by Julian Gloag
“Jordan, we shouldn’t,” she said, but she might have been speaking to the herons. He kissed her lips and she his, with eager anxiety, and their bodies touched at every point. And when, awkwardly managing the zipper, he thrust his hand downwards, she shook her head but did not relinquish his kiss. Her negatives were phantasms which neither attended to. As he pulled at her slacks and short cotton pants, she even raised her buttocks so the clothes would slide more easily to her knees, and only momentarily did her thighs grip tight before opening for his hand—and for his body.
She interrupted once, quickly, despairfully that some one was coming. But no one was, and, come the whole populace of Istoke, nothing could prevent the final cure of their flesh.
For a long time they lay together, until the greyness of the day began to be the greyness of evening.
She was shivering as he dressed her and kissed her and held her. And then suddenly she laughed and ran away down the avenue. And he ran after her.
She stopped at the other side of the plantation and leaned back against the fence and watched him come running up to her.
“The gate’s open!” she called.
He stopped in front of her, so that they could feel each other’s breath on their faces.
“Probably is where we came in, too.” He smiled.
“And we never even tried!”
“I thought they always locked the gates in winter.”
“Yes.” She swung the iron gate on its hinges. “So did I. To stop the kids larking about—like us!”
They went through the gate and came out on the stretch of grass which led up to the bandstand.
“It looks so different now, doesn’t it?” said Annie.
“Yes.” He did not quite know what to make of her.
“Dad used to bring me here before the war. This bit was all cut short and covered with daisies. I remember that. I used to be afraid of treading on them and crushing them.”
Jordan said, “I remember you when you were little. You used to sit up there at the counter by your mother in the post office, sorting the letters and looking very important. I envied you.”
“They weren’t real letters,” Annie said. “Just some old envelopes Mum gave me to play with. Did you ever come here?”
“Yes. Once before the war. A long time ago. Uncle John brought me on my birthday.”
You’d hardly know it now, he thought, as the same place. The grass, where the bracken had not already taken over, was long and forlorn. The bandstand was paintless and rusty, the balustrades broken where the children had swung on them. Before the war it had been bright with colour and gilding, and there had been chairs set in rows and ice-cream men and children and the band in scarlet and brass. But now it was a ruin.
“It was the best birthday I ever had,” Jordan said. “It was the best day I ever had—almost.” He turned to her. “Except this one.”
They had not touched since coming out of the plantation, but now she took his arm and lifted her face so the hair fell back and revealed her small, faintly pointed ears. “Jordan. It’s going to be alright, isn’t it? It really is. I’m sorry I …”
“I’m not.” He kissed her nose. “Come on, I’m hungry. We ought to be able to get some dinner at the Grange by now.”
“Oh, not the Grange. Look at me.” She turned, showing herself leafy and dishevelled.
He laughed. “Okay, we’ll make it the local fish and chippery.”
17
“What are they playing now?”
“Regimental march medley.” Uncle John had scorned a programme. “Let’s see.” He hummed for a moment with the band. “Ah—Tare Ye Well, Inniskilling.’ The march of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. Now this—ah, hear that, Jordan? They’ve speeded up. That’s ‘Lutzow’s Wild Hunt’—60th Rifles. Splendid, eh? Jaunty, eh? They march fast, those little fellows. Never slope arms, you know. Used to be the Royal Americans.”
“They’re light infantry, aren’t they?”
“Rifles, Jordan, Rifles. The King’s Royal Rifle Corps. They wouldn’t thank you to call them light infantry. Though, in fact—now listen to this…”
The flat-capped Kiddies sat superb in scarlet. The brass instruments winked with sun as the French horns bent to turn a page. The bandmaster’s elbows went up and down with precise military jerks and, as he turned to bow, the medals silver and bronze swung away from his chest. A lady in the front row held a bouquet of roses wrapped in green paper.
“Like it, Jordan?”
Jordan turned his head for a moment and nodded.
