Household Ghosts

by James Kennaway

  ‘So.’

  Almost in passing Barrow said, ‘Jock’s involved,’ and at last it all made sense to Jimmy. He understood the buzz now, and the Colonel’s fidgeting. The game had fallen into his hands. As the situation dawned on Jimmy he began to look sad. He did not enjoy the look in Barrow’s eye: he did not quite believe in the anxious expression. He almost felt that Barrow was cheating. But Jimmy could not have explained these things even to himself. He just had a feeling that way, but his distaste showed clearly in his expression. Meantime Barrow rested on his heels.

  ‘A very unpleasant business. And, as you can appreciate, awkward. My motives are bound to be suspected. Then that’s neither here nor there.’ He was anxious to talk: the words came fast. ‘Clearly I can’t be expected to take a purely objective view of the thing. That’s why I’ve asked Scott to come along. It’s all a great pity.’

  ‘Jock never struck a corporal,’ Jimmy said slowly.

  ‘Well, yes … I’m afraid he did. There’s really not much question about it.’ He went into a few details. The doctor had picked up a great deal of information. He knew Morag was staying over in the Married Quarters.

  ‘All that proves nothing. It’s no business of the doctor’s either,’ Jimmy said. ‘He’s always talking.’

  ‘Jimmy, five minutes ago I received a request from Mr McLean that I should see him as soon as possible.’ He handed over a piece of paper on which the formal request was made. I remain, Sir, your obedient servant.

  ‘So,’ Jimmy said again, and he was prepared to wait until Charlie came round. But he did not get the chance of seeing Charlie before they saw the Colonel. Barrow was too good a tactician. He kept Jimmy with him until Charlie arrived. He invented one reason after another to keep him in the office. Barrow’s mind seemed to be working five times faster than ever before. He was planning fast: interviews ahead.

  And when Charlie came things did not go at all as Jimmy had expected. There was no long discussion. All the pros and the cons were not trundled out. Indeed the preliminaries to the interview were as long as the main discussion itself. Barrow was at his most tortuous. He had a habit of discussing general political news, perhaps because he always knew more of current affairs than any of his colleagues. For the most part the officers lived body and soul within the limits of the high wall; Macmillan could gossip a little on social items, but even he was inclined to concentrate on county news. Some of the other more earnest officers knew something of the disturbances in other parts of the globe, Malaya, Kenya or Korea, because they had friends there, but by and large they were innocent of world, and even of national, affairs. Something had evidently been happening in the United States: it had to do with Communism. There was some scandal about a trial on television. Barrow made reference to it, described it, and condemned it. That took a moment or two and gave time for Charlie to sit back in his chair and stretch out his long legs. He laid his crook beside them. Charlie always carried his crook, rather than the regulation ash walking-stick.

  Jimmy sat on the edge of his chair, impatient of the preliminaries, and he looked hard at Charlie while Barrow outlined the reason for their meeting. To give him his due he put the matter very fairly. He did not ask for a decision until he had mentioned Jock’s name. He could almost certainly have won a tactical point by asking for Charlie’s decision on the basis of the accused being an anonymous officer. But he did not try any tricks, and he added, too, that all he wanted now was Charlie’s opinion. The decision must rest with him, and the only question at this stage was whether a formal enquiry should be conducted. Depending on the results of this independent enquiry a report would or would not go up to Brigade, putting the question of court martial. It was a very fair statement, and Barrow was at his best, a barrister in command of his brief. He seemed much concerned: seemed very sincere. He did not add an unnecessary word.

  Charlie stroked his moustache, then he pouted.

  ‘Well there’s no doubt about it, is there?’

  ‘Please?’ The lines about Barrow’s eyes grew deeper in his anxiety.

  Charlie gave a shrug. ‘Well, of course you’ve got to make an enquiry. We can’t have chaps poking corporals in the eye, after all.’

  Jimmy’s fingers came together: he pitched forward in the low chair. He was so upset by Charlie’s reaction that it took him a moment or two to find words to express himself, even inadequately. He stuttered and made a false start. Then he came back again.

