Now, God be Thanked

by John Masters

  Florinda said in her normal voice, ‘What’s Dad going to do?’

  ‘About the war?’ Fletcher answered. ‘Nothing. Why should he?’

  Florinda, slender in the waist, full breasted, as lovely an animal as her brother, both lively of eye, said, ‘He bicycled down here Sunday, you know. He was all for war then, but he never said he’d be joining up if there was one.’

  From the stove Probyn’s Woman said, ‘They won’t take him, even if he tries. He’s simple.’

  Florinda thought, that’s true, in a way: Willum Gorse, her father, seemed to like the idea of the war, but couldn’t associate it with his own life. That was where he was simple … or wise?

  At the Rowland Motor Car Company Bert Gorse found his half-brother cleaning up the floor of the machine shop, sweeping the swarf and filings into pans with a steel brush, carrying them to bins by the entrance, and dropping them in.

  Bert said, ‘What the hell are you still working for, Willum? The dinner whistle went ten minutes ago.’

  Willum looked up, smiling, ‘Got to get the job finished afore eating, Bert. You remember the day Dad got sent to gaol?’

  ‘Course I do. What of it?’

  ‘’Twas in the afternoon, eh? But Mr Bob give me the whole day off! So in the morning I saw Colin Blythe take three wickets and Frank Woolley make forty-five not out. Then I had to go to catch the train. I told Mr Bob I wasn’t just going to see Woolley, so I didn’t. I went to Walstone, too, see?’ He chuckled and slapped his thigh.

  ‘Put them things down,’ Bert said angrily. ‘How the hell can we force decent working conditions out of the bosses if people like you work just for the fun of working … just to line the bosses’ pockets, to tell the truth?’ He lowered his voice. ‘One of these days you’ll be joining the union – the USE – and then you’ll work to the rules, and no more.’

  ‘You be careful, Bert,’ Willum said anxiously, ‘Mr Harry doesn’t like the union, no more does Mr Bob. You’ll get the sack, and then where …?’

  Bert said, ‘Just keep your mouth shut, same as I do, and some others in this factory, I can tell you. When there’s enough of us – we’ll strike … Where’s your dinner?’

  ‘In my pail, out in the coat room.’

  ‘Well, let’s get it. Mine’s there, too.’ They walked out of the empty shop together, found their lunch pails and sat down at a deserted bench in the wheel room.

  Bert munched angrily on a hunk of bread and cheese he’d put in this morning. A man needed a wife, or he near starved himself to death; but he didn’t have any time to go courting … nor know any woman worth the trouble. He said, ‘So now they’ve got their bloody war.’

  ‘Who, Bert?’

  ‘The bosses – Harry Rowland and the rest of them.’

  ‘Mr Harry didn’t want the war,’ Willum said defensively. ‘He told us only Friday he hoped it wouldn’t come, but if it did, we’d win it, he said, and we’d all help, he said. I ’spect you’ll be going back, eh?’

  ‘Back where?’ Bert said, lowering his piece of bread and glaring at Willum.

  ‘Why, the army, Bert. The Weald Light Infantry. I remember you joining up, and how proud I was to walk into a pub, you in your red coat.’

  ‘But you don’t remember me being court-martialled, sent to the Glass House, and discharged undesirable? I only went in ’cos I was bloody well starving, and I swear I’d shoot myself before I’d go back. The only time I liked in the army was when I conked that sergeant with a bottle. Go back? You’re daft! You’re not thinking of joining up, are you?’

  ‘Me?’ Willum’s brow creased. ‘I couldn’t join up, Bert. Why would they want me? My work is sweeping the plant floors, isn’t it?’

  Bert patted him on the arm and said, ‘Yes, it is. And don’t you forget it.’ He ate more bread and cheese, then with his mouth full said dreamily, ‘Perhaps it’s for the good. This war’s going to destroy everything it touches, Willum. Capitalism, the landed gentry, the bosses, the bankers … There’ll be a revolution.’

  ‘Not here,’ Willum said, apprehensively. ‘That would be wrong.’

  ‘There’ll be revolution all over the world – revolution!’ Bert repeated. ‘I can feel it coming. I can smell it in the air.’

  Willum took another bite out of his cold meat pie. ‘Bert,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’re right, but …’he hesitated, ‘are you sure it will be the revolution you want?’

  ‘What one’s that, for God’s sake, Willum?’

