by Unknown
Leo was a determined man, he never gave up. ‘I have someone in mind,’ he said slyly.
‘You know my feelings on that subject.’ ‘Won’t you change your mind?’
‘I’m sorry, Leo,’ said Arthur and wandered off to mingle with the other guests. Waiting for a drink at the bar he tried to talk to a young fellow more or less his age, or perhaps about five years younger, he guessed. It was like wading through treacle. ‘Arthur Pendragon,’ he said, extending his hand in greeting. ‘Glad to meet you.’
‘Lancelot Bancroft,’ came the stiff reply a few seconds later. After another long and awkward pause, Arthur tried again.
‘Friend of Guinevere, are you?’ A blank look. ‘Guinevere?’ More silence.
‘You must be a friend of Sir Leo, then.’
‘No.’ The seconds dragged on. ‘Ban is,’ said Bancroft addressing his drink.
‘Ban?’
‘My father.’
‘I see,’ said Arthur, wondering what to say next. This was certainly a most difficult and unrewarding conversation, hardly worth the struggle. Now that he had his drink he was tempted to excuse himself and walk away; for some reason he did not. Despite this young man’s distant, not to say superior manner, there was something rather forlorn and vulnerable about him that appealed to Arthur and made him want to breach those formidable defences. A few more false starts and it emerged that Arthur was a member of Parliament. To say that Lancelot was unimpressed would have been a gross understatement; he made it brutally plain that in his opinion all MP’s were on the make, and every politician either an incompetent or a liar or both. Where did they go from here, wondered Arthur, feeling a touch bruised. Not one to give up easily, he let drop that he had been a major in the Special Forces, and was gratified by the reception he received; Lancelot was clearly impressed. A breakthrough! Disarmed by Arthur’s quiet charm and genuine modesty, Lancelot was soon talking to a man he had known only a few minutes, an entirely new experience for him.
He told Arthur that his father was an ex-army man and that he himself was thinking of making the army his career. Arthur immediately offered his help. ‘I hope this doesn’t sound patronising,’ he said, ‘but if you do decide to join the army, why don’t you get in touch? I have some pretty good contacts.’ Lancelot reacted with a look of such disdain that for a moment Arthur was irritated, until he remembered his own reaction when Uther offered him help with his career. ‘Look, I’m not proposing to pull any strings for you. I know you wouldn’t want that. It’s just that sometimes it helps to know the right people.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ was Lancelot’s stiff response.
Lancelot’s father, Bertie Bancroft, friend of Leo Grant and a great admirer of Guinevere, wandered up to Leo and without any preliminaries let fly his customary staccato burst of words, betraying his army credentials: ‘That daughter of yours. Absolute stunner. She and Lance. What do you think?’
‘Believe me, Ban, she could do a lot worse,’
Ban surveyed the crowd of youngsters at the bar and on the dance floor. ‘Expect they’ll meet.’
‘He’s a fine chap, Lancelot, no question about it,’ said Leo Grant. ‘A bit young for Ginny, perhaps. Somehow I have the feeling she’ll go for an older man. One thing for sure, though, whatever I think, she’ll do exactly what she wants.’
Ban rattled off again. ‘Tall girl. Jumping about. Skirt up her thighs. Who is she?’
‘Gertrude Lancaster. Friend of Guinevere. Her closest friend, I would say. Good-natured, if a little wild. Heart’s in the right place, though.’
Whilst Lanky galloped round the floor, Guinevere came over and chatted with her father, politely warding off several young men who asked her to dance.
‘Where’s Ban?’ she asked. ‘Gone to get a drink. Why?’ ‘I just met that son of his.’
‘Lancelot. What do you think of him?’ asked Leo.
Guinevere raised a supercilious eyebrow. ‘He’s the most arrogant, patronising bore I ever met.’
Leo winced. ‘Best not mention that to Ban.’
Talking to her father, Guinevere seemed preoccupied, surveying the dance floor with a frown on her face.
‘Anything wrong, Ginny?’
‘Nothing, dad. It’s a wonderful party and you’re a poppet.’ ‘Gertrude can be a little over-exuberant at times,’ he ventured.
