by John Winton
‘Or sometimes they sublimate their sexual frustrations by going in for dog-breeding or ...’
‘I breed dogs,’ said Lady Moll. ‘Airedales.’
‘... Or even cooking...’
‘I’ve just published a book of recipes,’ said Hilda.
‘Oh Hilda, how’s that going?’ Julia asked, seizing on the cue with relief.
By the time the cheese, a moist mouldy mousetrap, had arrived, The Bodger was beginning to feel some remorse over Perky. Many in the College might, many certainly would, say that The Bodger had done a great and necessary job. It was time someone like Perky was shown the other side of the coin. But The Bodger himself now wondered whether such a sustained display of unparallelled bad manners might not in the end be self-defeating. Certainly it seemed to have been wasted on Perky, who was not a big or sensitive enough personality to make the exercise worthwhile. Perky was the wrong target.
In the meanwhile, the terrible meal ground on to its planned conclusion. The port was Purvis’s Rich Ruby Wine of a Port Character, which he obviously purchased from the same mysterious underground cave as his sherry. The Bodger tried it, for the first time, and decided that it had one of the strangest tastes he had ever experienced; it lingered on his palate, with a curiously persistent after-taste, like the aroma of rotten fibres picked up from some sunless forest floor.
However, Perky appeared to relish it. He sniffed at it, cupped the minute glass in his fingers, took a delicate sip and pursed his lips before cautiously swallowing, whereupon a light as of pure bliss spread across his face. As Jerry said to Hilda later, it was one of the most amazing sights he had ever seen, like dawn breaking over a gasworks.
Perky’s tasting ritual was unexpectedly disturbed by Purvis. ‘Party at the door, sir,’ he said to The Bodger. ‘Very noisy lot, sir. They’re calling for Mr ... Mr... Mr...’ Purvis waved at Perky.
At once The Bodger knew that the OUTs had planned something. Now that it had happened, he knew that he had been subconsciously waiting for something, ever since the incidents at the flagstaff. The Bodger could see, now that it was too late, that it had been too much to expect that the OUTs would take part in a day-long exercise of this kind without trying to embellish it in some way of their own at the end.
It was very dark on the terrace, because the College lights had been turned off to impress Perky, and The Bodger could not see how many were there, but they were making enough noise for a thousand, with whistles and cheers, singing, and shouts of ‘A British tar is a soaring bore!’ and ‘Bloody toffee-nosed Admiralty bastards!’ and ‘Lady Hamilton was right!’ and ‘Britannia Rules OK?’
Gradually the shouts resolved themselves into a single rhythm, that became remorselessly clearer, like the beat of a tribal chant. ‘Perky! ’ they were shouting. ‘We want Perky! We want Perky, we want Perky ...’
‘Goodness,’ said Lady Moll, peering out through the doorway, ‘what are they celebrating, I wonder?’
When the crowd saw The Bodger at the door they redoubled their noise. He could see what appeared to be banners and flags being waved over their heads, and always, the relentless chanting went on. It seemed to The Bodger good-humoured enough, although he would have to put a stop to it soon, but when he looked round and down he caught sight, with astonishment, of the look of terror mixed with elation on Perky’s face.
‘They want me,’ said Perky. ‘Let me deal with it.’
To The Bodger’s amazement, Perky was firmly pulling down the bottom of his jacket, smoothing his lapels, composing his face and settling his lips and mouth in a firm but statesmanlike expression. For Perky, The Bodger could see, this was real, those were the rioters running through the snow outside the Winter Palace all over again, those were fires burning, barricades across the ramps, tanks parked on the parade ground, their gun muzzles trained upon the figure-head of Britannia. And Perky was bracing himself to face them. The Bodger had to admit that he had his own peculiar kind of bravery.
When the crowd-The Bodger recoiled from the word mob - saw Perky in the doorway their noise rose to an unprecedented crescendo. The sound had an ugly edge of personal menace about it, and it rose higher every time Perky raised his hand to speak. It might have been good-humoured before, but this was grave. At last, The Bodger became aware, with a great surge of adrenalin into his blood stream, that this was no longer a joke. This riot was real.
