Desmond drove on unspeaking, and in half an hour they were at Hornchurch. Asking for the headquarters of the battalion, Phillip was told it was at Grey Towers, the turrets of which could be seen among trees.
Fifty yards inside the gate was a wooden hut, set to one side of the gravel drive. He stopped, and knocked at the door, entered, and saw a red-faced youth half-risen from a blanket-covered trestle table and shouting, “What the bloody hell do you want? I told you I haven’t got the blasted book of railway warrants, didn’t I?”
To Phillip’s surprise the young captain was addressing an old major, whose face showed amusement.
“Second Lieutenant Maddison reporting for duty, sir!”
“——off!” replied the captain amiably. “This isn’t the Orderly Room. Anyway you’re bloody late.”
“Can you direct me to the Orderly Room, sir.”
“The Old Man and the Adj. are in town. This is ‘A’ Company’s Office. —— off!”
“Where shall I —— off to, sir?” asked Phillip, observing a look of humour in the eyes of this very young captain. Before the captain could reply, he gave brief details of himself, standing to attention, aware that the large hands before him on the blanket table were red and raw, the lips thick, the band of the new service cap already saturated with hair-oil, the fingers yellow with nicotine.
The old major looked at Phillip quizzically. “Weren’t you the young feller that come to see Colonel Broad at Alexandra Palace, on a motor-cycle with O.H.M.S. painted across the forks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You had a nerve, didn’t you, to call yourself O.H.M.S.?”
“I was on His Majesty’s Service, sir.”
“Is that your car outside?” asked the captain suddenly looking up.
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that O.H.M.S. likewise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s the tommy sitting in it?”
“He’s a friend taking the runabout back to London for me.”
“You couldn’t have timed it better, cock! The major and I’ve got to hop up to town On His Majesty’s Service, so your friend can take us. You’ve been posted to Captain Kingsman’s Company. Go and ask the mess sergeant where that is. I’ll show you the mess, I’m just going there myself.”
He got up, shook himself into a greatcoat, with red piping on the epaulettes set with very new gilt stars, and said to the major, “We’re in Meredith, we’re in! I’ll bring your old iron back tonight O.H.M.S. You don’t mind my borrowing it, do you?”
“It’s got no lamps, sir.”
Outside the mess house Phillip gave Desmond a pound note, saying, “In case you need some petrol. If not, borrow it. Shove the ’bus in Wetherley’s before lighting-up time. I must get some carbide head-lamps. Meanwhile, ask him if he’s got any oil lamps, though O.H.M.S. will get past any copper.”
With mixed feelings Phillip watched the major getting in beside Desmond, to slam the door with violence. What about my new paint and varnish, he thought, as the captain put a nailed boot on a mudguard to get into the dickey seat, where he lolled sideways, knees up, breeched thighs and leather legs angular as he rested his spurs on the other mudguard. With a grating of gears the runabout drove away round the drive, the captain giving him a wave of his heavy ash-wood riding-crop.
“Of all the blasted cheek,” said Phillip, as he walked towards the ivy-covered house, and went through the porch into the hall.
“Good afternoon,” said a short, spruced-up officer, coming down the uncarpeted wooden stairs. “My name is Milman. May I be of assistance? I’m going away on four days’ leave, and my bed is at your disposal if you need one. Perhaps I may show you your room? The mess president is away, at the moment. What about your valise?”
“I didn’t bring it. I hoped to be able to go back for it. Can you tell me where I can find Captain Kingsman?”
“He’s just gone on week-end leave.”
“Oh hell. Who’s in command of the Company, in his absence, d’you know?”
“Captain Bason.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He’s just left for Town,” said a tall dark subaltern coming down the stairs.
“I think I can fix you up with some kit,” smiled Milman. Phillip had liked him at once. He was alert, dapper, with brown upturned moustaches, and looked about twenty-five.
“I’d like to introduce to you my great friend, Thompson,” he said.
“How do you do?” said Phillip.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“Not so dusty.”
“Splendid! Let me show you the geography of the place.”