That apparently innocuous observation drove the colour into her cheeks and released a torrent of condemnation. ‘It’s embarrassing the way she behaves. Throwing herself at men, it’s
. . . shameless. Women should have more respect for themselves if they want to be treated like women and not sex objects.’
Leo looked at his daughter in astonishment. He had never seen her so angry. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with tears of rage. Tears? This was not his Ginny, not like her at all. Was it really Gertrude’s behaviour that was distressing her?
‘I wonder if things have changed all that much in the last thousand years,’ he said. ‘When it comes to the mating game, I mean.’
‘Oh dad, how would you know?’ said Guinevere, giving her father a withering look.
Leo winced. His daughter had a sharp tongue and knew how to use it. Yet an instant later he was totally disarmed. She put her arms round Leo’s neck and kissed him. ‘Forgive me. I’m a beast.’
‘Nothing to forgive. Off you go and enjoy yourself. This is no time to be sitting with your father.’
‘There’s not a man in the room who can hold a candle to you.’
‘Come now, Ginny. Not one of those fine young men? I don’t believe it.’
‘They’re all so – immature.’
‘Not all of them, surely.’ He sneaked a sidelong glance at her. ‘That’s a fine man over there. And judging by that bevy of beauties round him, I should say I’m not the only one who thinks so. Wouldn’t you know it?’ Another keen look at his daughter. ‘There’s Gertrude chatting him up.’
‘Who?’
‘Arthur.’
Guinevere lifted her chin in a characteristic gesture. ‘Arthur?’ It was as if she had never heard the name before.
‘Arthur Pendragon, the MP. You met him once, I’m sure you did. Probably years ago, though. You were always away at school when he came to dinner.’
‘Arthur,’ she mused. ‘Yes, I do vaguely remember him.’
Vaguely? Had Leo not seen his daughter looking rather intently at Arthur earlier in the evening? Perhaps not, he could have been mistaken. More important, he was disappointed that Arthur had not asked Ginny to dance. Obviously he had other things on his mind. Quite the ladies’ man these days.
‘Just look at that. Dragged onto the dance floor, and by Gertrude, wouldn’t you know?’
‘Really, father,’ Guinevere’s colour was high again, ‘why should I care what Mr. Pendragon does? It’s of no interest to me. He’s your friend, not mine.’
So that was the way the wind blew, was it? He managed not to smile, and just as well, he thought, or he would never have heard the end of it.
‘Indeed he is. A very good friend, and a quite outstanding man. I like him very much.’ He began to whistle under his breath, and was unable to resist another quick look in his daughter’s direction. ‘Gertrude seems to have taken quite a fancy to him . . . and he to her,’ he added, innocently. ‘What do you think, Ginny?’
A proud tilt of the chin. ‘I really couldn’t say.’ Then, abandoning the mask of indifference, she added tartly, ‘Just look at her. How could she? I’d rather die than throw myself at a man like that.’
‘How fortunate I am to have such a sensible daughter.’
Guinevere directed a suspicious look at her father but his face was inscrutable. He appeared to be wholly absorbed in sniffing his glass of burgundy.
As she got up to leave, there, unexpectedly, was Arthur.
‘I rushed over when I saw you weren’t surrounded by men. I’ve been wanting to dance with you all evening but the youngsters have beaten me to it every ti
me. Wont you please put me out of my misery?’
Guinevere hesitated. For a moment it seemed she was about to excuse herself, but then she smiled with obvious pleasure. ‘I’d be delighted.’ Taking Arthur’s arm, she walked off with him to the dance floor.
‘I do vaguely remember him,’ murmured Leo to himself, relaxing his facial muscles in a quiet smile. Leaning back in his chair with a sigh of contentment, he sipped his wine, and fondly observed, in the discreetest imaginable way, the two people he loved most in all the world.
‘I’m afraid I’m not much good at the latest dances,’ said Arthur apologetically. ‘No match for these youngsters.’
‘Are you so old, then?’
Arthur laughed. ‘Perhaps youngsters is the wrong word. I suppose I meant people of your sort of age.’
