The Lion and the Unicorn

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  And it’s a good thing I’m not one of them, he mused, as the speeches finally came to an end. The guests clapped politely. The maids started distributing brandy, cigars and mint chocolates. Anyone who grows up in a place like this must wind up warped.

  He felt an odd little pang as he joined the throng, unsure where to go. Captain Hammond had vanished, as had most of the senior aristocracy. The younger guests were dancing in the hall, looking as carefree as any other bunch of teenagers … some of whom, he was fairly sure, were in their mid-twenties. He snorted, then turned and left the hall. It was no place for him, not really. He walked down a long corridor, passing endless rows of portraits that gazed disapprovingly at him, and out onto a balcony. The garden below was shrouded in darkness, broken only by a handful of lanterns. He could see couples as they moved in and out of the light, seeking a place to kiss and cuddle and … he rolled his eyes. The mansion was a whole other world.

  “It looks better in daylight,” a voice said.

  Mitch jumped. He hadn’t heard anyone coming up behind him. He cursed under his breath as he spun around, one hand dropping to his belt. If that had happened back home, he’d be in real trouble. And he wasn’t wearing a pistol … he caught himself as he saw Lady Charlotte, her eyes looking past him. She seemed more concerned with putting on a good show than anything else. Mitch’s eyes narrowed. Where had that thought come from?

  “I’m sure it does, My Lady,” he said, putting his glass to one side. He’d really drunk more than he should. He wouldn’t be too surprised to discover there was extra alcohol in some of the drinks too. He’d seen aristocrats swigging fine wines as if they were cheap beers. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just call me Charlotte,” Lady Charlotte said. She stepped past him until she was standing by the balcony. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to get to know you better.”

  Mitch frowned. There was something in her tone … he studied her, thoughtfully. She was in her late forties, at the very least, but there was something about her that called to him. Curly dark hair, a curvy body … her dress hinted at her curves without revealing anything below the neckline. Her smile was almost sad, almost winsome. Mitch felt a stir and looked away, hastily. He shouldn’t be even thinking about her.

  “It’s quite alright,” he said, honestly. “I understand you weren’t expecting me.”

  “I invited you,” Lady Charlotte said. “What did you make of the party?”

  Mitch hesitated, unsure if he should answer honestly. He’d met officers who appreciated honesty, even if they were hearing things they didn’t want to hear, and officers who blew a gasket whenever someone dared to offer an honest opinion. Lady Charlotte was an aristocrat, distantly related to the monarch herself. She’d probably never heard a word of criticism in her life …

  “You can answer honestly,” Lady Charlotte said, as if she’d read his thoughts. “How else would I run the family estates?”

  Mitch blinked, then reminded himself - sharply - that Lady Charlotte was probably old enough to know how to read someone. And she would have handled her husband’s affairs, as well as her own, while he’d been on active service. Hell, for all he knew, it was Captain Hammond who’d married into money. The older aristocrats made a habit of marrying for money, rather than status. They had all the status they could possibly desire.

  “I think it’s nothing more than a distraction,” he said, finally. “How many of the people who attended are really important?”

  “More than you might think.” Lady Charlotte didn’t seem offended at his remark. “Some hold powerful positions, in the government or the military or big business. Others will hold positions, one day, or marry those who do. The whole party is a chance to meet informally, without the pressure of a formal meeting; a chance to chat about important matters without letting anything get in the way. You might be surprised to know how much government policy comes out of parties like this.”

  “Ah,” Mitch said. “No wonder the country is such a mess.”

  Lady Charlotte laughed. “You’re not the first person to make such a joke.”

  “It wasn’t a joke,” Mitch said. He waved a hand at the darkened lawn below. “How much money is being wasted on this … this party, while people starve?”

  “People don’t starve,” Lady Charlotte said. “And this party … it cost far less than a battleship. Or what we pay in tax.”

  Mitch glanced at her. “And everyone here is born to wealth and power,” he said. It was technically true that no one starved, but government-provided ration bars looked like cardboard and tasted worse. “They don’t know what it’s like to live out there.”

  “Which is why we need people like you, to tell us how it is,” Lady Charlotte said. “That’s why you were invited.”

  “Really?” Mitch wasn’t sure he believed her. “And how many of you listen?”

  “Enough,” Lady Charlotte said. She gave him a thin smile. “I listen to you.”

  Mitch shrugged. “Why?”

  “Because you’re a war hero,” Lady Charlotte said. “You have credibility. That gives your words weight. And I listen.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Colin stood outside the main entrance of the school and stared at the concrete building. The district had never struck him as particularly pretty - dehumanising and ugly were the words he’d usually heard used to describe the poorer parts of Liverpool - but the school was easily the ugliest place in the city. It was a solid concrete block, looking more like a prison than the actual prison they’d toured a few years ago in hopes of convincing them not to commit crimes that would either get them banged up for years or a short walk to the gallows and the hangman’s noose. The main entrance was only for teachers, he’d been told; students, male and female alike, used the side doors. His stomach churned, unpleasantly, as he forced himself to walk through the gate, past a statue of some geezer forgotten long ago, and up to the door. It opened, revealing a young boy and girl wearing school uniforms and blazers. Colin felt his stomach clench, again. They were so young, so unscarred by life …

  The girl stepped forward. “Captain Lancaster?”