CHAPTER XI
‘Hear you boys been having fun and games up at the College?’ The girl’s voice, with its heavy layer of affected West Country over its native Kingston-upon-Thames accent, was audible enough over the discotheque din.
‘Yes dear,’ said Caradoc Evans. ‘We all had a smashing time.’ ‘It very nearly was a smashing time,’ said McAllester, marvelling that the Dartmouth disco girls, as swiftly and accurately as their predecessors, the Spithead bumboat-women and Fore Street whores of earlier centuries, knew already by some infallible feminine naval grapevine that there had been happenings on board. ‘You were damned lucky to get away with it, Dai.’
‘Oh it all sorted itself out, man. And it was too dark to see who was there.’
‘You hope.’
‘I don’t hope, I know, man.’ Caradoc laughed, relievedly. ‘In any case, they would have done something by now if they had known who was there.’
‘I think they do have a good idea who was there and have decided to do nowt. If you want my opinion, you were precious close to a state of mutiny, or riotous assembly at the very least, and you know how bloody sensitive the Navy is to anything like that, even here at the College. It has all sorts of uncomfortable old memories, that sort of thing.’
‘It wasn’t mutiny.’
‘So you say, but you know the old naval saying, there’s no right or wrong in the Navy. There’s duty and there’s mutiny, at the captain’s discretion.’
‘How come you know such a devil of a lot about the Navy, Ham?’
‘Because I’m interested in it. I read about it. I study it. I know I wasn’t there myself last night, but from what I hear, a lot of you can think yourselves damned lucky you’re not on your way home today, your time in the Navy good and over’
‘Oh rubbish, man. It began as a joke, and it ended as a joke.’
‘Maybe. But it’s the bit in between ...’
‘There, I must say,’ Caradoc said, dreamily, ‘something very strange happened. In some devilish, outside-of-myself way I really enjoyed that. It did start as a joke, but somehow it did get serious. Somehow, when we all laid eyes on that pompous little man with his silly pompous little face and his nervous silly little lips twitching, something gave way in us all. Something happened to us. We infected each other. It caught fire from one to another. We wanted to cut loose, and given another half second I really think we would have lynched the silly little slob. But when he was trying to speak, we all realised how silly it all was. He must have thought he had succeeded in pacifying a mob of hungry naval officers ravenously roaming the College grounds looking for scraps of food!’
‘You don’t seriously expect him to believe that, surely?’
‘After yesterday, boyo, and all the tricks we played? I always knew that politicians expected us to believe anything, I never thought they’d believe anything!’
‘Dai Bach, that was almost an epigram!’
Caradoc looked at McAllester with hatred. It was so unfair that someone who had so many other talents should also have this ability to make him feel small.
The Bodger had already discussed the situation with Isaiah Nine Smith. ‘There was one moment last night,’ he said, ‘when I was quite convinced they were in earnest. I’ve never been unlucky enough to be in a ship with anything like a mutiny, but if I ever was, that I imagine is what it looks and sounds like. For a moment I really thought they were going to do something really unfriendly to our mutual friend.’
‘He seemed to be satisfied that he had calmed them down, sir.’
‘I think he calmed them down like petrol cal
ms a bonfire down. Did you recognise any of their faces?’
‘I fancy I did, sir. But it was very dark and confused. Honestly, I wouldn’t like to stand up and swear who was there and who wasn’t.’
‘Nor would I. Perhaps it’d be best just to let it be ... Trouble, Jerry?’ Jerry had appeared at the door of the Captain’s office.
‘Just had a call from the Main Gate, sir. They say they’ve got a van down there with some blokes in it from some television programme and they want to know should they let them in? I have a suspicion this is to do with last night, sir. Our late departed guest has been busy already, sir. There’s a call now in my office from the Ministry. Almost certainly the Navy PR people wanting to know what’s been happening. Shall we let them in, sir?’
There was only one decision The Bodger could come to. ‘Of course.’