‘And what age might that be?’ she asked coyly.
‘I know you are just about eighteen because of this party. I would have known anyway.’
‘How?’ She could feel her heart thumping at her breast. ‘You won’t remember but we met once years ago. I have never
forgotten it. You told me you were an almost fourteen year old. That means you are now an almost eighteen year old.’
So he did remember, then. ‘Fancy your remembering that.
Such a very trivial thing.’
‘I remember something else you said. You said twenty-four was a good age for a man.’
Guinevere blushed. ‘Did I say that?’ ‘You did.’ Arthur smiled.
‘You must have thought me a precocious brat.’ ‘I thought you were enchanting.’
She lowered her eyes and said nothing.
He was afraid he might have offended her. ‘It was so delightfully unexpected coming from a thirteen year old – I beg your pardon, an almost fourteen year old.’
When she looked up at him again, she was smiling. ‘So that means you are now an almost twenty-seven year old.’
Absurd but it sounded old. ‘Afraid so.’
Thinking of another thing she had said five years ago, she blushed again. Unless her memory was playing tricks on her, she had told him how good looking he was. No, her memory was not playing tricks. She remembered it quite clearly. Horror of horrors! It was the sort of outrageously flirtatious thing Lanky might have said. Hopefully he was too chivalrous to mention it, even if he too remembered. She prayed he would change the subject.
‘You like dancing?’ he asked, as if in answer to her prayer. ‘I love it.’
‘I do too.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If only I had the chance to practice more.’
It was obvious what he was getting at, though she pretended not to understand, looking about her with keen interest at the other dancers on the floor. Seeing Lanky prancing about, her mood darkened and she was suddenly uncertain of herself.
Arthur mistakenly concluded from her silence that another hint was needed. ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who could give me dancing lessons?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Guinevere sweetly. ‘You should talk to Gertrude. She is an excellent dancer, as of course you know. I am sure she would be more than happy to give you as many lessons as you like.’
Eight
2022
At twenty-three, Lancelot was already a captain in the Grenadier Guards. A natural soldier, smart and enthusiastic, he knew how to give and take orders. Despite being a stern disciplinarian he was respected by his men as a fair-minded officer, and valued by his superiors for his conscientiousness and dedication.
Ian Duncan was stationed at the same army camp up north. No one, himself included, understood what he was doing there, for no man could have been less suited to military life. The fact was, that after coming down from university, he had no idea what to do with himself, and until something better came his way, he decided to follow the friend to whom he was devoted. Despite being scruffy, lazy and unfit, Ian had managed to reach the rank of first lieutenant by being agreeable to everyone. The general view, though, was that he would still be a first lieutenant when Lancelot was a general.
There were times when even Ian found Lance difficult to be around. Super-critical, finding fault with his men when more senior officers found none, he hated bad language, loathed slovenliness, and above all despised what he perceived to be lack of commitment. If only, thought Ian, if only Lance would take life just a little less seriously, if only he would have a drink with the boys now and then. The sad truth was that being one of the boys was not in Lancelot’s nature.
Despite his misgivings, Ian had never altered his view that his friend was an exceptional human being, a big man in every way, a man of strongly-held principles. Was there not, moreover, something heroic in his refusal to compromise? Certainly there was nothing mean-spirited about him; he had none of the petty imperfections that flawed the characters of lesser men. In an inconstant world, Lance was constant; you always knew where you were with him.
The parade ground incident, therefore, came as a particular shock. It began when Ian was shaken from a deep sleep by the platoon sergeant. He reached for the watch by his bed. ‘What time is it?’
‘Past two, sir.’
‘What’s up?’ He was still half asleep.
‘Best come and see, sir.’ Ian threw on a dressing gown and followed the sergeant to the parade ground.
It was mid-winter and a bitterly cold night, the moon was full, intermittently obscured by clouds. That very morning there had been a parade of honour for the Minister of Defence and it had not gone well. Instead of giving their usual perfectly co-ordinated display, the men had marched raggedly, like raw recruits. It was one of those unfortunate things that happen from time to time, even in the best of regiments, and the Colonel had made no comment afterwards. Nor did anyone else. But Captain Bancroft who led the parade had felt humiliated, and typically had assumed the full burden of responsibility.
