Free Kindling by Nevil Shute Page A

paid.”
    “It would pay in results,” she said. “But there just isn’t the money in this town for things like that. We ought to have done it five years ago, when things were good. It costs about five hundred pounds, or a bit more. We got a quotation once.”
    The concert was drawing to a close before the News. “And now,” said the announcer, “before we finish up we’ve just got time for one old favourite that we allknow.” And the orchestra struck up the opening bars of “Land of Hope and Glory”.
    Warren smiled, a little cynically. The girl saw it, and was angry with him.
    The music rose and swelled through the ward, lifting the spirits of the men with its derided appeal. Warren, watching, smiling, had the smile wiped off his face, there was nothing here to laugh about. The music rose and swelled through the ward, and now the men were singing from their beds, singing and meaning every word of it.
    “Land of Hope and Glory
     Mother of the Free——
      How shall we extol thee
    Who were born of thee? …”
    “Five shillings a week,” thought Warren. “My God!”
    The music rose, lifted the spirits of the men, held them for a time, and died into silence before the first News. For a moment there was stillness in the ward, then someone moved, and the spell was broken.
    Warren turned to the girl. “Land of Hope and Glory,” he said bitterly. “I suppose that’s Sharples on the dole.”
    She eyed him for a moment. “You’re poking fun at us, Mr. Warren,” she said coldly. “That isn’t very nice. We’ve done our best for you.”
    He shook his head. “I wasn’t poking any fun.”
    “What did you mean, then?”
    “I was wondering what made them sing that thing like that,” he said. “I suppose they understand the words.”She flushed angrily and was about to speak, but he stopped her. “ ‘Land of Hope and Glory’,” he said quietly. “The land that gives them five bob a week to live on—and forgets. There’s no Glory for them in this land, and very little Hope. And yet they sing that thing like that.”
    She stood there looking down at him. “Curious, isn’t it?” she said. “I suppose you’d call it mass hysteria.”
    “I might.”
    “I might say that it’s because they’ve been born and bred in this country, and they still like it a bit.”
    He smiled. “And you might just as well be right as me.”
    Behind her back a steady stream of news, in dulcet tones, flowed from the wireless. “You mustn’t take the unemployment too much to heart, Mr. Warren,” she said seriously. “Things will come right. You’re out of a job, and going through a bad patch. Things are bad all over the country, and here in Sharples they’re just terrible. But it
is
only a bad patch. The ships in service are all getting worn out, they say. A lot more ships will be needed before long. It can’t be more than a year or two before we’re all busy again.”
    He was silent.
    “Things are terribly bad here now, and they’re getting worse each year. But there’s a limit to it. We haven’t got to stick it out much longer. Then we’ll all have jobs again.”
    He raised his head and met her eyes, and his heart sank. “You believe that—really?” he said.
    “Absolutely.”
    From his own knowledge, deep within himself, hesaid, “I’m terribly sorry.” But he said no word aloud, and presently the Fat Stock Prices came upon the air; she went to the wireless, turned it off and took it to another ward, thinking she had reassured him for the future.
    Warren lay awake for half the night with mingled feelings. Predominating, curiously, he was deeply ashamed, he did not know of what.
    Next day the surgeon on his morning round stopped at his bed, asked a few questions of the house physician, and examined the wound.
    “Better start getting him up a bit,” he said to the physician. “An hour or two each day.”
    He turned to Warren. “Not a Sharples man, are you?”
    “No,” said Warren. “I was on