Household Ghosts

by James Kennaway

  ‘He’s away. He’ll be back the morn.’

  Barrow was firm and collected. But his neck seemed to have grown longer and he stretched it frequently. He clipped his words short. He said quietly, ‘Yes, I gathered that. I came to see you, actually. Did I wake you?’

  Jock rolled over and looked at him with a bland eye.

  ‘A-huh.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It is rather important, Jock.’

  Jock seemed exhausted. He hauled himself up on one elbow and nodded his head. His hair was tousled and spiky. He reached out for a cigarette, but the packet on the bedside table was empty. Barrow watched him and he felt in his cardigan pockets.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t brought my case.’

  Jock nodded towards his battledress, flung untidily over the chair. ‘There’s another packet in my pouch there. My lighter should be in there too.’

  The Colonel started to burrow for them and Jock said:

  ‘What’s the time, Colonel? I thought it was five-thirty, our date?’

  ‘That,’ he touched his moustache, ‘that was the plan. I wanted to change it. I’m sorry to have woken you.’

  He gave Jock the cigarettes, and they each took one. Barrow tried valiantly with the lighter, taking it in both hands at last, striking it clumsily with his forefinger. But his hands were not steady and the gadget refused to work and Jock grew impatient.

  ‘Here; give.’

  Barrow smiled as he handed it over.

  ‘My hands are useless.’

  ‘A-huh,’ Jock replied, still bored, and with one sharp movement of his big thumb he turned the steel, and the flame appeared. Barrow gave a funny little shrug but Jock did not smile.

  ‘I thought you were out shooting.’

  ‘No. I …’ He paused. ‘I decided not to go till later.’

  Jock adjusted his pillow, and taking a breath of his cigarette he lay back, and stared at the ceiling, prepared to say nothing. Barrow looked at him for a moment, then he twisted, and moved to the far corner of the room. He stood beside the basin, and as he talked he leant back on the window-sill behind him.

  ‘Jock, this is quite unofficial, you understand. I don’t know how much the others have told you. I don’t know how much you’ve heard.’ Jock ran his tongue round his lip, and spat away a little flick of tobacco.

  ‘Well, actually the cat’s out of the bag,’ Barrow went on hurriedly. ‘I like to have things out in the open, you understand. I know all about it.’

  Jock looked at him slowly.

  ‘If you’re trying to bewilder me, Colonel, you’re doing fine,’ he said at last, and Barrow leant forward and started to play with the tap on the basin. He turned it off and on once or twice before he composed himself.

  ‘I’ll be quite frank, Jock. I’ve nothing to hide. I haven’t come here to bewilder you, as you say. I’ve come for quite another reason.’

  ‘A-huh.’

  The tap was turned on again.

  ‘I think you know quite well what I mean when I say the cat’s out of the bag. Come, Sinclair, as I say, this is quite an unofficial visit. I know very well you struck Fraser last night.’

  ‘You’ve got the evidence?’

  He replied quietly, ‘I said I know very well.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘More than one person.’

  ‘McLean?’ Jock sat up and looked at him suspiciously. ‘Did you say you’d seen McLean?’

  ‘I didn’t say so, but I have. Jock, this isn’t the point.’

  ‘It is for me, Colonel. Who else have you seen?’

  Barrow moved impatiently.

  ‘Please. Let me say what I have to say. I like to have things in the open. I don’t like deception. But this isn’t easy for me.’

  Jock gave a little chuckle. ‘For Christ’s sake. What d’you think it is for me? A bloody picnic?’

  ‘No.’ Barrow looked at him steadily. ‘No, I don’t think that. I think it’s very serious for you. And I’m sorry. Really sorry. I mean that.’ Jock still did not reply so Barrow turned the tap on again. ‘I must add …’

  Jock couldn’t hear for the splash of the water in the basin.

  ‘For Christ’s sake turn that thing off. Come again. What d’you say?’

  Barrow turned off the tap, pointed his fingertips together and stretched his neck.