“Good, eh? You should hear the Guards going up the line, though.” His shoulders stiffened. “Going up the line …”
“What does ‘going up the line’ mean, Uncle?”
“Going to fight!” he answered fiercely. He stood up abruptly. “Like an ice?”
“It isn’t over, is it?”
“Just an interval.”
The Scots Guardsmen were being served glasses of lemonade. One or two of them were standing up and moving their legs in an odd knees-bend.
“Yes, please. I would like an ice,” said Jordan.
The two of them walked down the grass gully between the green seats. Uncle John stared above the flouncing summer audience as though they were so many blown pieces of litter. At the edge of the crowd he stopped and gave Jordan two pennies.
“Run over and get us each an ice. I’m going to stand under that tree.”
“What kind would you like?”
“A strawberry one,” Uncle John said, moving away towards the tree where two girls were sitting eating cornets.
The queue by the Walls man was long but patient. There was something exciting to Jordan about the chattering strangers standing close to him. It was different from the Rectory Fête, where everyone would know him and smile and call him Master Jordan. Here they didn’t know him but smiled all the same as if he were one of them.
As he received the two strawberry fruit ices in their cold triangular sleeves from the Walls man, it was a great temptation to begin on his right away. But he resisted it. Upright, one in each hand, like an acolyte he carried the ices to the tree.
He handed one to Uncle John, who had been talking to the two girls.
“Thank you, Jordan.” He turned to the mouse-brown girl, who was nudging her friend. “This is my nephew.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Jordan, these, er, young ladies are employed at Ackerman’s. It’s their half day.”
Jordan nodded. He began to eat his ice, staring at the girls.
Uncle John cleared his throat. “Er—wouldn’t you like an ice?” he asked the mouse-brown girl.
“I’ve just had one, thanks.”
“Well, have another. Here, have mine. I don’t really need an ice.” He half turned to Jordan and smiled.
The girl hesitated. “Well,” she said, “well, I don’t mind if I do.” She bit into it “Want a bite, Molly?”
Molly took a large bite and handed back the ice.
“Thanks ever so,” said the girl to Uncle John.
“Pleasure, my dear.” He beamed. But Jordan’s stare seemed to make the two girls uncomfortable.
They stood in silence eating their ices, Uncle John sometimes clearing his throat with a fierce rasp.
Jordan finished. “We’d better get back to our seats, hadn’t we?”
“Yes, yes. I suppose we had.” Uncle John tipped his hat to the girls. “Goodbye,” he said. As soon as he and Jordan had gone two yards, the girls began to chatter.
“Charming little things, charming,” murmured Uncle John as they took their places.
The second half of the programme was orchestral, and the woodwinds did a lot of twittering. At first Uncle John’s attention didn’t seem to be fully concentrated on the music, but after a while he began to hum, and Jordan felt better.
“Let’s get away from these crowds,” said Uncle John when the concert was done. Hand in hand, they skirted the plantation and wen
t to the heart of the park—too far in the heat for all but lovers to penetrate.
“Just suppose, Jordan,” Uncle John said, stopping on the brow of a ridge, “just suppose you had to give battle here, now.”
Jordan grinned with delight. “What date, Uncle?”
“Napoleonic wars. You’ve got fifteen thousand infantry, but only four battalions you know you can rely on. The rest are raw. Three thousand cavalry. Three batteries of horse artillery. Now the details. One of your infantry battalions is Rifles.” Frowning into the sunlight, Uncle John slowly ticked off on his fingers the precise regimental make-up of Jordan’s force. They had done this so often, there was no need of pencil and paper. “The enemy outnumbers you. Twenty thousand infantry, five cavalry. But only a single squadron of horse artillery. One third well-seasoned troops—the rest the dregs of Bonaparte’s latest conscription. You have definite intelligence that …” Uncle John glanced at his watch. “Right now, you have an hour to make your dispositions before the enemy arrive on the field.”
Jordan surveyed the ground carefully. On the right the ridge on which they stood sloped down to a large pond surrounded with marsh grass. On the left the ridge curled in a walking-stick crook towards what would be the French line. The front bulged very slightly outward in the centre, and on the bulge was a group of birch trees and gorse.
