Stiff Upper Lip

by Lawrence Durrell

  Well, for ages nobody noticed anything. On we went from cask to cask, in ever-growing merriment, getting more and more courtly, with each swig. We thought that Dovebasket was just alone and palely loitering, that he would grow out of it. We didn’t know that he was sitting on the very H2SO4 or H2O (I never was much good at chemistry) which nourished human life in these regions. I had never thought much about air before. Apparently there is something quite essential about it. Nutritious as wine is, it cannot apparently sustain life unaided. Well, as I say, there we were unaware of the formaldehyde bubbles which were slowly crawling up the bloodstream, mounting to our brains. Suddenly I noticed that everyone seemed unwontedly hilarious, a rather ghastly sort of hilarity, mind you. Laughter, talk, music—it all seemed to have gone into a new focus.

  A grimly bacchanalian note set in. I was vaguely aware that things were not as they should be but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The first to go was Gool, the British Council man. He lay down quietly in a bed of roses and passed out, only pausing to observe that he could feel the flowers growing over him. We ignored him. The music had got rather ragged at the edges. People were drinking on rather desperately now and talking louder than ever. Somewhere in the heart of it all there was a Marked Discomfort. People seemed suddenly to have aged, bent up. You could begin to see how they would look at ninety if they lived that long. The chiefs of mission had gone an ashen colour. As if they had worn their expressions almost down to the lining. It is hardly believable what a difference air can make to dips, old man.

  And now it was that knees began to buckle, stays to creak, guy-ropes to give. Still, in courtly fashion, people began to look around them for something to lean on. Yes, people everywhere began to strap-hang, still talking and laughing, but somehow in a precarious way. Polk-Mowbray had gone a distinctly chalky colour and had difficulty in articulating; the Argentine Minister had quite frankly started to crawl towards the entrance on all fours.

  It was Serge, I think, who first noticed the cause of our plight. With a bound he was at Dovebasket’s side crying, “Please to remove posterior from the breathing,” in quite good Satellite English. Dovebasket declined to do so. Serge pulled him and received a knee in the chest. Dovebasket settled himself firmly once more and showed clearly that he wasn’t letting any more air in that week. Serge seized a wicker-covered bottle of the Chianti type and tapped him smartly on the crown. Dovebasket was not going to be treated like a breakfast egg by his hated rival. He dotted him back. This was fatal. One could see at once how wars break out. Poland and Rumania came to the Assistance of Serge, while Canada and Australia answered the call of the Mother Country. It looked like some strange Saturnalia, armed dips circling each other with wicker-covered bottles.

  But as the fighting spread, Dovebasket got shifted from his perch and the life-giving H2SO4 began to pour once more into the cave. It was only just in time, I should say. The cellar now looked like a series of whimsical details from a Victorian canvas—I’m thinking of “Kiss Me Hardy” with Nelson down for the count in the Victory’s cockpit. Some were kneeling in pleading postures. Some were crawling about in that painstaking way that beetles do when they are drunk on sugar-water. Others had simply keeled over among the flowers. The musicians drooped over their timbrels without enough oxygen between them for a trumpet-call or a groggy drum-tap. Then all of us, suddenly realizing, set up a shout and hurled ourselves towards the life-distributing oxygen pump.

  With your permission I will draw a veil over the disgraceful scenes that ensued among the combatants. Dove-basket was knocked out. The Canadian Air Attaché had a collar-bone bruised. The egregious Serge escaped unscathed. A number of bottles were broken. Such language. Life has its ugly side, I suppose. But the main thing was that the Corps lived again, breathed again, could hold up its aching head once more. But one is hardly trained to live dangerously. Nevertheless, I noticed that not one dip failed to make a note of the wine of his choice. It would have been too much to miss that free crate. Some, in default of pencil and paper, had managed to scribble on their dickeys with lipstick. Polk-Mowbray, though beaten to his knees, nevertheless had the presence of mind to write Stella Polaris 1942 on his. Bloody, but relatively unbowed, you see.

  And, as a matter of fact, after prayers the next day it was he who summed it all up rather neatly by saying: “And remember that in Peace, in War, in Love and in Diplomacy one thing is needful. I do not, I think, need to tell you what that is.”