  ‘Charlie … of course we know that, but Jock … hell, it’s different. Jock’s always had his own methods.’ He stopped, and twisted. ‘Och. He must have had reason. If the Corporal was to put in a complaint it might be different, but you know what they are with regard to Jock up at Brigade. A thing like this would kill him. It’s dynamite. Surely the way to do it is for the Colonel here to have a word with him …’ Jimmy looked from one to the other. Barrow’s face was a blank. He stared hard at Charlie who was staring at his toes. Barrow said nothing; he just stared at Charlie with a strange amazement. At last Charlie lifted heavy eyelids and rested his baleful eyes on Jimmy.

  ‘ ’Fraid I can’t agree, old man,’ he said, and Jimmy felt cold.

  ‘But, Charlie …’

  He was interrupted there. Charlie clambered to his feet, addressing Barrow. ‘ ’Course, it’s your decision.’

  ‘Of course,’ Barrow nodded, recovering himself.

  ‘It won’t make you very popular, I’m afraid.’

  Barrow gave a stiff nod.

  ‘That’s the fate of a c.o.,’ he said bravely, and Charlie nodded. Jimmy was still groping about him, hopelessly, but the interview was already over.

  ‘Not nice at all,’ Charlie said, as he knocked along. He explained to Jimmy, at the door, that he had to trundle: there was some sort of kit inspection on that morning. But Jimmy would not let him go. He spoke almost in a whisper, and he made sure the door was closed behind him.

  ‘Charlie, we can’t let it go like this.’

  Charlie shrugged.

  ‘Charlie, we can’t.’

  ‘Old chum: we’ve been boiling up to this for some time. It isn’t nice, but it’s one of those things. Old Jock’s on the rocky side. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d brained the chap.’

  ‘But it’ll finish Jock: it’ll fix him once and for all.’

  ‘That is a pity.’ Charlie drew himself up, and Jimmy looked down at his desk. Just before he went, Charlie said, ‘Don’t take it too hard, chum. I mean we’ve got to think of the Battalion sometimes. Have you ever seen such a shambles? That cocktail party, eh?’

  ‘That was half Barrow’s fault.’

  Charlie smiled.

  ‘That’s quite another problem. But it’s Jock who led us into this state when all’s said and done. Did you see how he behaved over that dancing class? What? The old boy’s a warrior and all that but, old chum, it’s about time we had a colonel again, isn’t it? And just a fragment of discipline. How can you look after the Rattrays when you’ve Jock at the top?’

  ‘D’you think that? D’you really think that?’

  ‘Yep.’ Fraid I do.’

  Jimmy tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘I’ve sometimes thought it,’ he admitted, unwillingly.

  ‘There you are. It’s rough I suppose. And really I don’t want to be involved. Couldn’t want to less. But maybe some day someone’ll put his nose over the barrack wall and really see what goes on. Then what? Eh? It’s not going to be nice at all.’

  Jimmy wavered. ‘Maybe you’re right there. But Jock – well he’s different.’

  ‘Don’t let it give you ulcers, Jimmy. They’ll do the same to you and me one day. I must be rolling. Bloody kit inspection.’ Bye.’

  Simpson, now one move behind events, was anxious to talk things over with Jimmy but he got no further information, and at last he went on his way, leaving Jimmy pacing up and down his little office, biting his lip and scratching his hair.

  A few moments later his train of thought was disturbe
d by noises in the lobby outside, and he recognised Jock’s voice among them. He went out to discover Jock talking to Simpson and Mr Riddick.

  Jock was still looking very crumpled, and if he had not been certain before, Jimmy was then certain of the truth of the story. It was written in every crease in Jock’s clothes, in the hang of his coat: it was written straight across his face. Jimmy was shocked by the sight of him.

  Jock nodded good-morning to him.

  ‘Jimmy, what the hell’s going on here?’

  But Jimmy had still not had time to recover himself. Mr Riddick in twenty years of loud shouting had never lost his voice, and always with his seniors he had a glibness.

  ‘Colonel Sinclair, sir, suggests the Commanding Officer ordered him here for interview this morning.’

  Jock would never ordinarily have let Mr Riddick speak for him. He was the one man in the Battalion who could send him chasing: but he now made no complaint. He merely nodded and said, ‘The other night after the cocktails.’

  Mr Simpson, in his fortnight as Assistant Adjutant, had developed the manner of an aide-de-camp. Everything was difficult if it concerned Barrow. Barrow was always busy.