“I think,” Jordan said, “it will have to be a defensive battle.”
Uncle John nodded. “Right. Let them come to you. Right you are.”
Slowly Jordan outlined his plans. His right was well protected, but because of the nature of the ground his left was vulnerable. He would therefore hold the right lightly, putting most of his cavalry and his seasoned infantry on the left. The main body of artillery in the centre, and …
“You ought to make use of that cover, Jordan,” said John, pointing to the birch trees and gorse. “Put a detachment of your Rifles up there and let them fire at will into the enemy centre. Rifles are always good sharpshooters and skirmishers.”
“Why, Uncle?”
“Your rifle has twice the accurate range of your musket—two, even two hundred and fifty yards. On the other hand a rifle takes longer to load—because of the rifled barrel. So for accurate fire use your rifles. For steady volume of fire power, close range, rely on your musket.”
Uncle and nephew stood on the ridge, thrashing out the detailed dispositions and, eventually, with John taking the French part, fighting the battle. They had fought on every scrap of ground for two miles around Sibley and knew each nook and cranny, hedge and stream, the soft ground and the sudden hollow. But Istoke Park was new and exciting territory.
The battle was long and one of the best. Really, thought Jordan as finally they walked to the park gates, the best.
“A draw, I’d say, Jordan,” said Uncle John. And then, magnanimously, “but slightly in your favour. I mauled you pretty badly, but you did the same for me and I didn’t get through. I can’t advance, so I’ll have to retire—find another way round. You blocked me. Good work.”
They had late tea at the Mill House, which was the best teashop in Istoke.
“Uncle John, would an airgun be any good in battle?”
“An airgun!” John turned a shocked face to his nephew. “That popgun Trevor keeps to guard his wretched fig tree? Useless, absolutely useless. Couldn’t stop a crippled sparrow at ten yards.”
Looking covertly round the other tables in the teashop, Jordan decided that no one could compare with Uncle John, who sat stiff and determined, every inch a fighter.
18
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes, come in, Maddox.” Mr. Prideaux got up from behind his desk and sat down in the leather arm chair by the comfortably poppling gas fire. “Sit.”
The housemaster was tall and languid. He was reputed to have a large private income, for he offered even parents an excellent Spanish amontillado.
“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you, Maddox.” Mr. Prideaux fitted a cigarette into a platinum holder.
Jordan thought quickly of his crimes, but there were none whose discovery could warrant such ceremony.
“Your uncle has met with an accident.”
Uncle Trevor, his old Wolseley swaying about on the road, his mind on the selection of next Sunday’s hymns. It had happened before, but … “A bad accident, sir?”
“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Prideaux moved his unlit cigarette from one hand to the other. “You must brace yourself. Yesterday evening. He suffered fatal injuries—he, er, fell out of a window. He died this morning.”
“Uncle Trevor fell out of a window?” It was absolutely impossible.
“Yes.” Mr. Prideaux took a scribbled note from his pocket and glanced at it. “Er—wait a minute. Oh no no, not your guardian. It was Colonel John Freeman.”
Jordan was on his feet. “No!”
“Now sit down, my boy.”
“No!” He stepped forward, as if to—as if to what? “Somebody pushed him!”
“Pull yourself together, Maddox,” snapped Mr. Prideaux. “Sit down.”
Jordan sat. He looked at the gas fire. It became a hot gold blur. “Which window?” he asked. His voice trembled.
“Which window? I don’t know. Does it matter?” The housemaster paused, and then infused his tones with stern sympathy. “Look, er, Jordan, you mustn’t let yourself go, you know. I understand you were fond of your uncle. These things hit hard. I know.”
Jordan said nothing.