  ‘One that’s good for all of us, of course. For Mr Harry and Mr Stratton, and you and me, and Dad, and Lord Swanwick and Squire Cate in Walstone, and …’

  Bert shook his head in despair, and ate faster.

  Niccolo Fagioletti stood against the restaurant door, watching. They were getting rowdy and it looked as though there might be a fight before long. This was not a very high class restaurant and it didn’t serve very good food – just plenty of it, and plenty of cheap Chianti and, of course, beer and spirits The English always drank too much when they got excited and when they drank too much, first they sang, then they fought, then they vomited, then they gave him a tip, and then they went home, arms round each other’s shoulders. He wished for the hundredth time that his friend Giorgio would get that long-promised job at the Savoy for him. The Savoy would be good at any time, even though he’d have to shave more carefully and Ethel would have to keep his shirts and dress clothes spotless – but after working a year in this place it would be heaven. It would be worth any sacrifice to …

  ‘Hi, you … you with the stubble on your chin!’

  A red-faced man at a big table was beckoning. He went over. ‘Did you want something, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I want another bottle of wine. This one’s empty.’ He thrust an empty Chianti bottle into Niccolo’s hand.

  Niccolo kept his face unmoved. Stinking English drunks. He got another bottle, noted it on the bill, took it to the table and began to open it.

  One of the other men at the table said, ‘You’re an Italian, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  They all stared at him. ‘What are you, then? Spanish? Portuguese?’

  ‘English, sir, by naturalization.’

  ‘Oh, I knew you weren’t English … What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t quite understand, sir,’ Niccolo tried to keep his patience. He had had plenty of practice; but this had been a bad day, and these were particularly loud people and, as he had seen, drunk.

  ‘I mean,’ the Englishman said in a slurred voice, ‘’bout the war? Italy’s a member of the Triple Alliance. That means she’ll fight on the Huns’ side.’

  ‘I don’t think Italy will fight at all,’ Niccolo said, ‘and, as I said, I am English.’

  He knew he was getting red in the face and under the collar. His English was good, but not perfect and of course these people recognized his accent.

  ‘Then you’ll join up, eh? Tell you wha’, you come and join up with us. We’re going to Scotland Yard as soon as we’ve finished lunch, and we’re going to join up in the Royal Fusiliers. You come with us, eh?’

  Niccolo poured the wine. ‘I’d like to, sir,’ he said, ‘but my wife wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘And the Royal Fusiliers wouldn’t have him,’ another man said. ‘Who’d want to fight alongside a pack of dago waiters? Good God, they’d run all the way back to Italy the first shot they heard.’

  ‘Is that all, sir? Thank you, sir,’ Niccolo retreated to his place, white napkin over his arm. Better try to wipe these insulting pigs from his mind. Think of Ethel’s big breasts, seeming even bigger because her body was so slight – but Ethel wasn’t giving him a baby, and the other Italians would soon be laughing at him because he wasn’t a man, couldn’t fill a woman’s belly. He’d have to show them the four-year-old he’d fathered on that snivelling little shop girl in Fulham … Think of Carlotta. Her breasts were just as big as Ethel’s and she was a Sicilian, passionate, and she bit him all over wh
en they made love. She understood men. Perhaps he could get rid of Ethel and marry her. She’d give him a baby, for sure. Perhaps he could divorce Ethel. Or have the marriage annulled. But she was still a Wesleyan, and her parents hadn’t let her promise to have any children raised as Roman Catholics, so they’d been married in the Wesleyan chapel in Hedlington … so was he really married at all? He’d speak to Father Giacomo about it, pretending he was asking on someone else’s behalf … A man would be mad to go to war, with the world full of willing women, good food, wine … and he still young, his loins throbbing readily at the sight of every shapely leg, and one saw plenty these days. The St Leger would be coming up soon. Five bob each way on Kennymore would be a sure thing. He’d had a hot tip on Black Jester, an outsider … but better play safe, and split ten bob between Kennymore and Peter the Hermit. He half-closed his eyes, swaying on the balls of his feet.

  Ruth Hoggin watched as her husband devoured an enormous plate of stewed tripe and onions, washing it down with two large bottles of Bass. She brought him more potatoes, and when he had finished took the plate away and served him a large helping of suet pudding and treacle. The sweat ran down his fat jowls, and damp black hair stuck out of the shirt collar, the stud undone. She looked at him lovingly. He was her man, and a man for men. His baby was growing inside her. Less than six months to go now, and thank goodness the days of morning sickness were over.