  He didn’t. It would have been labouring the point. We knew only too well. The Stiff Upper Lip.

  A titanic battle now began

  3

  The Game’s the Thing

  As for Sport (said Antrobus), the very word makes me uneasy. I’ve never believed in its healing power. Once I was forced to referee a match between H.M.S. Threadbare and the French Fleet which resulted in my nearly being dismembered. Luckily the Gents in the pavilion had a bolt and padlock on it or I wouldn’t be here today. No. I regard Sport with Grave Reserve.

  Polk-Mowbray was not of my opinion; he believed in the stuff. Thereby hangs my tale. It was during one of those long unaccountable huffs between ourselves and the Italians. You know the obscure vendettas which break out between Missions? Often they linger on long after the people who threw the first knife have been posted away. I have no idea how this huff arose. I simply inherited it from bygone dips whose bones were now dust. It was in full swing when I arrived—everyone applying freezing-mixture to the Italians and getting the Retort Direct in exchange. When you saw an Italian at a party you gave a slow smile amputated by scorn. Yes, we made it clear that we were pretty miffed about something. They also acted in a markedly miffed manner. Yet I doubt if anyone on either side could have explained why we were all so dashed miffed. So while bows were still exchanged for protocol reasons they were only, so to speak, from above the waist. A mere contortion of the dickey, if you take me, as a tribute to manners. A slight Inclination accompanied by a moue. Savage work, old lad, savage work!

  One day, however, the wind changed. Polk-Mowbray called a senior conference. “We must end this huff,” he said regretfully. “Though it goes against the grain. London says that these dastards are going to vote against us at UNO. We must put aside our private pleasures and do everything to soothe and mollify the dogs. Our duty calls on us to surrender Our All.” Several ideas for promoting the peace were put up, and at last—O fatal Dovebasket!—there came one which fired Polk-Mowbray’s imagination.” That’s it!” he cried. “Brilliant! Magistrall Prescient! Dovebasket, I salute you! You will go far.”

  The idea was this: to challenge the Italian Mission to a football match and lose it gracefully, thus making them feel happy and well-disposed. Now everyone knew that the Italian Chancery was staffed by three guards who had been professionals once—footballers of international pointlessness. The team was a formidable one. To this we would oppose a scratch team of dead-beat dips who would be run off their feet in quarter of an hour, thus losing by two hundred goals to nothing. Like all Dove-basket’s schemes it seemed sound on the face of it, almost ingenious. I had an obscure premonition of doom but I brushed it aside. What could go wrong with such an idea? I did not of course know (none of us did) that two of our own Chancery Guards, Morgan and Bolster, were also internationals and had played for Wales. Furthermore I did not know that Dovebasket was short of money. True he was always hanging about the Chancery sucking the silver head of a swagger-stick and saying: “I’m fearfully pushed for lolly these days.” I paid no attention, being somewhat pushed myself. Afterwards it all became clear. Dovebasket and De Mandeville were in league. No sooner was the match declared on than they began taking bets against instead of for the Italians.

  Innocently we pushed on with our preparations for this senseless frolic unaware of the trap they were setting for us. Polk-Mowbray spent quite a lot of money from the Secret Service Vote to buy us blue shorts with a polka-dot design and singlets of red-white-and-blue. I don’t suppose we made much of
a showing as we bowled on to the field to the polite hand-claps of the Ladies of the Corps. Most of us had that dreadful rinsed-out look which comes from Conferences. We had all constructed heavy shin-pads from the Master-Files. I had nearly a week’s economic despatches down each stocking. Of course with all this defensive equipment we moved like pregnant water-buffaloes. Without grace, without poetry. But we tried to look as if we meant business.

  I must say the three Italian forwards filled me with the liveliest anxiety. They were very large indeed and I noticed that they had long-handled knives in their stockings. I was rather glad that we were all set to lose. The two Ambassadors elected to goal-keep because Heads of Mission don’t like to be seen hurrying. All were at last assembled. The pitch was ankle deep in mud and within a moment the ball resembled a half-mixed cake so that even Arturo, Benjamino and Luigi had some difficulty in pushing it about. It was even harder for us. After a few minutes of desultory running about we were all pretty winded and dispersed while the Italians executed some dashing figures of eight all round us, steadily moving down upon the anxious Polk-Mowbray—remorseless as an enema, old man.

