“I believe it is,” he said, gaily. “Kiss me again to make sure.”
Her second kiss was more amorous and she nibbled his lips in a way that told him her naïveté was almost certainly counterfeit, and she knew her business extremely well. He squeezed her bottom and she said, approvingly, “That's the spirit!” But when he tried to explore below the tight waistband, she said, laughing, “Here, you don’t have to wrestle, love,” and tweaked the tape so that he could prospect her in comfort, at the same time letting her hand pass lightly over his crutch and saying, “Well there! You got nothing to worry about, have you?”
He realised with relief that he had not and suddenly he felt very glad that he had accepted Bonzo's invitation; even more so that he had found an amiable creature like Cecilia, who combined humour with a tolerance and understanding he would not have looked for in a girl of her profession.
They cuddled there for what seemed to him a long interval, more like a couple of long-separated lovers in a cornfield than a man sporting with a hired drab in a house of drabs. The swift rattle of a market cart passing over the setts below seemed to recollect to a full sense of her duty and she said, slipping off his knee, “Here now, this won’t do, soldier-boy. Let's go to bed, shall we?” and without waiting for his assent she began to pull off her drawers.
Then, as always with him, an outside agency stepped in, this time even more decisively than in Malta, Cork, and Cyprus, where he was whisked away to a troopship at what always seemed to him a moment's notice. She had one leg free, and was stooping to ease the frills of the other over her stockinged feet, when there was a sudden outcry from the room immediately above, swelling, in a matter of seconds, to an uproar that could not possibly be ignored, for it included a woman's screams, a man's full-throated shouts, any number of heavy thumps, and finally the crash of glass. Glass was still tinkling when he heard the rush of hurrying feet on the stairs and, a moment later, renewed outcry, as though a whole group of people were up there engaged in breaking up the furniture. The woman's yells continued, so that the entire house seemed to erupt and Cecilia shouted, above the cacophony, “It's Lucy and her regular again! He must be murdering her!” She darted across the room and out of the door, with Alex in hot pursuit, just as the noise above shifted its centre from immediately above to the head of a flight of stairs rising steeply from the landing outside.
There was a relatively good light out here and glancing up Alex saw a trio of figures struggling together in confusion just beyond the top stair. Cecilia, now stark naked apart from her black stockings, headed up into the scrimmage, but before he could mount more than two stairs the banister rail parted with a long, splintering crack and the wedge of people descended in concert, bumping and rolling one upon the other, and giving him no opportunity to retreat and avoid making five of the group. All together, a confused mass of threshing arms and legs, they rolled on to the landing outside Cecilia's open door where Alex, the last to be involved, was the first on his feet, having jarred his shoulder on the post of what was left of the banisters. For a few seconds he was dazed by the impact, but then, darting forward with some idea of extricating Cecilia, he saw a grizzled head emerge from the mass of bodies and then a brown mottled fist, grasping about a foot of a broken walking cane, with a silver dragon's head as its handle.
He recognised face and walking cane in the same moment. Both belonged to Colonel Corcoran, alias Bejasus, alias Fwat-Fwat and Vorwarts. The old boy's mouth was open in a sustained roar of rage, or pain, or terror, directed at whatever monster figured in his current bout of delirium tremens and his rust-red whiskers stood out, giving him the appearance of a wild man at a fair. Above the gasps and moans of a middle-aged pot-bellied man (Mr. Skilly, he assumed) and the muffled screams of Lucy, whose evening dress had bundled level with her chin, so that her bustle was acting as a kind of gag, he could hear the steady spate of oaths for which Colonel Corcoran was famous throughout half the garrison towns of the Empire, interspersed with volleys of his favourite expletive, “Bejasus,” that had won him his most popular nickname. Alone among them he seemed uninjured, for as Alex watched, too amazed to help, he fought his way free, striking out with the butt end of his staff. He was in full evening rig, but in the struggle above, or the tumble downstairs, the pearl buttons had been stripped from his waistcoat and his ruffled shirt, ripped across the front, exposed a mat of red hair that covered his chest.