  “Corporal Lancaster,” Colin corrected. The thought of making captain a bare eight months after joining the marines was absurd. He’d had to work his arse off to make corporal and he was all too aware he could lose the stripe at any moment. He wondered, suddenly, if the Beast had summoned the wrong man. Lancaster was hardly an unusual name. “I hope I’ve come to the right place.”

  The girl giggled. “Yes, sir,” she said. “The headmaster is waiting to see you.”

  Colin nodded, feeling a growing sense of unreality as the prefects led him through corridors that looked to have been cleaned for his visit. He was no longer a student, no longer a forced inmate … he no longer belonged in the school. It was no longer his place. He felt his stomach churn as they stopped outside the headmaster’s office and knocked. The last time he’d been here, he’d been told he’d never amount to anything. Now … he wondered, suddenly, if the Beast even remembered him. There’d been over a hundred students in his year. To the Beast, Colin would have been just one face in a crowd.

  The Beast stepped out of his office, wearing his gown and mortar board. Colin blinked in surprise. His memories had made the headmaster out to be a monster, but now he was a very small man indeed. Colin had expected … he wasn’t sure what. The Beast had been a monster and now he was … he was something else. Colin told himself, as he straightened to attention, that he’d grown up. The tyrant of his childhood and teenage years was no longer a threat.

  “Welcome back,” the Beast said. His face looked ratty, very ratty. His voice brought back memories, none of them pleasant. “I trust you have prepared a speech?”

  “Yes, sir,” Colin said. There was no point in antagonising the Beast. God! He’d forgotten the man’s real name. Did he even have one? It was a silly question, but it hadn’t been so silly when he’d been a child. “I hope everyone is ready to lis
ten?”

  “I’ve called a special assembly,” the Beast assured him, once he’d put his coat and bag in a locker. “Everyone will attend or I’ll know the reason why.”

  Colin turned away, feeling a sudden surge of disgust. The Beast would have summoned everyone. Of course he would have summoned everyone. He wouldn’t have wanted a guest to go away with the impression the school hated him, naturally. Colin was tempted to point out how counterproductive it was, then shrugged. If the Beast paid no attention to scribbling on toilet walls, he wouldn’t pay any attention to a very junior marine. Maybe if Major Craig had had a quiet word with him …

  He put the thought out of his mind as the Beast led him down to the assembly hall. The scent of cooked cabbage hung in the air, a mocking reminder of school dinners that tasted worse than ration bars. It would have been better, he was sure, if they’d simply handed out a bar or two at lunchtime, if the students couldn’t go home for something nice. Not, he supposed, that most of the kids had had that choice. Their parents were often working two jobs just to put food on the table.

  “We’re very proud of you,” the Beast assured him. “You’re an inspiration to the rest of us.”

  Colin resisted the urge to snort. Did the Beast expect him to believe that? Did the Beast believe it himself? Colin wondered, idly, which would be worse. There was no way the Beast would have given a damn about him if he hadn’t accomplished something, yet … he couldn’t be the only former student to make something of himself. He silently cursed the PR genius who’d convinced Major Craig to order him home. He would sooner have shined his CO’s boots than gone back to school.

  The sense of unreality grew stronger as the Beast led him through a door and onto a stage. The audience - students, ranging from twelve to eighteen - stared at him. Colin shivered, remembering the days when he’d sat in a crowd and tried not to be too obviously bored as an honoured guest lied his arse off. Now … he felt a pang of guilt. The girls and boys in front of him hadn’t wanted to be there. Some of them might see the assembly as a welcome break from lessons, but others … he hid a smile as he saw a young boy wearing a pair of modified glasses. If Colin didn’t miss his guess, he was watching something else …

  Clever, Colin thought. Who was it in my year who found an ingenious way to skive?

  He kept the thought to himself as the Beast introduced him with a long and flowery speech that managed to get almost everything wrong. Colin hadn’t had good marks, Colin hadn’t had his pick of universities and Colin hadn’t won the Headmaster’s Prize for Good Conduct. He hadn’t won anything that meant something, even the Miss Joyful Prize for Raffia Work. The only thing the Beast had given him was six of the best!

  “And now, I give you Corporal Lancaster,” the Beast said, once he’d finished poisoning the well. “Please welcome him.”

  Colin hid his amusement at the handful of claps. Anyone would think the students weren’t happy to see him. He stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. He’d been given a list of material to cover - the PR officers hadn’t trusted him to speak without detailed instructions - but he intended to say something himself first. And to hell with the Beast. He couldn’t complain to Colin’s superiors without looking remarkably petty.

  “It has been an eternity since I stepped within these walls,” he said, pitching his voice so he could be heard right across the hall. “But I do remember that not everyone wanted to attend these little talks. If any of you want to leave, or read, or go to sleep, feel free. I don’t care. Really.”