  Our defence was of the open-work variety and within a very few minutes they had scored a goal. Then another. Then another. Everyone beamed and resisted an impulse to cheer. We embraced them. They embraced us. Polk-Mowbray insisted on planting a fraternal kiss upon the Italian Ambassador’s cheek. He, poor man, was deeply moved and clearly no longer miffed in the least. You can say what you like but we British know how to lose gamely. Prefer it, in fact. We had all taken on that frightfully decent look as we puffed about, showing ourselves plucky but inept—in fact in character. Our ladies cheered shrilly and waved their umbrellas.

  By half-time we were seven goals down. Singularly few mishaps had occurred. True the Naval Attaché on the wing (who believed in reincarnation) was badly hacked by a free-thinking third secretary, but nobody gave a fig about that. We were losing, that was the main thing. It was not until half-time that Dovebasket’s dastardly plan came into action. He and De Mandeville gracefully circulated the refreshments—rum cocktails and acid drops—before announcing their intention of retiring from the game “to give the replacements a chance”. Both, it seemed, had slipped a disc. Polk-Mowbray was sympathetic, suspected nothing. “What bad luck,” he cried. And as the whistle went I saw the military attaché’s jeep approaching among the trees with the replacements in it. Two huge figures—Morgan and Bolster—sat in the back, armed cap à pie for the fray. “Well, well, Chancery Guards,” cried Polk-Mowbray democratically. “What an awfully good show! That will freshen us up.” Little did he know.…

  They were huge, old man. I’d never seen them undressed before, so to speak. Such thews. Knotted and gnarled. Real Henry Moore jobs both. And covered in tattooing as well—ships and crowns and girl-friends’ phone-numbers. Worst of all they both wore an air of surly magnificence that can only come from long leisurely potions of Navy Issue rum. They gave off waves of jaunty and illicit self-confidence. My heart began to sink as I watched these case-hardened male-nurses come trotting across the bog to take their place in our forward line. My blood froze as I heard Morgan whisper hoarsely: “Now remember we’ve got to do them proper or Dovie won’t give us our cut, see?” So that was it! A cry broke from my lips. It was drowned by the whistle. We were off like men struggling for life in an ocean of glue.

  What a titanic battle now began between the opposing forwards! The collisions in mid-air, the feints, the sorties, the trapeze-acts! Our innocent little game of push-ball suddenly took on a starker aspect; it was becoming more like a medieval butchery in a tilt-yard. The compatriots of Toscanini sent up musical cries of amazement at this sudden passionate flowering of a skill they did not guess we owned. By a brilliant system of double-entry Morgan and Bolster shot four goals in just over five minutes. Polk-Mowbray began to look faintly alarmed. The Italians, recovering from their surprise, buckled down to the job. The barges, the elbowing, the rabbit-punches on the referee’s blind side began to increase. It was clear that we were losing our amateur status at last. Morgan and Bolster were used to this. For them it was just like winding in a capstan. Counter-barges and counter-shoves followed with the occasional dull thwack of a rabbit-punch. Cries of, “Foul” and, “You keek me, yes?” Two more goals to our credit. “By thunder!” cried Polk-Mowbray passionately. “What is going on?” Well might he ask. Bolster and Morgan were now playing with the concentrated fury of religious fanatics who had glimpsed the Promised Land. I don’t know how much money was at stake. The Italians too had begun to get pretty rough. The pace had also increased. Clash followed upon clash. “Great Heavens!” cried Polk-Mowbray feebly. “Have they not been briefed, the Guards?” Yes, they had; but alas, not in the intended sense.

  There was ten minutes to go when Bolster equalized. A groan went up from Italians and British alike. The Italian Ambassador burst into tears. Arturo began to finger the knife in his stocking and mutter. I felt quite faint just looking at him. The whistle again. By now everyone seemed to have become infected by pure rage. I received a kick from De Ponzo (ordinarily the mildest of men, a father, a bird-watcher)—a kick which left traces. I’ll show you some time. In fact from a diplomatic football match the thing was steadily becoming a spectacle of unbridled bestiality. Such pushing, such cuffing, such heaving and bumping I have never witnessed before or since. And the language—a Saturnalia of Swearing, old man. If I hadn’t been so scared I would have blushed to the roots of my C.M.G. Then at last it came—the dire coup de grâce.