  ‘I must add that I haven’t come here to say that I am sorry for what I have done. No. Rather am I sorry for what I have had to do.’ It was a prepared speech. The mirror rehearsal was reflected in every sentence. ‘I am sorry for what has had to be done.’

  ‘Och, to hell with all that.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘A-huh. All right. Good for you. I don’t know what the hell you’ve done, anyway.’

  The Colonel did not seem to hear him. He was saying the things he had prepared himself to say, like an unpopular candidate at a political meeting, reciting his manifesto to an inattentive crowd.

  ‘In spite of the interpretation some people may like to give to my actions I can say honestly, Sinclair, I can say truthfully, that it has not been pleasant for me. On the contrary.’ He began again, ‘Although our relationship has not been an easy one I myself believe this to have been entirely dictated by the circumstances in which we found ourselves. Given another set of circumstances I think I can say that we could have taken a very different view of each other. Perhaps we have in common more than is supposed …’ He paused there. He had flung out a rope, and he waited but Jock never moved, so he was forced to go on. ‘It is a pity … But whatever the circumstances no reasonable man can be expected to enjoy the business of hurting a brother officer …’

  ‘Och, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Believe me Sinclair, circumstances allowed me no choice.’

  ‘Man, you’re not making sense to me at all. Just what have you done?’

  Barrow shrugged. ‘I have done what I considered it my duty to do. That’s all. I have started formal enquiries … Of course, it will be a matter for Brigade.’

  Jock blinked. Barrow went on, as if the details bored him. They ran out one after another.

  ‘Oh, I checked that the stories tallied, then I had Simpson in, and then,’ he shrugged. ‘Then I set the ball rolling. Mr Riddick’s busy now collecting formal evidence with a view to court martial.’

  ‘Mr Riddick would be pleased,’ Jock said with a snort.

  ‘He’s not a friend of yours?’

  ‘It’s a surprise to me how much you’ve learnt so quickly, and how much you’ve missed.’

  Barrow smiled warily. ‘That’s always the way in a foreign country.’

  ‘A-huh.’ Jock was alive enough, once again, to give himself time to regain some sense of tactics. ‘So you’re sorry.’

  ‘Yes. Yes I am. I don’t say I shouldn’t have done it. Mind you, Sinclair, I’m not here to justify myself. The decisions I took were not, I believe, the wrong ones.’ He paused and looked out the window. ‘But when I saw you this afternoon by the fire downstairs, I suppose I knew just how sorry I was. I genuinely hope Brigade decides to dismiss the thing. I can assure you I would support any such recommendation.’

  The Colonel seemed to want to say something quite different and quite plain but his words, like his feelings, were half strangled. He turned, expecting some encouragement: some reward for his gesture. He wanted more than anything in the world the relief of a handshake. ‘Well,’ Jock might have said, ‘There it is. Just one of those things.’ Or even, ‘Good of you to say so.’ That was part of the equation. That would have been enough. But Jock never fought to finish with a handshake. He fought to kill.

  ‘A-huh. Well, if you’re all that sorry, do I take it you’re withdrawing the enquiries, eh? Do I take this as the rap over the knuckles. Is that it?’

  Barrow was stiff and collected again. ‘I wish you could. I’m afraid that’s out of the question.’

  ‘What d’you mean? Has the report gone off?’

  ‘No … No, I ha
ven’t even seen it. The charges haven’t been formulated. But it must be common news by now. Mr Riddick’s started.’

  ‘You could still refuse to pass the case up farther. Say you’re dealing with it yourself … Well, couldn’t you?’

  ‘You know I couldn’t. It’s a court-martial offence.’

  ‘You’re still the Colonel.’

  The Colonel swallowed: ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘Och, to hell with you, Barrow. Are you a man or a book? You said yourself, you said to Jimmy, you’re only here a year or two. You’ll be away up to Brigade. You said yourself you didn’t care about this lark. Didn’t you?’

  The Colonel shrugged. He nearly laughed.

  ‘News gets around,’ he said faintly. ‘How news gets round!’ Then he turned away. He got nearer to the truth than was comfortable for him.