“This way,” said Milman, giving way for Phillip to follow Thompson.
Upstairs, in a large bare room with camp-beds, Phillip waited while one found him a towel, the other offered use of razor, soap, and folding camp mirror. An ancient batman stood by, a thin broken-pearly forelock pressed with water on his brow. Long horizontal waxed strings of a Matabele moustache wandered around the lobes of his ears. His left breast had all the old ribands.
While this was going on, a third officer at the far end of the room remained standing there with his back turned to the others. He was dipping a toothbrush into a saucer, and rubbing it into his hair. Milman, doing the honours, called to him across the room, “May I introduce——” whereupon a lined face set with sandy eyes under sparse hair lying back in streaks from the forehead was turned in their direction.
“Permit me to finish my toilet before you assault me in my dressing-room with your blasted pretentiousness, will you?” and the owner of the voice returned to work with the toothbrush.
Milman, for a moment, seemed to be quelled. He looked a little helpless, then recovering, said to Phillip, “May I offer you the services of my batman to show you the geography of the place?”
“Don’t forget the ‘laounge’,” called out the man with the toothbrush.
“Very good, sir!” cried the batman. “It’s a nice little place, you’ll find, and very comfortable, is the laounge. You can enjoy yourself there.”
Phillip imagined himself telling Mrs. Neville all about the comic scene: the batman’s head on his stringy neck shaking slightly; his cheeks sunken, the spikes of his waxed moustache sticking out wider than his ears, despite the ears being set almost at right angles to the skull. The ears of an earnest, human cabbage, saying, “We’ll come to the laounge presently, sir. I’ll show you it all in good time. First, here is the geography of the place!” He flung open a door, inviting Phillip to enter. “A moment, sir!” as he pushed past him, apparently to remove a solitary floating match-stick by pulling the plug. “Very comfortable, sir, you see.”
“And this is the bath-room,” as he flung open another door. As though to demonstrate further the principle of water seeking the lowest level, he turned on first one tap, then the other.
“Nothing like a good ’ot bath once-ta-week, sir!”
“I prefer a cold tub, myself,” said Phillip.
“Yes, sir, a pukka sahib’s cold tub, quite right, sir! This way, sir, mind the stairs, sir, they’re slippery with elbow grease.”
At the bottom by the newel post the small officer with the Kaiser moustache was waiting. With a wave of the hand he stepped back from the open door of a room, to allow Phillip to enter before him. The batman hurried in afterwards, saying, “This ’ere’s the laounge, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s my turn to be the wine-waiter straight away.” He disappeared.
“Will you care to have a drink with me?” said Milman, with a couple of twists upon his moustache. “You will? I’ll ring for the wine-waiter.”
The old batman reappeared, wearing a white jacket, and apologising for not wearing what he called the ‘mascot’. He took the order, and while he was away, Milman’s friend, Thompson, joined them. Phillip began to enjoy himself. It was better than he had expected. The batman came in with a tray bearing three glasses of whiskey, and a siphon of soda. He now wo
re, proudly it seemed, a small silver shield on a chain round his neck, engraved PORT. He nodded and smiled at Phillip like an old friend, and said, “Sorry, gents, I forgot me gloves this time. Wood, all wood,” as he tapped his head.
Phillip thought that he would show no surprise at this unusual sort of mess. Seeing his eyes on the silver label, Milman said, when the waiter had gone, “The label should be worn for mess dinner, of course, and then only on social nights when the King’s health is proposed by the orderly officer.”
“I see. Is that an old regimental custom?”
“I rather think it was an idea of Major Fluck, the Mess President.”
“Oh yes?”
At this point Thompson said to Milman that they had not too much time if they were to catch their train, and making their excuses for leaving him alone, the two friends went upstairs together; to reappear, as Phillip was ordering himself another whiskey, in identical greatcoats with slung haversacks, calf-skin gloves, and leather-covered short canes. Both looked in the door to say, “Au revoir”, before departing. He watched the two walking down the drive in step, Milman taking long strides and Thompson short ones.