His wild prancings, and the ineffectual blows he delivered, seemed to steady the others somewhat for they began to sort themselves out, massaging various parts of their anatomy that had come into contact with the treads or the splintered stair rail on the way down. Skilly rose to his knees, his oaths entering into competition with the Colonel's, but he was at a grave disadvantage for his high-crowned bowler hat was wedged tightly over his ears; until he could free himself he was all but blinded.
It was the most bizarre scene imaginable. Lucy, still unable to win clear of the press, waved her legs in the air as though making despairing signals for help. Cecilia emerged backwards, bent in an arc so that her broad bottom offered a splendid target to the enraged Bejasus, who dropped his near-useless walking stick and fetched her a tremendous slap that rang through the general din like the report of a Martini-Henry discharged in a canyon.
At that moment, when Alex had sufficiently recovered to grab Bejasus by the shoulders and haul him clear, there was a loud knocking on the front door and Lucy, sitting up and clawing the bustle from her face, shouted, “It's the police! Go down, Skilly. Go on down!” To Alex's amazement, Skilly scrambled to his feet and went off down the stairs at a stumbling run, both hands still raised in an attempt to free himself of his bowler. Then, mercifully, the Colonel stopped bellowing and hitting out, and seemed suddenly bemused, as though unable to get his bearings. Alex, steadying him against the splintered stair rail, shouted “I’ll see to him… he's my colonel… nobody's hurt, are they?” But Alex was aware, as he said this, of the rumble of voices below. A moment later an enormous police constable appeared on the stairs, with Skilly at his heels, and Alex saw that the janitor had at last rid himself of his hat and was revealed as a florid man of about fifty, with cheeks as pendulous as a bloodhound's and a blue, watery eye that surveyed the scene with exasperated bewilderment.
He said, apologetically, “Touch o’ D. T. s officer, same as las’ time. ’Armless, mindjew. Better get a keb, ’adn’t we?” And the policeman, who seemed excessively calm in the circumstances, agreed that this would be a good idea but added, very mildly, that this kind of thing wouldn’t do at all twice in a few days, that somebody might have been injured in such a mêlée, and that it had better be kept from his sergeant with whom he had a point in a few moments.
Alex said nervously, “I know him, officer, and I know where he lives. Let me take him home. He’ll be safe enough with me, I assure you!” The policeman said, gravely, that he would be safe with anybody now so that Alex, turning towards Cecilia's room, saw that the Colonel was slumped against the skirting-board and fast asleep.
“Takes ’em that way, usually,” the policeman went on, speaking more like a sympathetic doctor than an officer charged with keeping the peace. “In fits and starts, that is. That two-headed gorilla that was after him ’as been caught by the keepers. But he’ll really have to start watering it more or he’ll be a goner before he knows it. Best to get something on, miss.” This to Cecilia, who was regarding the damaged stair rail with dismay and massaging her crimson bottom.
Skilly said, wearily, “Get yourself a drink, Lucy. You too, Cis. The young gentleman’ll see to His Nibs so there's no call to worry. Would you give us a hand dahn with the old boy, officer? Can’t manage him on me own.” The policeman nodded, saying, “I’ll take his shoulders and as soon as we’re on street level pop across to the cab rank and this young gentleman will take over. I’d like the colonel clear o’ my beat before the sergeant shows up.”
Between them they lifted Bejasus and began a clumsy descent of th
e stairs, while Alex, glad to be out of it so cheaply, went back into Cecilia's room for his boots. He was lacing them when she reappeared, wearing a kimono bright as a Nile sunset. She said, “You really do know him, don’t you? You didn’t just say that to get us off the hook, for you needn’t bother wi’ P. C. Capley. He's on the landlord's payroll.”
“Ah, so I gathered,” Alex said, grinning, but then, recollecting that he had given her nothing, and that Bonzo had paid for her champagne and supper, he took out his purse, saying, “I suppose your friend will settle up with you, Cecilia, but I’d like to show what a pleasant evening I’ve had. Will you take this?” and shyly he offered a sovereign.
She looked at it without taking it and said, finally, “There's no call for that, soldier-boy. I haven’t earned it, have I?”