  ‘God in heaven, nothing’s ever mattered to me more. You said a minute ago that I wasn’t observant. I’m surprised at you.’

  ‘You do care?’

  ‘Of course I care,’ he said softly. ‘Isn’t it everybody’s dream to have his Battalion?’ He was hurting himself purposely, with a sort of joy.

  ‘Then what was all that you said to Jimmy t’other night? What was all that in aid of, eh?’

  Barrow now sighed, softly.

  ‘I suppose it was the same as the shooting this afternoon. Call it a fib.’

  Jock shook his head. ‘You’re a bloody queer one,’ he said, and leant back on his pillows. Barrow smiled rather hopelessly and he agreed.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ Jock said scornfully. ‘You’re too yellow to see me this morning, then off you go and you start all these enquiries to axe me down. Then you’re in a funk again so you come and say sorry, but you’re still too bloody funk to go back on yourself.’

  ‘Yes.’ Barrow’s face fell. He nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. It’s not actually the way I see it.’

  ‘Och. For Christ’s sake. What the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jock. It would do the Battalion great harm, you know, to let a thing like this ride. It is my business to think of the Battalion. I can assure you it was that which guided me. I’m most awfully sorry.’

  Jock’s fists grew tight with anger. He spat as he talked, and his face grew very red.

  ‘To hell with you, Barrow Boy. You haven’t heard half of it. I’ve given you your chance but you wouldn’t bloody take it.’ He made a wide sweeping gesture. ‘It’s your own bloody funeral. D’you think I’ve no friends, eh? When it comes to it, they’ll matter, and they saw you at the cocktail party, Barrow. For Christ’s sake, they’ve come all the way with me. What about Charlie, eh? If it comes to court d’you no think he’ll have something to say? Aye, and what about my Adjutant? What about Jimmy? Eh? What’s he going to say? He was a boy, Jimmy was. I taught him to be a soldier, d’you follow? D’you think he’s going to say anything except what a bloody piece of cheek it is you taking it as far as a court?’

  Barrow looked at him sadly, and let him run on. Jock shook his head like a turkey.

  ‘Bachch … it’s you that’ll be looking silly, I’m telling you.’

  Barrow put his hands in his cardigan pockets.

  ‘I blame myself most for not having come and spoken to you earlier on. We could have avoided all this.’

  ‘Ach,’ Jock said, and he leant back on his pillows again and closed his eyes. He pretended Barrow wasn’t there. But Barrow, almost to spite himself or purge himself, seemed determined to go on. He went on and on, although Jock never spoke: not a muscle of his face moved. Barrow might have been talking to a stone and he knew this very well. Indeed he spoke as if he were addressing trees. He spoke at length, but apparently without feeling. His voice was as resigned as a ghost’s. The pitch of it never rose or fell. And Jock never replied. They might have been ignorant of each other’s presence.

  ‘… That’s why, I suppose, it meant so much tome. As a matter of fact I’ve always wanted to be with the Battalion, and somehow I’ve always been moved on elsewhere. But I know a great deal about it, you know. Perhaps you’d be surprised to hear I’m writing a history of it now. That’s why I’ve such an admiration for you. I have. I … I know that desert campaign as if I’d been there myself. The night you took over, in the light of the flares. Five hundred were killed and wounded that night. Five hundred and forty-two officers and men, to be precise. Quite a battle. The wounded put their rifles, bayonet in the ground, to mark where they were. And you brought in the carriers, wasn’t that it? Somebody had a phrase for you – I think it was the Pipe-Major – “Like a Bobby at a tattoo”,’ he said.

  His words fell on the air. The only other noise was the faint scraping of the shovels as the detention squad continued to scrape clear the square outside.

  ‘I was in gaol, as you put it: I was cooped up then with some very unpleasant Japs. But I said I’d get back to the Battalion: back to Scotland. I loved it here, you know, as a subaltern. Even the weather had a sort of thrill for me. I used to look out at this barrack square and dream that one day I … I knew a lot of people who have gone away.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Jock still kept his eyes closed.