  Bolster opened fire with a boom like a sixteen-inch gun right from the popping-crease as it were. There was cold and dire malevolence about the shot. The sodden leather fairly winged through the sky towards the uncorseted form of the Italian Chief Of Mission. Mind you, for an ethereal sort of man he was quite spirited and did not flinch. There was a hollow concussion followed by a yell as our distinguished colleague received the charge full in the midriff. I felt things going black all round me. What a shot! Yes, and what a casualty—for the poor Ambassador, propelled backwards through his own goal by the sheer force of this flying pudding, was soon lying senseless in the ditch. It seemed to me that all they could do now was to draw a mackintosh reverently over the body before resuming play—as they do at Twickenham. We were now leading by one goal. Imagine our despair! Polk-Mowbray was dancing with rage and consternation in our goalmouth. The ladies were screaming shrilly. Drage was holding a mirror to the Italian Ambassador’s lips and shaking his head sadly. On all sides rose cries for help. Messengers began running in all directions for ambulances.

  And it was now that the tactless Bolster cried merrily: “Another eight minutes to go.” And this tore it, to use a vulgar phrase, tore it good and proper right down the centre. The Italian forwards closed in on him with the manifest intention of wiping the smile from his lips. Morgan intervened. Blows began to be exchanged. The Naval Attaché was struck down. Other peacemakers tried unwisely to intervene. The referee was gouged and swallowed the pea in his whistle. A scuffle now started destined to end in a riot. Knives were drawn. There were slashes and screams. The ladies shrieked in unison. It was nearly ten minutes before the Vulgarian Flying-Squad arrived and surged on to the pitch armed with tommy-guns. We were all under arrest. We were ignominiously handcuffed together for nearly an hour before the doyen could persuade them that we were privileged dips and not subject to the civil penalties of riot. Those not on the list—our forwards and theirs—were carried away in a plain van. The whole thing ended in a scandal.

  And our neat little plan? What is there to add? The vote went against us at UNO, and the Italians stayed miffed. To add insult to injury Dovebasket’s Christmas Card that year showed a Father Xmas in football-boots. Yes, of course they stayed miffed. I bet you the miff remains unrequited to this day.

  No, you’ll never catch me joking about sport.

  A two-to-one Martini

  4

  Something à la Carte?

&nb
sp; The tragedy of Mungo Piers-Foley is one (said Antrobus) which should give every Thoughtful Person Pause. It did me. It still does. By the purest inadvertency he found himself cast into the Bottomless Pit. He was a bit absent-minded that day. Yet what happened to him could happen to any of us.

  Mungo was posted to us from the Blues as Military Attaché, and he was a gallant and carefree young colonel, full of the spice of life. You felt that he had a rich inner nature if only he could be persuaded to open his mouth. He was one of those mournful cylindrical men with hair parted in the middle—men who say little but think a lot. Yet who knows what they think? I don’t. But he was an officer and a gentleman of unblemished reputation and a sportsman to boot. Not only to boot, to saddle as well. He had what is known as a splendid seat. He rode to hounds. However pointless the point-to-point, Mungo would be there, clearing hurdle after hurdle on his thoroughbred mule. He played polo without ever once hitting his horse. Myself I don’t know much about horses, and what little I know seems to me singularly charmless. The last time I went hacking with Polk-Mowbray I got left in a tree for roughly the same reasons as Absalom. But that is neither here nor there.…

  Mungo had won a huge collection of cups and saucers which he wore on his mantelpiece. He shot. He dynamited fish. An all-round sportsman if ever there was one. We were proud of him in the Mission. All this, of course, only made his tragedy harder cheese than ever. It happened while he was in Paris for a week to help reorganize the NATO cavalry to face the threat of a rocket age. On the morning of his return he lurched into my office looking like a lot of overlooked washing-up. “Antrobus,” he said, “Hear my story. I am finished, old thing, absolutely finished. I’ve just put in my resignation and left Polk-Mowbray in tears.” He sat down and fumbled for one of my cigars.