  ‘The Colonel didn’t mention it this morning. Perhaps he intended to see Colonel Sinclair later.’

  Jimmy looked at him as if he were very far away, then he looked hard at Mr Riddick.

  ‘I’ll cope with this.’ They moved, to go their separate ways. Jimmy looked at Jock and looked away again. ‘There must have been some muck-up. Hang on a minute, Jock, if you will. I’ll go and see him.’ He touched Jock on the elbow as he passed him. Jock nodded gratefully, like a patient at a clinic, and he wandered into Jimmy’s office and played with the inkpot on his desk while the other went next door to tackle Barrow. The sight of Jock fumbling with the inkpot touched Jimmy. He stared back at him through the doorway and he was suddenly ashamed and angry, both at once.

  When Jimmy reminded him of the interview, Barrow rose from his seat and he said secretively:

  ‘Close the door Jimmy; close the door.’ And Jimmy wearily obeyed. ‘Look, I’d forgotten this one. It’s rather awkward. I don’t want to see him now. D’you think he knows?’

  Jimmy did not help. He looked hostile, and Barrow continued, ‘D’you suppose he’s gathered we’re on to something?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea.’

  Barrow nodded. He was upset by the idea of the interview, and he was fidgeting again, but this time not with impatience. He did not know which way to turn. He snatched at the air.

  ‘I say, perhaps it might be an idea if you were to tell him that this business had come out, and it’s clearly better that we didn’t have a talk now. It wouldn’t help. You needn’t tell him I consulted Charlie and you. But put him in the picture.’

  Jimmy was amazed. He took a step forward, and his head was held slightly to one side.

  ‘Me, tell him, Colonel? Me?’

  Barrow panicked a little. He fluttered. He looked back at Jimmy with eyes that had grown darker as his face grew pale. He gave a nervous little smile.

  ‘I thought it might be more tactful.’

  ‘Tactful!’

  Another horrid little smile: Barrow cleared his throat.

  ‘You don’t think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘Colonel, for God’s sake.’

  ‘No. No, perhaps you’re right. Yes, of course. It was only a passing idea. Stupid of me. It would place you in an awkward position. I tell you what. Later. Tell him I’ll see him later.’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Well, this afternoon.’

  ‘He’ll want a time.’

  ‘Five-thirty? Rather late perhaps, but …’

  ‘Five-thirty.’ Jimmy turned, but Barrow spoke again before he opened the door.

  ‘Jimmy, I say. I was rather surprised by Scott’s reaction. What?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘He’s right, of course. Hadn’t expected him to take such an objective view. Jimmy, we must take an objective view. That’s essential. We can’t take any side other than the Battalion’s side. You see that?’

  ‘I understand that.’

  ‘I can assure you that’s what guides me. That’s true. The Battalion’s side.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Barrow’s shoulders dropped. ‘I say, I was thinking of nipping down to the Mess in ten minutes: get a cup of coffee. It’s been quite a morning.’

  Jimmy looked him straight in the eye, and without mercy. Barrow went on:

  ‘Care to come?’

  ‘I’ve a lot on hand, sir.’

  ‘Oh.’ Barrow moved nervously back to his desk. ‘Of course. Righto. I’ll only be gone fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Colonel.’

  THREE

  A SOLDIER DOES not most need a brain to think with, nor yet an arm to strike with; he needs teeth to hang on with, and Jock had those teeth. He went all the way back home, that same Monday morning, and he washed and shaved. He brushed his hair, he put on his best tunic, pulling it tight under his belt so it had no creases, he stared at himself in his mirror, saw to it that his teeth were clean and he said ‘Resilience, boys, resilience.’ He put clean stockings on, and adjusted the bright red flashes on his garters. He dusted his brogues and polished the badge in his bonnet and said, ‘Aye, and we’re dead but we won’t lie down, come away then, come away.’ He polished the buttons on his coat and turned the collar neatly down, he pulled his bonnet over his eye, then with a swagger and a bright dash he swung down to the bridge, across the park, back to barracks.

  He must have understood that they all knew as soon as he put his big nose through the door of the ante-room soon after one o’clock. He twitched his nostrils and his eye roved round the room. Officers were huddled over beers and pink gins. They glanced up at him and mumbled ‘good-morning’ or nodded with studied normality. Barrow had gone into lunch, but most of them were there talking and smoking. Jock gave a little smile as he strode up the middle of the room to the big log fire. Turning his back to it, he lifted up the pleats of his kilt, to warm his bare bottom.