  ‘Of all people, I’m sorry I should have had to do this to you. Then perhaps that’s fate. D’you ever feel that you’re just playing out some move that’s already been arranged for you? D’you feel that?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Oh. That’s how I’ve felt. I …’

  ‘Look, I’m tired. I’m played out.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. You look tired. Well at least I’ve said something of what I’d meant to say. I can’t expect you to forgive me now, but I do hope, in the future, sometime, you’ll …’ His voice trailed away, and there was a pause.

  Then suddenly Barrow sounded angry; angry with Jock for his rudeness, but more angry with himself. He began to sweat a little.

  ‘No man is bigger than the Battalion, Jock. That’s what I’ve had to remember. So don’t misinterpret me. I didn’t come here to apologise for my actions. Oh no. I came here to say I was sorry that it had to be you. Sorry you’d made such a damned ass of yourself. There it is then; there it is.’

  Jock lay absolutely still, waiting for him to leave. Then at last, very suddenly, Barrow said, ‘Of course you’re tired,’ and with that same little stretch of his neck, he left the room, as if he’d just called to borrow a cigarette.

  ‘Yes? What is it, Sergeant-Major?’

  Mr Riddick never enjoyed being called Sergeant-Major but this was a mistake Barrow often made when he was in an impatient mood.

  Mr Riddick had caught him just outside the Battalion H.Q. offices. He had a board with several important papers attached to it tucked smartly underneath his arm, as if it were a drill stick.

  Barrow looked hopelessly round the square as he waited for Mr Riddick to speak. He looked at the barracks as if it were a prison from which there was no escape. The sky itself was like a low roof.

  Mr Riddick took some time to compose himself. Barrow pitched his weight back on one heel and knocked a little bit of hard snow to the side of the path with the toe of his other foot.

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘Sir. Been talking with the Pipe-Major, sir. I believe he’s had a word with the Adjutant.’

  Barrow stared into his face, half savage and half bored.

  ‘Go on, go on.’

  When he was uncertain of himself Mr Riddick talked louder than ever.

  ‘Perhaps we’re being a little hasty with this enquiry, sir.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Sir. Wouldn’t express an opinion of this sort unless I felt it was the over-all opinion of the non-commissioned ranks, sir. It does seem as how they feel such an enquiry would do more harm …’

  ‘Mr Riddick, you astonish me.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I thought I gave an order that the evidence s
hould be collected.’

  ‘Sir. I understood the order, sir.’

  ‘Well, dammit, obey me.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Barrow relaxed a little.

  ‘Of course, this can’t be a popular order. But it is an order. It’s the good of the Battalion we must think of.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, it was the good of the Battalion we were considering. Feel the Battalion might be best served if you were to deal with this little matter yourself, sir. Battalion would support you, sir.’

  ‘There’s no question of that, d’you hear me?’ Barrow could have been heard a hunded yards off. ‘No question of it. Dammit, the Sergeants’ Mess isn’t a senate.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Barrow lowered his voice.

  ‘For God’s sake, Mr Riddick, if an officer strikes another rank he has to pay for it, hasn’t he? Well, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Well, get cracking with it.’

  ‘Sir. Considered it my duty to raise it, sir.’

  ‘Very well. You raised it. Now get on with it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  A tremendous salute followed and the R.S.M. about-turned and marched off. Barrow watched him, and he fidgeted. Mr Riddick would not have raised the question unless the pressure had been very strong: he loathed Jock.

  This would be a perfect opportunity to redress some of the damage. As he thought of that, Barrow heard his own light voice echo in his ears. The banalities were like a chorus. The good of the Battalion. Duty. Honesty. There was something false about the very sound of the name Sinclair, as it fell from his lips.

  ‘Mr Riddick?’

  Had Mr Riddick come back to him it might have been different but he did not. He halted some twenty paces away and he shouted from there. His voice echoed giddily round and round the cold square.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Mr Riddick, I …’ Barrow’s hands fell limp. He twitched his moustache. ‘I want that report tonight,’ he said flatly. The echo of his voice was tired and high and it was smothered by Mr Riddick’s final ‘Sir!’