He sat down with The Daily Trident. Opening it, he read that fireworks had been forbidden in London “under severe penalties”, on Guy Fawkes’ night. Then the communique from the Western Front. Nothing of further interest, so throwing down the newspaper, he collected a pile of periodicals on his lap. The first was an old copy of Land and Water. An article on Strategy by Hilaire Belloc caught his eye. Uncle Hugh used to quote a poem about the Boer War by Belloc, something about gold and diamond mines, a satire. Belloc’s article proving to be unreadable, he turned the pages of Punch, They reminded him of unfunny jokes in the dreary dentists’ room in the High Road, so Punch fell to the floor with Land and Water. Tit Bits flopped on top of Punch. He read the Things we want to know column in London Mail, then took The Times, to seek in the Roll of Honour casualties in the Gaultshires; a few names only, none he recognised; obviously the Loos casualties were not yet published. His eye ran down The London Gazette, wondering if there had been any promotions in the other regiments with which he had served. Ah, Flynn, the bed-wetter, had resigned his commission in the Cantuvellaunians, on grounds of ill-health. Who else had been hoofed out? He sought other entries of officers coming unstuck, or stellenbosched, as Lieut. Brendon, who had served in the Boer War, called it. There were several ways in which an officer could be turfed out of the army, beginning with resigns on account of ill-health, otherwise incompetence, for genuine ill-health would merit invalided out of the service, which meant a pension. Resigns his commission was rather bad, but Resigns his commission, the King having no further use for his services, was worse. Dismissed the service by sentence of a General Court Martial was a disgrace. Cashiered was the end of all things, for you would not then serve again, even as a private.
He pressed the bell, and ordered a large whiskey and soda; then taking out his pocket book, added the sum of £1 to the column of figures which represented previous loans to Desmond, now a total of £19 10s. He had kept account of these items as he kept his own column of receipts each month from pay and allowances, and also half-quarterly payments of salary from the Moon Fire Office. With relief he determined that his account, when Wetherley’s cheque had been presented, would still be about £11 in credit. Officers who gave dud cheques, or stumers as they were called, faced court-martial, and at best dismissal from the service; at worst, they were cashiered. He had known that his account was in funds, and knew also that Wetherley had some security for £10 at least in the motor-bike.
There was another column for money borrowed by Eugene, totalling £13. He had no thoughts of money ever being paid back; both were his friends, and money anyway was to be spent, or used, on behalf of friends. He had given his mother £5, to help with the housekeeping—which meant Mavis’s constant demands for money, as she spent most of her salary on clothes, which were a sort of fetish with her—some women were mad on clothes, why, he could not think.
He was putting away his pocket diary when he was aware of somebody else in the room, although he had heard no sound. Turning his head, he saw the elderly subaltern, who had been at work with toothbrush and saucer in the bedroom. It seemed polite to stand up, since he was a newcomer.
“No need to get up,” said an even voice. “Although one appreciates the courtesy to another senior by age. Has Milman gone? He gets my goat with his damned mincing ways. Bogus little man!”
Phillip thought that the less he said the better; he was wary of this man with the face of a faded desert cat.
The hard yellow eyes in the rutted face seemed to be weighing him up as he leaned sideways and pressed the bell. Almost at once the wine-waiter or butler labelled PORT wobbled through the door. His scanty hair was flatter than before, his moustaches curled upwards in thin strings, and white cotton gloves seemed about to drop off his fingers as he put his tray down.
“Bring me a large pink gin, and see that it is Pickelson’s this time, not Hooth’s.”
“Certainly, sir, very good, sir!”
The old fellow picked his way out, a model of Victorian military earnestness.
“What did you think of our Cabin Boy? He was an apprentice in the Merchant Service last week, and came straight to the battalion on his eighteenth birthday as a captain. What it is, to have a socialist member of Parliament for a father! Was that your motor?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lend it, may I ask?”
“Well——”
“Probably you are quite right. The thing here is to be on the right side, as apparently you have already realised. I should advise an upstanding, handsome young man like yourself to pay court to the Colonel’s daughter, then you may find yourself with three pips instead of one. But you’ll find Milman a keen rival, I warn you.”