Mr. Prideaux stood up and lit his cigarette. “John Freeman. I remember now, of course. He was in the house, wasn’t he?” The housemaster’s words came from somewhere far above Jordan’s bent head. “Before my time, of course. But I’ve seen his name up on the shields. A fine athlete. Had a splendid war record too, didn’t he? Don’t I recall? M.C.?—D.S.O.? You must have admired him very much, Maddox. He—”
“D.S.O. and bar,” said Jordan almost inaudibly.
“Did he, by Jove?” Mr. Prideaux enthusiastically jangled the change in his trouser pocket. “A brave man. That’s what you must think of, Maddox. Courage. There’s all too little of that about nowadays—I mean of course, er, before the war, that is. We’re all pulling together now, aren’t we? Pulling together. Courage. Now your uncle wouldn’t have wanted to see you like this, would he?”
“He wouldn’t have cared.”
“Oh, come now, Maddox, I’m sure—”
“He cried himself.”
Mr. Prideaux laughed gently. “Now, Maddox, I’m sure—”
“He cried. He couldn’t help it.” In the attic workroom that terrible day … Jordan’s mind darted to Uncle John, stoop-shouldered and tears pouring unhampered, yes, pouring…
“Maddox.”
“What?”
“I said, would you like a glass of sherry?”
“Oh yes.”
Mr. Prideaux talked over his shoulder as he poured. “Don’t usually dispense sherry to the boys. But after all, you’re a senior man now, aren’t you? Not playing a match tomorrow, are you?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, that’s alright then. Here. Steadies you, doesn’t it? Steadiness is a great quality, Maddox—stamina. Not something people notice much, you know, but in a crisis it’s steadiness that counts. Waterloo. Dunkirk. Cicero said—not that I’m a wholehearted admirer of his, but the old boy had some points—Cicero said—”
The phone rang.
“Blast,” said Mr. Prideaux. “Yes. Prideaux speaking. Yes. I have him here now. Very well. Maddox, your godfather wants to speak to you. Hold on a minute, Mr. Sutlif.” He handed the receiver to Jordan somewhat reluctantly.
“Jordan, that you?”
“Hello, Uncle Colin.”
“Prideaux tells me you’ve been told about John. Well now, the funeral’s the day after tomorrow. You don’t have to come, of course—in fact Mary thinks you might prefer not to. But I thought—”
“Yes, I want to come.”
“Right. Thought you might. I’m having a car take me down tomorrow evening. I can pick you up on the way. I’ll be at the school at about six. Can you be ready then?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tell Prideaux, will you? I’ll deliver you back on Thursday. Alright, got it?”
“Yes.” Jordan paused as the three-minute beeps sounded. “Uncle Colin, what happened?”
“He fell out of his bedroom window. I’m not too clear about it myself, to tell you the truth. But we can talk about it on the way down to Sibley tomorrow. And Jordan—don’t let it get you down too much. Jordan?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not very good at this sort of thing, I’m afraid. But—well, don’t let it get you down.”
“No.”
“Goodbye, old chap.”
“Goodbye.”
The car was a prewar Humber with a glass partition between driver and passengers and handles covered with tight netting to hang onto when the car cornered.
Colin and Jordan sat in the back. They didn’t say much.
Halfway down they stopped for dinner at a pub with a small restaurant attached.
“I told Mary not to expect us till after dinner,” Colin said. “I don’t suppose she feels very much like cooking at the moment.”
Colin enjoyed eating. And, although she had been cooking all the meals now since the maids left in 1940, Aunt Mary managed to make all food tasteless. Jordan was not hungry.
“It’s almost always unwise to give advice, you know,” Colin said. He was drinking gin, which he disliked, but it was the only kind of spirits the pub had. “But I know—well, dammit, you were more attached to John, and he to you, than anyone else, I think.”
Jordan said nothing.
“None of us—well, least of all me, I’m only a proxy member of the family—but Trevor and Mary, they never understood him, I feel, in quite the way you did. I’m not a very perceptive person myself—and I may tell you I’ve never wanted to be—but I don’t see things in quite such a black-and-white fashion as Trevor and Mary, particularly perhaps Mary.” He drank half of his gin.