  ‘A-huh,’ he said, ‘Dusty would you be so kind as to push that tit in the wall there, and we’ll see if I can get myself a drink.’

  When the waiter appeared with a tray in his hand, Jock shouted at him across the room.

  ‘Good-morning, Corporal.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  Jock eyed him. ‘You’re feeling the heat, Corporal?’

  The Corporal smiled uncertainly: the other officers were all watching now.

  ‘It’s cold, sir.’

  ‘No wonder it’s cold, lad. You’re nude. Do up your collar button.’

  ‘Sir.’ The Corporal obeyed very quickly and Jock said:

  ‘And you can bring me one hell of a whisky.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Steady, steady; wait there, laddie. What are you drinking, Charlie?’

  Charlie hesitated, ‘Actually, thinking of lunch … you know …’ he mumbled on.

  ‘What are you drinking, eh? I’m asking something that’s a question of fact.’ Jock gave a little grin, and looked all round the room. ‘Not just a rumour,’ he said, and there was a little stir. ‘What’s in your hand?’

  ‘Pink.’

  ‘And one hell of a pink,’ Jock gave the order.

  ‘You, Jimmy?’

  ‘Bottle of beer.’

  Jock turned to the waiter again: ‘And two bottles of beer in one can. C’mon, c’mon gents, make your orders. It’s too cold a morning not to have something to drink … Well, well; and what’s news today? Eh, is there no news?’ His head on one side. ‘Surely we’ve some bit of gossip, eh, MacKinnon?’

  ‘It snowed,’ MacKinnon said, rather frightened, and then he blushed. Jock gave a roar of laughter.

  ‘Plus ten for observation, lad,’ he said, but with a broad grin that would have made anything he said sound pleasant. It was as if the officers sitting there were tired members of some orchestra, and
in the hands of the cleverest conductor. Slowly, with something less immediate than magnetism, more like a sort of suction, he was drawing life out of them. They all began to look up, and take notice. They stared at him as if it were the first time they had seen him; and perhaps more – as if it were the last time.

  Jock had never looked so gallant since the days before the peace. He found his charm again that morning: his eyes twinkled, and his hands moved with an eloquence. Soon after, he was recalling the days when the Battalion had been taken back for rest, shortly before the end of the war. The officers had stayed for a while in a ridiculous Belgian country house which still had great oil paintings on the wall, but which was equipped with Naafi furniture. There they had stayed until they dispersed for leave. Most of them had gone as far as Brussels. Some had gone home. But Jock had stayed there all the time, and when they had returned in ones and twos, lonely and dejected, Jock had been there in front of the fire, warming his celebrated bottom. The memory was only vivid for one or two of them now: others were of an age to have known it but they had been with some other Battalion at the time, with the Second in the Far East, or on special duties, or they had been prisoners. But they were all interested to hear Jock speak of it, because he never spoke much of the days of his glory. It would have been impossible for him to recall truthfully one week of the campaign without sounding now as if he were bragging, and something made him brag about other things. They had all heard about his piping and his boxing days, the days he had told the Sergeant-Major off, and so on and on. But this was the very first time some of them had heard him speak of the war, and he suddenly engulfed them with the same charm that buoyed them all up in the bad old days. Those that had been there remembered only too vividly, and Jimmy looked quite upset. He had been a platoon commander then, dressed up to be shot, and he came back from his aunt in Crieff, taking two nights on the journey. At three o’clock, burdened with kit and straps, he had shoved his way into the hall of this house in Belgium. There, on a red trolley with chrome wheels, two other subalterns were tobogganing down the corridor. They greeted him with the kind of sickeningly hearty welcome that athletes give you when you are wrapped up in your overcoat, and Jimmy did no more than nod and say as enthusiastically as he could that he had enjoyed his leave. He wandered over to the table in a spin of loneliness and there he found a letter from his sister which had been written to him before he went on leave. He knew about it; he knew what it said; he had seen her since: but the pitch of his loneliness was such that he put it in his pocket and gripped it hard as he went into the room which they called the ante-room, just for old times’ sake. It was really the drawing-room.