“Oh, yes, you have,” he replied. And she smiled, vaguely, saying, “Stuff an’ nonsense, soldier-boy. It was only like I said. You fellows go long enough without seeing a girl and lose the knack for a spell. You aren’t the first I come across. Will you be dropping in the Empire again?”
“If I get a chance before sailing for India.”
“Ah,” she said, sadly, “India now, is it? Well, then, it don’t look as if I’ll have a chance to make it up to you, does it? Damn that old fool! You weren’t just business to me, I can tell you that!” And she stood on tiptoe, leaned forward, kissed him softly, and went out and up the stairs to Lucy's room. He laid the sovereign on the bedside table and went downstairs where the policeman was peering anxiously up and down Long Acre, as though afraid of being caught with the recumbent Bejasus when his sergeant showed up.
A stream of carts was passing now, all laden high with produce for Covent Garden and among them, after an anxious moment or two, they saw Mr. Skilly, perched on the step of a four-wheeler. Skilly held the door whilst Alex and the constable bundled the colonel inside and the policeman said, “Where to, sir?”
“Smith Street,” Alex told him. “I can’t recall the number but I’ll recognise the house. Tell the cabby it's on the left, just before you come to Park Lane.” He got in, inhaling the stale, tobacco-laden atmosphere of the musty interior, and a moment later they were on their way.
2
It was a longish journey, for the horse was either very old or very tired, and they were some time getting clear of the ever-increasing market traffic. Every time the cab paused under a gaslight he caught a glimpse of the Colonel's face, a pinkish blob fringed with fiery whiskers, deeply engraved wrinkles, and a nose like the bowl of an old pipe. He was snoring now, with his mouth wide open, and once, in a marginally stronger light, Alex saw a long white scar that ran diagonally from the right ear to the cleft in the double chin. He thought glumly, “A lance or a tulwar slash, poor old devil. He's been rough-housed all his life, and who gives a damn about what becomes of him now? Not the Government, certainly, whose battles he's been fighting since he was younger than me, for they’ll be showing him the door if he carries on like this.”
But then the cabby called, “About here, sir?” Alex got out, recognising the house where he had called a month or so before to collect some papers relating to his attachment.
The cabby, even more of an old ruin than the Colonel, served the office of Mr. Skilly, in taking Colonel Corcoran's heels, and between them they heaved him across the pavement and up the five steps to the front door. No light showed, but looking through the letter box Alex saw a gleam reflected in a mirror beyond the stairs; when he rang the bell a third time there was movement in the shadows, and he was relieved to see a gas jet flare, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered servant tucking his nightshirt into his trousers. Alex paid the cabby and dismissed him, supporting Bejasus, still snoring, by holding him against the pillar of the portico. A moment later the door opened and the servant was seen to be a middle-aged man, who held himself very straight, almost certainly a trained batman. No explanation was necessary. All he said was, “I’ll take him, sir, if you’ll be good enough to go ahead and open that door left of the stairs. Any message, sir?”
No, said Alex, no message, but recollecting that the Colonel might well have left some of his belongings in Lucy's room, added, “If he asks, you could tell him he passed out in a house in Long Acre. I’m on his strength, but don’t tell him one of us brought him home. I daresay he won’t recall a thing about it in the morning.”
“No, sir,” the man said, lightly, “he rarely does, but don’t you worry. I can handle him, sir. I served through the Burma campaign with him.”
Alex opened the heavy door and batman and burden passed in, the soldier servant kicking the door shut with his heel, as if to emphasise the fact that he was now in sole charge. Alex turned back into the hall, regretting now that he had dismissed the cab, for he was feeling very jaded, but then a light showed on the stairs and he looked up to see a small figure in a quilted dressing-gown, holding a candle above her head. For a moment he thought it was a child, but then he saw that it was a young woman, with her hair in curlers, and wished himself out of this, recalling suddenly that Bejasus had a daughter who kept house for him here. She called, sharply, “Wait! It's Captain Swann, isn’t it?”
He was surprised to be identified so easily, for he had only been on the regimental strength a little over a month and as a supernumerary awaiting transfer to India had made few friends.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, diffidently, “I… er… I brought the Colonel home. He wasn’t feeling so well.” She said, evenly, “You don’t have to lie about him to me, Captain Swann. He wasn’t hurt, was he? And it wasn’t in public, I hope?”