  He pushed back his chair and belched heartily. She said, ‘Bill, I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why the ’el’ not?’

  ‘It’s not nice.’

  ‘My mum says, “Let the wind go free wherever you be,” and she means farts, too.’ He lifted one cheek of his rump off the chair and farted. ‘War!’ he said, his little eyes gleaming. ‘War, at last!’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘Those Germans have needed teaching a lesson for ages. Building a navy like ours, how dare they!’

  ‘It’ll be a great war,’ he said dreamily, belching again. ‘Millions of men, trillions of shells, hundreds of ships … and everything they make blown up as soon as it gets made. So they’ll have to make more to replace ’em, whatever they are … shells, guns, motor bikes, blankets, boots, buttons. An’ food, ’specially food. A man can’t miss, unless ’e’s blind, dumb, deaf … and stupid. Oh, what a lovely war!’

  ‘You’re going to join up?’ she said. It would be dangerous, but that wouldn’t stop her Bill. And the war wouldn’t last long. And everyone was saying it – men ought to join up.

  Bill sat up roaring, ‘Join up and get my balls shot off by some fucking ‘Un? I’m not bloody mad, you silly cunt!’

  ‘Don’t use that language,’ she said automatically, and then, ‘You’re not going to join up?’

  ‘No!’ he roared, ‘I’m going to make a million … pounds! At-fucking-least! Listen, I’ve been running a barrow in Hedlington, right? Selling tinned goods wot’s lost their labels, at special prices, so I can say, “P’raps these are mixed peaches, fruit salad, pears, all Fancy quality, ma’am, a few carrots and tomatoes, ma’am, only a few, it’s just your luck what you gets, ma’am,” only I know all except one or two are tinned carrots, ’cos I tore the bleeding labels off myself!’

  Ruth said, ‘That doesn’t seem fair.’

  ‘Fair?’ he roared. ‘I’m a business man! Only two weeks ago I reckoned this war was coming, and I took out all the money I’ve saved – five hundred quid.’

  ‘Bill! What did you do with it?’

  ‘I went to the bank and I mortgaged this ’ouse, and everything else an’ I got fifteen ’undred more quid out of the stingy bastards. Then I went to London – remember? – to Eastcheap, and I bought twenty thousand cases of California tinned peaches, seconds, at two bob … two thousand quid, and I paid cash on the nail. No one wanted that stuff, it’ll be terrible. They all thought I was barmy, ’cept one old Jew, who guessed I was betting on the war coming, and wanted to come in with me, for half – he knew I’d strapped myself to get the cash … but I said not bloody likely … The stuff’s due next month, and I’ve already been offered six bob a case – that’s a profit of four thousand quid, woman!’

  ‘Four thousand pounds! Bill, I – I – ’

  ‘But I didn’t take it, see? I’ll sell in a couple of days, when the stories about food shortages coming have put the wind up everyone. I’ll clear another two thousand, you’ll see. And I’ll use that to do it again, jobbing in Eastcheap. Soon, I’ll be getting the canners in California to print my own label on the stuff… and in Italy, too, for the Naples Plum Peeled Tomatoes – I’ve got my eye on a good buy there.’

  ‘You’ll be living in London?’

  ‘Most of the week. I’ll be back as often as I can, Ruthie. Can’t do wivaht me greens, can I?’

  She stared at him wonderingly. London, seemed so huge, and so far away, though it was barely thirty-five miles: and here Bill was, carelessly going off to conquer it.

  Bill said, ‘There’s a lot of tricks to this trade, and I know ’em all, ’cos I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open, while I’ve been waiting for the right opportunity. I’m a wide boy, I am! Oh, what a lovely fucking war! I ’ope it goes on for ever …’ His voice softened. ‘I do love you, Ruthie, and I’ll miss you when I’m in the Smoke. Give me a kiss. There!’ He kissed her gently. ‘Now, I’ve a train to catch, so up them stairs and down with them drawers.’

  ‘Oh, Bill!’

  Lieutenant Charles John Christopher Rowland, known as ‘Boy’ Rowland since childhood, frowned into his champagne glass. He was tall, with dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, and a longer face than most of the Rowlands. There was very small resemblance between him and his father, John Rowland; still less with his mother, Louise. The young man sprawled opposite him in another easy chair said, ‘Why so glum, Boy? We’re at war!’