In the darkness a voice rang out from the other side of the parade ground. It seemed to come from the platform known as the dais on which the Colonel took the salute at regimental parades, and it was so loud that at first Ian thought the commands were directed at him: ‘Get those arms up! Straighten those backs! Left! Left! Left, right, left!’ As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could just make out a dim figure standing on the dais.
‘Who is that?’ Ian asked the sergeant. ‘Captain Bancroft, sir.’
The clouds parted to reveal the full moon, and suddenly the parade ground was lit up as if it were day. There on the dais was Lancelot in his pyjamas, standing rigidly to attention. ‘You there! What d’you think you’re doing! Ranks three and four, you’re a shambles! Get back in step! Left! Left! Left, right, left!’ Ian and the sergeant exchanged glances, then without a word they ran across the parade ground to the dais. Ian looked up at his friend. ‘Lance! What do you think you’re playing at? You’ll wake the whole camp.’
‘You down there, get back in line! Get back, or I’ll have you court-martialled!’
‘It’s me, Lance. It’s Ian. Come down, man.’
‘By the right, quick march! Eyes right! You there, get your head round! Stay in line! You’re wandering all over the place! Chin over your right shoulder! Swing those arms!’
In the still night air the echoes of his voice rebounded from the camp buildings, creating such a confusion of sound that there might have been a dozen men shouting orders. One by one, the lights came on in windows around the camp.
‘Lance! Come down! You’ll catch pneumonia.’ But Ian might as well have been talking to the moon.
‘You there in the second row! Get in step! You too, Mathews! And you, MacPherson! Jones, hold your rifle steady. It’s not a toy! Steady on your shoulder!’
‘I’m coming up to get you, Lance.’
‘That man in the front there – Captain Bancroft! What kind of salute is that? Straighten your upper arm! Hand parallel with your shoulder! Look at you! Your position’s all wrong. You’re supposed to be leading the parade. You should be setting an example. You’re a disgrace to the ar
my! Damned disgrace, I say!’
They ran up the steps of the dais. The sergeant was about to grab Lancelot when Ian stopped him. ‘No. His eyes are shut. He’s sleep-walking. He can’t see us. I don’t think he knows we’re here.’ Taking Lancelot by the arm, they guided him down the steps and onto the parade ground. ‘Gently does it. Mustn’t wake him.’ Crossing the tarmac Lancelot was quiet. As they approached the camp he threw back his head and bawled at the top of his voice, ‘You’re a disgrace, Bancroft! Damned disgrace! Have you on a charge!’
Aroused by all the noise, a huddled group of pyjama-clad officers and other ranks watched curiously as the three figures approached. Ian muttered something about sleep-walking and hurried Lancelot passed them. By the time they got him back to his quarters he had calmed down. They rolled him into bed and tucked him in mumbling again and again, ‘Disgrace, Bancroft. Have you on a charge.’ A few minutes later he was sleeping peacefully.
The next morning Ian knew he had to tell Lancelot what had happened. If he did not tell him, someone else would. When he had finished, Lancelot put his head in his hands. ‘What a humiliation.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Ian, making light of it. Lots of people sleep- walk. Could have happened to anyone.’
‘What will they think of me?’ moaned Lancelot. A grin. ‘Since when has that ever worried you?’
‘This is the army, Ian. If you lose the respect of your men
. . . ’ Lancelot threw up his arms in despair. ‘You might as well give up.’
‘It will all be forgotten in a day or two.’ For all his reassuring words, Ian looked uncomfortable. ‘There is one thing . . . ’
‘Well?’
‘You might want to see – well, a shrink . . . or someone,’ he ended lamely, conscious that Lance was watching him intently.
‘You think I’m crazy,’ said Lancelot. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘Be reasonable, Lance. There are plenty of other reasons for seeing a shrink.’
Lancelot was in no mood to be reasonable. ‘What are you saying, then?’
‘Something may be troubling you?’ suggested Ian.