“No,” he said, wretchedly, “it was at the house of some friends. We’d been to see the show at the Empire and he… well, he overdid it a little. No one else was involved. I brought him home by cab.”
“How much was the fare and tip, Mr. Swann?”
“Fare and tip?” He gaped at her, a tiny figure, not much taller than his eight-year-old brother, Edward. “No more than a shilling or two. I really don’t remember, Miss Corcoran.”
But she said, drily, “I think you do. Anyway, I intend to pay you. I really don’t see why you should be out of pocket on his account. Besides, you look tired, Captain Swann, so come below stairs and I’ll brew you some coffee. I brew excellent coffee. I learned how to make it in the West Indies. I was born in Barbados and my mother died there. Please,” and giving him no opportunity to refuse she pattered across the hall and through the green baize door used by the batman. “I expect Tilson will be down for coffee in an hour or so. It depends how much Father has shipped. Sometimes he won’t stir until morning, but Tilson can handle him. Tilson won’t stand any nonsense.”
They were in a basement kitchen now, a spotlessly clean room, full of gleaming pots and pans and with every surface polished, as for company inspection. Someone, he suspected it would be she, had the servants well in hand. There was a fire rustling in the range and she set a large iron kettle on the hob. He said, “Could I… is there somewhere I could wash, Miss Corcoran?” She nodded towards the scullery and went about setting a tray and cups. There was a pump in the scullery and he flushed the trough, washing his hands and face with carbolic soap and thinking, wryly, “She's a colonel's daughter all right, and I wouldn’t care to fall out with her, but it's odd she doesn’t keep a tighter rein on the old boy…” He came back and stood about indecisively, but she paid him no further heed until the coffee was made and he complimented her on it, thinking he had never stood so much in need of it, for his mouth was parched with all that champagne and his stomach sour with Cecilia's indifferent whisky. She said, briskly, “Take a seat, do.” And he said, sitting at the scrubbed table, “I’m surprised you know my name. I’m only a supernumerary, Miss Corcoran.”
“I know more than your name,” she said. “I make it my business to know every officer and senior N.C.O. assigned to us, and it's as well I do, for he’d never remember and there would be endless muddles. I even know who your father is and where you live. I know where
you’re going too, as soon as you can get a passage. You can smoke if you like, Captain.”
It was more or less an order. He took out his cigar case and lit one of his cheroots. Slightly, very slightly, he began to adjust to her, looking across the table at the small earnest face, with those absurdly unflattering curling pins and huge, grey eyes. The eyes, he decided, more than compensated for the homeliness of the other features—squarish chin, heavy for so small a person; short, broad nose; and compressed and rather prim mouth. He thought fleetingly of Cecilia and decided that there could have been no greater contrast between the two women who had held him in conversation that night. But then, neither did Miss Corcoran have anything at all in common with her rumbustious old father. He looked into the grey eyes again, fascinated by their authority. It was not so surprising that she knew so much about him. Eyes like that might hold half the secrets of the world. He said, “I should apologise to you, Miss Corcoran. For disturbing you this way, in the middle of the night. I ought to have managed it more discreetly.”
“Nobody can be discreet with the Colonel in tow,” she said. “But I prefer not to talk about him. Suppose we talk about you?”
“What is there to talk about?”
“A great deal, I’d say. Why, for instance, with a business as lucrative as Swann-on-Wheels, and you being an eldest son, you chose the army? And why you haven’t made better use of your astonishing luck.”
“My luck?”
“They call you ‘Lucky’ Swann, don’t they? You got through Isandlwana, Rorke's Drift, Tel-el-Kebir, and a sail down the Nile in a burning paddle-steamer. Don’t you want to get on, Captain Swann?”
“Of course I do, but a company, at twenty-five—that isn’t standing still, is it, Miss Corcoran?”
“Regimentally? No, I suppose not, providing you don’t stick there and you well might, in India. I didn’t mean that, exactly.”
Theirs Was The Kingdom Page 68