'The conversation began, you may remember, when you criticised the efforts I had made towards the war effort. I'm merely pointing out that, to someone of my generation, the loss of a croquet lawn and the odd rose-bush scarcely constitutes a familial tragedy,' he says. Then he smiles — the smile he often gives when something truly malevolent has crossed his mind. 'And besides,' he adds, 'your brother found no difficulty with my emergency measures.'
'You consulted him but not me?'
'You weren't here.'
'Because I was away on active service.'
'I'm sure James would have been, too, if he hadn't had to be called to the Palace to collect the bar to his MC.'
'louche.'
'It's not too late, you know. I haven't a friend in the War Office who thinks it will be over sooner than Christmas. Gives you six months at the very least.'
He is referring, of course, to the unconscionable arrangement regarding the succession of the estate. As the eldest of his surviving sons it ought, by rights, to be mine. But Father, in his wisdom, has decided that instead it will be handed on to whichever of us turns out to have the 'best war'.
'To do what, exactly? Plant the Union flag on the Reichstag? Personally remove Herr Hitler's remaining testicle?'
'If you mean to be silly, then I shan't discuss it further. But 1 should have thought it was perfectly obvious what was needed to eclipse an MC and bar.'
'Yes but most of them are awarded posthumously.'
'And you don't think Great Meresby is worth it?'
'I can tell you who doesn't. Who's going to turn it into a golf course or flog it off to the nearest black-market profiteer the second he gets his hands on it.'
'I am making no conditions. Whoever earns the right to inherit Great Meresby will also earn the right to do with it as he wishes.'
'And the future of this estate means nothing to you? The fact that it has been owned — and cherished — by our family continuously for twelve generations?'
'There is only one thing that matters to me,' he replies, 'and it has been owned and cherished by our family far longer than twelve generations.' He nods towards the family crest carved into the stone fireplace.
COWARD it says on top. And underneath: 'Semper audax'.
If it weren't for Paddy, I don't know what I'd do. Something very rash, probably. Paddy's that shaggy great brute in that photo you have of me out with the Berkeley — half hunter, half shire horse, with maybe a smidgen of brontosaurus - whose even-temperedness, honesty and tolerance for my ineptness in the saddle has done more to keep me alive than anyone in the world save Price.
Before I reach the stableyard, the dreadful thought occurs that he might turn out to be yet another victim of Father's austerity measures. Canned meat for our poor starving boys on the Gustav Line, perhaps. But though the yard itself is looking considerably less kempt than I remember and though most of the boxes are now empty, Paddy, thank the Lord, is still there, nodding his huge head the moment he sees me. And all ready and saddled up, too, it seems.
'Mr Price said you'd be needing him,' says a fresh-faced thing whose shapely buttocks I've been ogling at some length, till I work out who she was when last I saw her. Becky, the Vicar's twelve-year-old.
'That's very prescient of Mr Price,' I say. 'And where is he this morning?'
'Over at the Cottage. He's expecting you. But asks if you wouldn't mind leaving it till after eleven as he has some business to attend to first.'
This gives me an hour to kill, more or less, which suits me perfectly. Just long enough for a gentle, melancholy tour of the estate. Paddy is dying for a gallop, poor fellow, especially down the long oak avenue, which we usually take at quite a lick, and I keep having to rein him in hard with what little arm strength I have. Just staying in the saddle is difficult enough, with my legs like sticks and the muscles wasted. If Paddy weren't such a comfortable seat - he's like a big lolloping armchair, he is — I'm not sure I'd be up to riding at all.
By God it's worth it though, for the fresh air, and that comforting smell of leather and horse, and the equine companionship and all those sights I've so often doubted I would ever see again. It has changed quite a bit of course, now that every square inch of even vaguely cultivable land has been dug up for Father's great scheme to feed the nation single-handed. Once I've noticed who has been doing all the digging, though, I find I'm not bothered nearly so much: my, are those Land Girls alluring, especially the one with the cropped dark hair and glowing red cheeks, who looks me right in the eye as I touch my cap to her and says: 'Nice 'orse.'