  He smiled at the Beast, daring him to say something. The headmaster looked murderous, but had the wit to keep his mouth shut. Colin grinned, feeling as if the old man no longer had any power over him. Or anyone, really. The worst he could do was bitch and moan to Major Craig - or, more accurately, to the PR officers. Colin thought he could talk his way out of trouble. And even if it cost him his stripe … it was worth it.

  “I didn’t do half of what the headmaster credited to me,” Colin continued. He saw a handful of quickly hidden smiles amongst the childish faces. It was hard to believe he’d ever been that young. “I really haven’t been out of training that long. I do have some war stories to tell you, but you know what? There are people in the military who were in the thick of it while I was in my mother’s tummy.”

  There were a handful of snickers, quickly suppressed. Colin grinned and launched into the speech he’d been given, with a handful of slight revisions. He had no idea where the PR officers had been educated, but he was fairly sure it wasn’t a council school. In fact, he was fairly sure they’d never been young in the first place. Boys who wanted to join the marines wanted to go to war, to test themselves against the best the enemy had to offer. Colin wasn’t foolish enough to think the other roles weren’t important, but they weren’t that exciting either. No one wanted to hear about endless training, garrison duty or disaster relief. They wanted excitement, not boredom.

  He finished, just as the bell rang. The students jumped to their feet and hurried to the doors without being dismissed. Colin smiled inwardly as he glanced at the Beast. The headmaster looked pissed, pissed and making a half-assed attempt to hide it. It was too late to stop the deserters. The teachers weren’t making any attempt to slow the exodus down. They were probably bored too. Those who could, did. Those who couldn’t, taught. He felt his smile grow wider as he turned away. Anyone who said that to an army instructor was likely to regret it. The poor bugger would be doing push-ups for hours.

  “You didn’t have to tell them that,” the Beast said, once the hall was empty. He sounded weak, weak and unsure of himself. “It’s important that take these assemblies seriously.”

  “Really, sir?” Colin wondered, sourly, why he’d ever taken the Beast seriously in the first place. “Then why do you make them compulsory?”

  The Beast let out a rude noise as he led the way back to his office. Colin looked around with new insight. The wall of trophies - practically an ‘I love me’ wall - looked neat, but the Beast hadn’t earned any of them. There were no medals, no commendations … not even a teaching certificate. He was tempted to ask if the Beast even had a teaching certificate. The council was so desperate for teachers that it might not have looked too closely … he shook his head at the thought. They couldn’t have been that lax, surely.

  “I think it would be better if you were to leave,” the Beast said, stiffly. “I’ll be speaking to your commanding officer about this.”

  “My commanding officer will be singularly unimpressed,” Colin said. He’d once dreamed of knocking the headmaster out with a single punch, but now … the old man was just pathetic. “And I do wonder at your claims of military glory.”

  The Beast turned an interesting colour. “Get out.”

  Colin saluted, perfectly, then headed for the door. The prefects were waiting outside … as if they were MPs, called to deal with a rowdy soldier. Colin had no idea when they’d been summoned, if indeed they’d been summoned at all. The Beast was egoistic enough to keep the prefects dancing attendance on him … Colin shrugged. It wasn’t his problem any longer.

  “Sir,” the boy said, as they collected Colin’s coat. “Is what you said true?”

  “Most of it,” Colin told him. “It’s great to be a marine, but you have to work hard.”

  He donned his coat, then frowned as a thought struck him. “Can you take me past the Remembrance Display?”

  “Of course, sir,” the girl said. “Right this way.”

  Colin followed her, feeling a flicker of sympathy. He could have found his way himself, easily, but the Beast was in a beastly mood. The prefects would be in trouble if they didn’t stick to Colin like glue, at least until they showed him to the gates and bid him farewell. The Beast would be looking for someone to bear the brunt of his anger and humiliation …

  He frowned as they entered the long corridor. A handful of photographs - former students who’d died in the war - greeted him. He looked past them, towards the final set
of class photographs. It was easy to pick out himself, standing next to Susan Dryden. He’d had his hand on her ass, if he recalled correctly … and he did. She’d put out for him and … he wondered, suddenly, what had happened to her. She hadn’t had any ambitions, as far as he could remember. She’d certainly never discussed anything with him. He was tempted to give her a call.

  His eyes wandered over the photograph. They’d all been somewhere between seventeen and eighteen, but they looked young. Too young. The photograph told a lie. He looked from face to face, picking out boys and girls he’d known …

  Colin swore as a face jumped out at him. A very familiar face.

  “Impossible,” he breathed. It was the gunboat crewman. It had to be. And yet … Colin rubbed his forehead. The face was younger and softer, but it was the same person. “I …”

  “Sir?”

  Colin remembered the prefects and glanced at them. “I … I just saw a face from the past,” he said. He pointed to his picture. “That’s me, there?”

  “But you look so handsome,” the male prefect said. “That can’t be you.”

  His partner elbowed him. Colin had to smile.

  “I was younger then,” he said. He hadn’t been that much younger, but military training changed a man. It had clearly changed the gunboat pilot too. Colin hadn’t recognised him and he had the awful feeling he should have done. He checked the notes and found a name. Richard Tobias Gurnard. “You’d better show me out before you get in trouble for missing class.”