The Bodger met the visitors personally. He could have delegated it, but he knew from past experience that Naval Information Officers, Press Relations Officers, First Lieutenants, Executive Officers, subordinates of any kind, were all very well so far as they went but with the Press that was not very far. Always, sooner or later, the Press would demand to see the man himself, the commanding officer, the Captain, and would grow restive if prevented.
There were three of them, driving up in a small plain blue van, and their flower-patterned shirts, nervous giggles and vulpine asides were very much as the College had expected. The tallest of them, addressed by the others as Cossy, wore a shocking pink shirt with a pleasing pattern of bright red roses. The cameraman, who hefted his camera to his shoulder like a bazooka, wore a white shirt with a pattern of forget-me-nots.
The third of them, who carried various pieces of wire-trailing equipment, was addressed as Sonny and wore a green shirt decorated with tiny white fleurs-de-lys.
‘Very sorry we’re late,’ Cossy said to The Bodger, who was not aware that any previous appointment had been made. ‘We were held up by some councillor, couldn’t stop him talking about sewage. Now...’ Cossy swept a keen gaze around the College, at Britannia, the flagstaff, and The Bodger. ‘Could we do it here, do you think?’
The cameraman trained his instrument, giving out several guttural grunts.
‘Shall we start, Duckie?’ Cossy said to The Bodger.
A curious crowd of staff officers and OUTs gathered at a discreet distance while The Bodger was being interviewed. ‘Ask him why we haven’t got a Harley Street brain surgeon!’ some wag called out.
The Bodger himself also recognised echoes of Superjack, some of whose predictions were eerily accurate. Cossy chatted over a few questions with The Bodger and then began.
‘Some people might say,’ he was saying, ‘that Dartmouth College is now a bit of an anachronism and a waste of taxpayers money?’
‘No,’ said The Bodger in confident tones, ‘not at all. The College is not an anachronism or a waste of tax-payers’ money, on the contrary, we think it is thoroughly up to date and we give very good value for money.’
‘Captain, the Minister of State for the Navy made a statement in the House this afternoon that feelings in the College were running very high about defence cuts. Can you comment on that?’
‘We much enjoyed the Minister’s visit,’ said The Bodger. ‘We exchanged a number of views with him, had several useful discussions, we’re always glad to see him, and we hope he enjoyed his visit. He certainly looked as if he did.’
‘Captain, the Minister said that in his opinion the College had been run down far enough, that facilities here should be improved rather than cut, what is your reaction to that?’
‘Naturally we welcome any discussion, in the Navy or outside the Navy, about the College and what we have to offer. We’re very proud of our record here, which we think is second to none.’
‘Captain, there seems to have been a near-riot in the College last night? Could you comment on that?’
‘Certainly I can. There’s always an outburst of high spirits whenever we have an official visit. But, as I said, we all enjoyed the visit very much and I believe the Minister enjoyed it as much as anybody.’
‘Some people would say this was more than just high spirits?’
‘We all got a great deal of value out of the visit. The Minister and I and my staff had several long discussions about the College and the training syllabus here. As I said, it was a most rewarding and enjoyable visit.’
The Bodger tensed inwardly, wondering how long he could go on mouthing these platitudes before the man smote him with his microphone and shouted out loud ‘Answer my bloody questions properly or I’ll thump you!’
Astonishingly, Cossy appeared satisfied. He nodded to the cameraman, who shifted his camera off his shoulder and stowed it away in the van. Sonny collected his coils and cables and got behind the steering wheel. The Bodger walked Cossy round to his door of the van.
‘I suppose you often have these television interviews here?’ Cossy said, conversationally.
The Bodger was about to reply that no, on the contrary, he almost never had them, and had had to prepare very carefully what he was going to say, when, just in time, he remembered Super jack’s ‘garden gate’ warning.
‘They do crop up from time to time,’ he said.
The engine started and Cossy looked at his watch. ‘Just time to do that sunflower story. Some old boy down in Dartmouth has grown a twenty-five foot sunflower,’ he said to The Bodger. And then they were off. The Bodger, the staff officers and a crowd of OUTs watched them go, down the hill, out of College life and away into a world where councillors talking about sewage, monster sunflowers and a near-riot at the Britannia Royal Naval College all had equal value as novelties.