I'm sure there's a more debonair response, one that would prolong the conversation, which is what I'd like to do, because from what I've glimpsed of this boyish-looking girl she's mightily fanciable. But all I manage before I ride on is: 'Thank you.'
Then feeling that's not quite enough, I call back over my shoulder - she's still looking at me, hands on hips — 'His name's Paddy.'
And that, I'm ashamed to say, is it.
Not everything on the estate has changed beyond recognition. The crooked Waterloo obelisk on the hill beyond the oak avenue is still the same; so is the lake, with the upturned rowing boat we used to play in as children rotting on the shore; and of course, there's the water mill.
I tether Paddy to the ruined mill house and, for old times' sake, sit on the wall of the bridge - dangling my legs above the clear deep pool wherein used to lurk the terrifying pike reputed among the village children to have swallowed Mrs Wilkins's Jack Russell puppy whole. Just thinking about him now sets the spiders crawling down my back. Funny, how those childhood terrors can still hold a chap in their grip.
Looking up, I see the willow from behind whose branches
I once played peeping Tom and, of course, I immediately start thinking of her again. We scarcely had time to say goodbye after my contretemps with the American MPs and Ginger's demise. Nobody's fault really, as you know, but the way the military works is, when something goes wrong, somebody has to take the rap and as senior officer present that duty fell to me. So first thing the next day, my locker has been cleared and I'm being driven to the station, lest my example spread further insurrection through the wards. And the most I can manage with Gina before I'm carted off is a quick but encouragingly tight embrace, a peck on the cheek and a: 'We never —'
'We never did,' she agrees.
'Then we must —'
'Oh definitely,' she says. 'There was something I meant to ask you. A favour.'
'Granted,' I say.
'But you don't know what it is.'
'Do I need to?' I say, with a smile which is meant to convey uninterest but probably comes out looking more revoltingly cloying than a kitten with a bandaged paw — an image that haunts me through every one of the eight or so hours it takes me to get back to my unit's HQ, because from what little I know of women this just isn't a side of a prospective lover they much care to see. 'Oh God, oh God, I've blown it now,' I keep thinking to myself. It's all I can do to stop thinking about it when the Colonel calls me into his office for what I gather from the adjutant is going to be my official reprimand.
'Consider yourself officially reprimanded, Dick,' he says.
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
'I'm not sure there's much I need add, except to wish you good luck in civilian life.'
'I'm sorry sir, I don't understand.'
'Ah, did the MO not mention it? We're giving you an honourable discharge. On medical grounds. Spares us the awkwardness of any embarrassing details which might emerge during the course of a court martial. Spares you the tedium of having to pass the rest of eternity six feet under somewhere sticky and godforsaken on the road to Mandalay.'
'If it's all the same to you, sir, I'd still rather go back and see it through to the end.'
'I appreciate the offer, Dick, but have you looked in the mirror lately? You're like a stick insect with worms. And it's plain to me as a pikestaff that your mind ain't on the job. Take a rest, Dick. Take
a long, long break. You've done your bit. More than done your bit. I'm only sorry that it never quite translated into the gong everyone assures me you so richly deserved.'
'Thank you, sir. But if it's all the same to you, I'd still rather have the opportunity to clear my name. Even if it means having to face a court martial.'
'Damn it, Dick, it is not all the same to me. You joined this regiment, let me remind you, under a cloud. The least you owe us for having had the generosity to accept you when few others would is to preserve our good name at no matter what cost to your own.'
'Sir, I'm confident that when the facts emerge —'
'Dick, the facts as I understand them involve your having decided in the heat of battle to put a bullet through the head of a senior officer. Not one of our own chaps, thank God, but still: gloss it how you will, it is hardly an incident from which the regiment is likely to emerge smelling of roses.'
'I suppose not, sir.'