  Boy shrugged. ‘I was thinking of my father. He studied to be a parson when he was young, but gave it up … I know he’ll be unhappy about this.’

  The other said, ‘I suppose so. Can’t be helped, though. We’re happy. So cheer up.’

  Boy said, ‘And when I’m not thinking about my father, I think about those damned pakhals. The Court of Inquiry found it was my fault, and I have to pay.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two pakhals at thirty-two rupees seven annas two pies each – sixty-four rupees fourteen annas four pies altogether. That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘I suppose so. But the CO has to approve the findings, then it goes to Brigade. Why, you won’t be docked till Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas is a great time to lose nearly half your month’s pay, I don’t think.’

  ‘Don’t cry before you’re hurt. You may be dead by then … Waiter! Another bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The white-jacketed white-gloved mess waiter backed away a pace, then turned and walked out of the crowded anteroom. Each of the two young men wore the twin stars of a lieutenant, in gold thread, on each epaulette of his white hot-weather mess jacket, a deep green silk cummerbund round his waist, and tight white overalls strapped under his mess Wellingtons. Boy’s companion raised his glass, ‘While he’s bringing the next one, let’s finally kill this one. What toast shall we drink to now, Boy?’

  ‘Victory,’ said Boy. He felt a little muzzy, and with reason, for he had drunk a lot of champagne at dinner, and half a bottle since, plus a couple of brandies. The fans creaking dustily overhead, pulled by the punkah boys outside, did nothing to lessen the oppressive damp heat of early August in the plains of India.

  ‘We’ve drunk to that already … I know. A slow victory, otherwise we won’t get there in time.’

  ‘All right. To a slow victory!’

  They drank. The other subaltern said, ‘Now what?’

  ‘Another toast?’

  ‘I’d be falling on my face. We need some exercise. Tell you what, Boy, let’s go and mob that rotter Terrell’s room. I found him reading a book yesterday.’

&
nbsp; Boy felt uncomfortable. His companion was a jolly good sport, but there were one or two good sports who read books, too. Still, the unwritten rule in this battalion, he knew, was that an officer should read nothing more serious than the Sporting Times.

  He said, ‘Well, perhaps it was Field Service Regulations. Let’s let him off this time, eh? I’ll warn him tomorrow.’

  ‘All right. Boy, you’re a good sport … The 1st Battalion will be in action in a week or two, lucky dogs.’

  ‘My uncle commands a company in it. I think it’s A.’

  ‘Never met him. Heard of him … open it, waiter. Here, gimme!’ He got up unsteadily, worked the cork with his thumbs, and when it began to move, swung the neck of the bottle round, like a weapon, finding a target in a bald head showing over the back of a deep leather chair six feet away. Pop went the cork, flying through the air to strike the bald head in the middle, accompanied by a squirt of champagne. Champagne splashed over the old copies of the Illustrated London News and the Pink ’Un laid out on the mess table against the wall. The bald head leaped up and turned, revealing the scarlet face of Major Roberts. He bounded forward, spurs jingling, shouting ‘Young devil!’ He seized the bottle from the laughing young man’s hands, shook it vigorously and squirted it into his face.

  ‘Spurs off!’ cried the adjutant, George Clifford, ‘over the roof! Waiter, clear all bottles and glasses off the main route. Champagne all round by the last man over. Line up outside!’

  The young and middle-aged men herded out into the star-filled night, breathing of hot flowers, water tinkling in the shallow channels to irrigate the mess garden of the 2nd Battalion, the Weald Light Infantry, now stationed in Lucknow, India. Soon the anteroom was empty, but at the dining-room table Colonel Gould still sat, port glass in hand, head bent in discussion with his quartermaster, old Lieutenant Fry, and his second-in-command, Major Trotter. The mess sergeant stood close, South African and Indian Frontier medals on his white coat, three chevrons in Light Infantry green on a scarlet background stitched to his right sleeve. Down the polished rosewood table, long enough to seat sixteen a side in comfort, paraded a regiment of gold and silver cups, mugs, bowls, figures, model ships, towered pillars, and animals – trophies and gifts of the officers of the Regiment since its raising in 1727 by Roger Durand-Beaulieu, 3rd Viscount Cantley and 1st Earl of Swanwick; he had earned his earldom, it was said, by teaching the Hanoverian King George I to speak passable English. On the far wall hung the Colours, encased and crossed, bearing all the battle honours won by the battalions of the Regiment since 1727.