‘I wonder when it will be on?’ someone said.
‘I wonder if it will be on?’ said The Bodger.
But it was on, all right, that evening, on the local news programme. With a proper sense of priorities, the programme began with the sunflower. The Bodger at once recognised his old friend the gardening admiral, proudly displaying his giant. It certainly was a monster, possibly as tall as the neighbouring Horse Marine’s garden flagstaff. Then there was the sewage councillor, talking interminably about effluents and pollution levels and the threat of bubonic plague in Exeter. Then, almost before The Bodger could register it, there was the great College facade, a picture of Persimmons doubling by, and then The Bodger himself. His interview had been edited, so that the question and his replies, which had been intentionally elliptical, now seemed to The Bodger to be about as intelligible as high Serbo-Croat. After what seemed about three seconds it was all over, there was a bar or two of ‘Hearts of Oak’ and a picture of somebody standing beside a map of the West Country and gabbling about the weather.
‘Is that all?' said The Bodger, incredulously. ‘All that just for that?’
‘I think you looked jolly good darling,’ said Julia. ‘I believed you, anyway.’
So, too, did the staff officers watching in a huddle round the wardroom set. They cheered the admiral and his sunflower, hooted at the councillor and his effluent, and then watched with The Bodger with feelings of mixed apprehension and appreciation, as they would have watched a rather senior friend of theirs attempt a difficult ski jump.
‘Very good,’ said Shiner Wright, when the weather-person came on. ‘I’m not sure I entirely understood what our gallant captain was saying or why he was saying it, but it looked convincing enough, and that, as we have been advised, is all that matters. Perhaps we can consider the danger to the College as temporarily over. With one bound, Jack was free. Pauline lives again, see you same time next Saturday morning for the next instalment.’
‘What are you talking about, Shiner?’
‘Did you never go to the cinema matinee on Saturday mornings when you were a boy?’
‘We haven’t all had the benefits of your middle-class upbringing, Shiner.’
Polly and Lionel Tinkle also watched it, down in Dartmouth town, on Lionel Tinkle’s landlady’s giant colou
r set.
‘I do think The Bodger’s very good,’ Polly said. ‘He’s got a sort of twinkle in his eye all the time, to warn you that he doesn’t take himself all that seriously and you shouldn’t take him all that seriously either. Where’s your landlady this evening?’
‘It’s her Strindberg evening. She’s rehearsing with the Dartmouth amateur dramatics.’
‘Strindberg. The mind boggles. What part did she get? Miss Julia, I expect.’
Lionel Tinkle knew his landlady’s front sitting room very well, but he had only begun to notice it properly. He felt constricted, oppressed, by her striped wallpaper, her yellow plastic hanging chandelier, the photograph of her late husband in his Coast Guard uniform on the mantelpiece above which hung a large circular plaster plate, embossed in cumbersome relief with a scene from the Tyrol, complete with pine trees, mountains, rushing river, and yodeller in lederhosen and feathered hat. It was a claustrophobic sort of room, dominated by the great shifting technicolor expanse of the television screen. When Lionel Tinkle switched off the set and its sounds died away, they were replaced at once by the clicking of his landlady’s clock, the flutterings and wire-twangings of his landlady’s canary in the cage by the window, and the purring of his landlady’s cat on the windowsill.
‘Polly.’
Lionel Tinkle was feeling socially as well as physically trapped. His relationship with Polly had progressed to the point where, as his mother used to put it, ‘something should be said’. He guessed he should propose to her. Make an honest woman of her, or whatever the sickening bourgeois phrase for it was. He had never proposed before, and he did not wish to start now. He did not even want to live with her. He found her fascinating, intriguing, physically attractive, but there were whole areas, stretching out like wide savannahs, of her tastes, her views, her upbringing, her politics, which were still as mysterious to him as outer Siberia. Besides, in a flash of intuition which was akin to self-preservation, Lionel Tinkle knew he would never survive a permanent liaison with Polly. That tongue of hers would skin him alive inside six months. She would have to choose a much stupider man, preferably a naval officer.