'Then at least we agree on something. As to the thing we don't agree on, well, I'm sorry but, like it or not, honourable discharge is what you're getting. Enjoy civilian life and take up golf, that would be my advice. Golf for the body, bridge for the brain. And chin up, old chap — in another sixty years you'll be dead.'
Whenever I go into the Cottage, I always half-expect to be greeted by a wolf dressed up like an old lady, or seven dwarves or a witch who smells of gingerbread. It was built on the edge of the wood, as a sort of Gothic folly cum stable-girl-rogering zone by one of my more dissolute ancestors. At the moment though, it's the home of our estate manager, Mr Thompsett, currently on active service somewhere overseas.
Price appears to have made himself very comfortable in his temporary residence. There's a fire in the fireplace; and fried bacon on the hob; and what smells like proper coffee as opposed to the muck cook has been fobbing us off with up at the Big House. From the oven he pulls a baking tray brimming with fat brown sausages and rounds of crisp black pudding. He piles it on to a tin plate, sets it in front of me.
'Not hungry, Price?' I say, slightly irritated because I don't like being stared at and smoked over while I eat.
'Eaten already, thank you, sir,' he says, puffing at one of those American cigarettes even I can't afford.
I don't speak again for quite some time because my mouth's always full. I really must have been very very hungry.
'Price, I'm not going to ask how you procured these rare and proscribed delicacies. Just so long as you understand: I'm breakfasting with you from now on.'
'Oh, I can't promise to be able to match this every day, sir. Today's special.'
'Is it, Price? And please, Mr Richard will do just fine now we're out of uniform.'
'It most definitely is, sir, Mr Richard, pardon me, sir, force of habit. Here!'
From behind the black-out curtain he has retrieved a bottle of Bollinger - vintage 1934, I notice: no prizes for guessing whose cellar that was filched from — and fills up two mugs.
'You bugger. You've had half of it already,' I say, eyeing the liquid-level.
'There's plenty more where this came from,' says Price. 'Your health, sir!'
'Chin-chin,' I say, clinking mugs. 'But I still don't know what we're toasting.'
'Freedom!'
'Freedom?'
'From uniform. From orders. From ever having to risk our blooming necks again. There's three more reasons to drink a toast already.'
'Well, I suppose.'
'What do you mean, you suppose, you stupid sod, sir? There's millions out there who'd give their right arm, their right bollock 'n' all, I shouldn't wonder, and I know whereof I speak, for what you and I have got ourselves right now.'
'But isn't there a tiny part of you that rather wishes you could be there for the final push?'
'Oh, there is, I'm sure,' he says. 'Problem is, that tiny part's out somewhere in Flanders Field, tucked up nice and cosy with the General's leg.'
With a shake of the head I raise my mug, chink it against his and pour the first draught down the hatch.
Of course, he would say that. Rarely does Price let slip an opportunity to draw attention to the orchidectomy he suffered at Passchendaele from the same German shell that crippled my father. It's a matter of perverse pride. Whenever there's a chorus of Price-y has only got one ball', it's always Price himself who's leading it. Perhaps it's a way of disarming those barrack-room jokers who might otherwise be tempted to use his disability against him. Mainly, though, I think it's propaganda aimed at the fairer sex. You see, there's a story abroad — where can it have originated, I wonder? - that besides making him sterile, the loss of that testicle somehow had the remarkable side-effect of causing a growth spurt in Pricey's tadger — which, even before the war, was something of a legend in Herefordshire riding circles.'Twice the fun with none of the risk,' I have sometimes overheard Price boasting in his cups. It has certainly never damaged his chances, as I often had cause to rue in those early days of the war when it seemed that while he was bedding virtually the entire strength of WRAF, I was doomed to spend whatever was left of my no-doubt brief life a miserable virgin.
'And it's not as though you've got much of a handicap in the britches department, sir,' he once observed. This would have been in my flying days about the time when he observed that if things had come to such a pass that not even a Spitfire pilot could get his end away, we might as well have done with it and surrender now.
'What the devil business is that of yours, Price?' I said to him.
