitterness. Butler himself had been not two years old then, and this December he would be twenty; but there were still men who wouldn't talk to those they felt had betrayed them then, or at the most not a word more than was needed to get the job done.
Yet when the General and his father met, there was neither wariness, nor antagonism, and not a hint of bitterness.
It had been in Coronation Year—the year after he had won the scholarship—that he had caught a glimpse of the explanation.
The year he had gone to work for the general.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
He had known without a word being said that his father expected him to take the paper round which had become vacant and which was his for the asking. And he had also known that although this was required of him as his proper contribution to the family income, they had in fact managed perfectly well since his mother's death and its real purpose was 'to keep his feet on the ground' (as Uncle Fred put it) now that he was a scholarship boy at the Grammar.
But he had also known, above all, that he had not the slightest intention of taking the paper round. He didn't like papers (or printing, for that matter), and he would sooner go kitting milk than delivering them.
So when Mr. Harris the maths master had let slip that the general's head gardener was in the market for a part-time boy, the nod was as good as a wink and he was off like a hare after the last lesson to the big house in Lynwood Road.
It never occurred to him that he might not get the job. Rather, he regarded his successful application as already assured. For the general and he had already met, and the general would certainly remember the boy to whom he had last year awarded the Scholarship prize (E. Wilmot Buxton's
It had simply not dawned on him that it would not be the general, but the head gardener, who didn't know him from E. Wilmot Buxton, who would be conducting the interviews for the part-time boy; nor had it occurred to him that others might have learnt of the vacancy, and that one in particular, a large boy with a BSA bicycle, would easily outdistance him to Lynwood Road.
All this became apparent in quick succession, first the bike propped outside the back entrance, then the large boy with a smug look on his face, and finally the head gardener himself, who obviously could not know of his special relationship with the general.
He had been in front of the head gardener, out of breath and near to weeping for this lost certainty, when there had come a shadow and a sound behind him in the doorway of the greenhouse. The head gardener had looked over his shoulder and stood up deferentially, and Butler had known instantly who was there and had heard the tap of the general's stick sound as sweet inside his head as the distant trumpets of the relieving force to the last survivor of a beleaguered outpost.
But at first the general didn't seem to recognise him in the cool green light of the potting shed; he had looked questioningly at the head gardener.
'The part-time boy, General,' the head gardener had reminded him. 'Ah, yes.' The general had nodded and had turned to consider Butler properly.
But then, to Butler's surprise, he had not said 'Of course—you are the Scholarship boy from North Mill Street Elementary to whom I presented E. Wilmot Buxton's
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'You are Mr. Butler's son,' the general had said.
'Yes—' Butler had floundered for a moment, unable to decide how to address the general. The head gardener had said 'General,' but outside St. Michael's Church on Sundays and in front of the War Memorial on November 11 his father had never used that rank. 'Yes—sir.'
'You remember RSM Butler, Sands,' said the general to the head gardener. 'At Messines with the 1st/4th—and he was also with me at Beaumont Hamel the year before . . . before you joined the battalion ... he was one of my platoon sergeants then.' He pointed at Butler's head. 'The same red hair, man—and the same look in the eye, too by God!'
The head gardener stared at Butler. 'Aye, you're right, General,' he agreed finally, in a voice which suggested that maybe not all his dealings with RSM Butler had been happy.
The general had chuckled. 'D'you know anything about gardening, boy?'
Butler thought of his father's allotment, but the easy lie choked in his throat. 'No, sir.'
'What about your father's allotment?' The general seemed to have a way of reading his thoughts. 'Don't you help him with that?'
Butler felt committed to the whole truth now. With that sharp eye on him nothing else would be of any use anyway, he suspected. 'He likes to do it himself, sir.'
'I see. And of course you've been busy studying, eh?'
'Yes, sir.'
'And how are you going to continue studying and work for me at the same time now?'
'I can make the time, sir.'
Nod. 'See that you do, boy.' The general's eyes lifted away from him to the head gardener. He knew that he'd got the job, but there was no longer any particular triumph in the knowledge now that he was aware his father had