The speaker walked up and down in front of the fire, and went on, “If you’re not doing anything else, would you care to come to Town with me, and look for a couple of girls? The place is beginning to swarm with enthusiastic amateurs, as you probably know.”
Phillip had never been to the West End at night, and from what he had heard from his mother, it was a highly dangerous place; there it was that Uncle Hugh had come a cropper. This man was obviously a bad companion.
“I’m orderly officer, I’m afraid.”
A tall motor car stopped outside the window. “I would have appreciated your company. I’ve got very few friends in London, having lived abroad before the war.”
Phillip offered the other a cigarette; which, without a glance, was refused.
“I smoke my own. Turkish. American tobaccos offend my sense of smell.”
He selected a fat oval cigarette from a gold case, and fitted it carefully, after tapping, to his dry lips. “I was in tobacco before the war, at Smyrna, and managed to bring back a thousand or so with me. Turkish leaf will soon be unobtainable in this country, there is little left in bond. What will happen after the war, I dare not think. The Gyppies are capturing the market now, since Turkey is blockaded. Well, it was a good life while it lasted. For all its filth, Smyrna is the place to live! Give me a twelve-year-old Circassian girl who has been properly trained, to come into a man’s bed, slowly, past his feet, gradually to his knees, and you can have all your English flappers!”
Discomposed and silent, attracted yet repelled, Phillip stood by while the other put on a short fawn-coloured pea-jacket with flapped pockets that ended on the same line as his tunic. Then he fitted on a floppy trench cap, the brim of which was set at an angle to cut the line of the brow: and having put up jacket collar, stuck hands in pockets, hunched shoulders, thrust out chin, he turned his face so that a wolfish profile was visible.
“That’s the stance. The bum-freezer gets a girl, where the common or garden greatcoat with its protective swaddling has no attraction at all.”
“How do you mean?”
“The hunched shoulders and slightly bowed back tend t
o emphasise the look of a lonely soldier. It arouses the maternal instinct. Next, the prowling young female notices the bum-freezer, the shortness of which emphasises the desirability of the buttocks and the length of one’s legs. One must stand still, of course, the quintessence of a lonely soldier, thus inducing in the girl that baby-in-the-bulrushes feeling.”
The driver sitting at the wheel of the Argyll landaulette beyond the window gave two hoarse honks on the horn. The man in the pea-jacket swirled the remains of the pink gin in his glass, tossed the liquid into his mouth, appearing to catch it at the back of his gold teeth without touching either tongue or metal; then holding back his head, he let the liquid run down his throat.
“I can see that your education has been neglected, my young friend. Another time let us pursue further the all-important subject of l’amour.” With a short cane under one arm he turned at the door to say, “No good with a walking-stick! That’s the prop of the English country gentleman, making love as he rushes his fences in the hunting field.”
With considerable relief Phillip saw him getting in beside the driver; then with a grind of Glaswegian machinery the Argyll moved off, and out of sight, but not of sound, around the bend of the carriage sweep.
Phillip returned to the fire. What could he do? He saw the mess waiter in the doorway, and called him. The man wobbled forward. The ends of his moustaches, he noticed, were wet.
“Who was that officer?”
“Mr. Wigg, sir. A real gent, sir.”
“Oh! Are there any other officers about?”
“Most on’m’s already gone on leaf, sir.”
“Where’s the mess sergeant?”
“Gone ’ome to see ’is missus, sir. On week-end leaf, sir.”
“Are you going on week-end leaf?”
“What me, sir? I’m the wine-waiter, sir!”
“Good. Let me have another large whiskey and soda, will you.”
When it had been brought, he said, “What do you all do here, when you are here, I mean? Dig trenches?”
“We ’ave done a spot o’ diggin’ in the past, sir, but not lately. The boys goes for rowt marches, drills like on the square, care of arms in ’uts; and generally prepares themselves for what’s to come.”
The Golden Virgin Page 5