'Pardon me, sir. Didn't mean to offend. Just trying to point out, sir, that if you were ever to let it be known among your circle of lady friends, that, ahem —'
'Price, let me assure you that what may work perfectly well with the ladies in your circle would make the ladies in mine run a mile.'
'Is that so, sir? Then I'm sorry I suggested it, sir. I'm sure you know best,' he said in that grovelling, extra-polite way he has whenever he's being especially impertinent.
Cocky bugger. And he's been up to his filthy tricks again this morning, by the looks of it. The smear of dark lipstick on that glass by the wash-basin. The two dirty plates, bearing the traces of breakfast. Oh crikey, I do hope he washed his hands before cooking mine.
Price pours out the remnants of the champagne and offers me a Lucky Strike.
'And there was one other thing I was celebrating today, sir,' he says.
'Are you sure I need to know, Price?'
'My new position.'
'Enough, man.'
'I was referring, if you don't mind, sir, to the unhappy news that Mr Thompsett will not, after all, be returning from his overseas duties. And that consequently -'
'You're inheriting his house. Well done, Price, I'm sure you'll be very happy here.'
'Sir, if you'll let me finish. It's not just his house the General has given me. It's his job too.'
'But — Price. This is splendid news,' I say, wishing I'd managed to come up with the response straightaway rather than after a spluttering of my champagne, a horrified arching of the eyebrows and a long, stunned silence.
'Thank you, Mr Richard,' he says, tersely, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. It's not that I don't reckon him up to the job. More that when you've grown up knowing a chap first as manservant and groom, even head groom, later as your batman and your platoon sergeant it's quite a tricky one accepting his promotion to damn near your social equal.
'I suppose I had better get used to calling you Mr Price.'
'Never you mind about that, Mr Richard. You call me what you like. Just so long as you understand that from now on I won't have the time to go chasing round after you and keeping you out of trouble. My fighting days are over. I'm a civilian with responsibilities. So whatever funny ideas you may have at this dinner the General's laid on for you —'
'Jolly nice of him.'
'I shouldn't be so sure about that. He's invited along a few of his high-ranking pals. What you might call a matchmaking exercise. My advice to you is, whatever
sweet nothings they whisper in your ear, don't listen. They're only after one thing.'
'You're becoming very mysterious in your new office, Price.'
'Then I'll be blunt. If you finish this evening volunteering for more active service I would ask you never to try knocking on this door again because I blooming well won't answer. And I don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I say Her Ladyship feels exactly the same way. Now do I make myself clear?'
'My dear chap, I'm not even fit for duty.'
'Since when has that ever stopped you?'
'But, with my military record, who'd want me anyway?'
'You'd be surprised what dregs they're accepting these days.'
'Price, don't you worry. From henceforward it is fully my intention to play the Cincinnatus.'
'And that would mean what, in English?'
'You've never heard of Cincinnatus — the great general who, having defeated Rome's enemies, chose to return to his life as a humble farmer, there to eke out the rest of his days in honest toil and rustic simplicity?'
'No. But I'll take your word for it.'
Price cracks open another bottle of my father's champagne and we drink several more toasts to the safe, simple, rural life we now intend to lead. And I quietly thank the good Lord that dear Pricey had such a dismal classical education — for if he hadn't he might be aware of the final twist in the Cincinnatus legend: that having returned to his plough, he was later called to arms yet again.
Chapter 6
Taking the Plunge
Now, you might have noticed that sex during the war isn't something my generation talks about and the reason, it seems to me, has nothing to do with prudery: rather, it's that the majority of us were getting so little we're too embarrassed to admit it; and a tiny minority were getting so much they wouldn't want to make you jealous.
Price, as you know, was very much one of the minority. I, for the most part, was not, which is something that has always rather puzzled me. It's not that I'm suggesting I'm God's gift to womankind. Merely that times of war do tend to concentrate the mind on one's mortality and, as you might imagine, in the prevailing spirit of 'gather ye rosebuds while ye may', it isn't too difficult to find willing partners.
James Delingpole Page 6