‘You’ve certainly been getting about.’ Harry picked up the stubby pipe, saw it was out and put it back. ‘The boys in blue even had you flagged for passing betting slips Whitechapel way.’
Ratcatcher, of course. ‘My visiting that newsagent? He has the widest selection of French papers, even Populaire.’ He should take his book back, take the ten bob note, see if Dinah had written to him there.
‘Cosmopolitan, Whitechapel. Anway, the local bobbies have been warned off.’ He drank his coffee and munched his tart, studying Peter as it all sank in. ‘Tart’s good. At all events, you’ve friends in the right places. It always helps. Chitties have gone back and forth. The hounds have been kennelled. For the moment. Some officers need a success to show the politicians they’re on top of things—and still believe you could be their prizewinner. So, the advice is: steps must be taken.’ He was relighting the stubby pipe and pulling on it until it glowed. ‘You could be in a great deal worse spot. How’d you like to join the Army?’
‘I imagine I’ll be called sooner rather than later.’
‘Your supporters high and low think your time has come. Join up. Disappear from view and demonstrate your patriotic credentials at the same time. Others have done it.’
‘What if I don’t?’
‘Peter, even with your supporters pulling strings, don’t believe the hounds can be called off for the indefinite future. Making a case against you could show they’re worth their kennel fees.’
‘But could they prove anything in court?’
‘Court? Who said anything about court?’
Peter absorbed that. ‘And if I do? Join up.’
‘You should be safe. It isn’t going to be a smart unit. No palace guard duty and the RSM doesn’t read Debrett. Your friends won’t visit and your card will be marked. After a year, who knows. If the show lasts that long.’
‘Why aren’t you lining up with the others?’
‘I remember you the night you saved my hat. Shall we just say I don’t have a good feeling about it all?’ They would meet tomorrow, Harry with Peter’s marching orders.
‘Before you go, what’s happened to Miriam Baggot? Can you tell me?’
‘Picked up. I think it will be a while before she sees her cats again.’
‘I thought she might have skipped to Ireland.’
‘Like your fat lawyer friend? No. She made a point of staying. Said she’d only been exercising her right of free speech to campaign for her belief in what’s best for her country.’
‘If the government had any sense, they’d put her in charge of something. Information, food production, evacuees.’
****
Was it coincidence that Nick Harry had suggested the next meeting should be in the very same ABC where he and Dinah had gone after the Hess concert. Where she’d said “scram” and “beat it”, like Walter Thomas, and had scrammed to meet Davidson under St Martin’s portico? Or was the security service officer sending a message in his choice?
‘Ready, Peter?’
‘Needs must.’
Harry shook his hand. ‘The right decision, I’m sure. The fact is it wasn’t all that easy to confirm. The details are here.’ He gave him a plain brown envelope, unaddressed. ‘You’re expected to sign up this afternoon. Then probably report tomorrow or the day after. Hope that gives you enough time to make your arrangements. Any questions?’
‘Hundreds. I don’t suppose there’d be any answers.’
‘Probably not. I’d buy a cheap watch and wallet. There’s a Woolworth’s across the street. And leave your links at home.’ He was looking at a tall man of slender build who had just entered the ABC and was surveying, without enthusiasm, the mid-morning customers. Peter followed his companion’s gaze: homburg, very well tailored blue raglan overcoat, silk scarf, blond hair brushed back in careful waves. He was on his way over.
‘Hello, Bill,’ said Harry. ‘Have a pew. This is Peter. Tea? Coffee?’
‘The tea’s always disgusting in these places but the coffee’s undrinkable.’ The immaculate blue suit was equally well cut; the shirt crisp, the tie luxuriant. He made no effort to introduce himself or shake hands. Willowy rather than slender.
Until the waitress came to take Bill’s order, Harry filled the silence enthusing over Gone With The Wind. Then, ‘Time for me to say goodbye and good luck. Please don’t recognise me if we bump into each other. I’ll get in touch if I need to. Bill here is a colleague but from a different department and would like a word. I’ll leave you with him.’ He shook hands with Peter and was gone.
Bill watched him cross the room then turned to Peter. ‘I’m in the same business as Nick, but, as he said, in a different department. We think you can help us. Just a couple of questions concerning Professor Altschuler. His friends or pupils. Did you meet any of them?’
‘One friend and one pupil only, I’m afraid. And very fleetingly.’
‘The friend? Please don’t hold anything back.’
‘Walter Thomas, he called himself. Said he was an old friend of the professor’s. A trans-Atlantic accent but I thought he came from eastern Europe.’
Bill looked unwaveringly at Peter with cold eyes as he took him through his two meetings with Walter Thomas, trying for a minute-by-minute recapitulation. The waitress returned and poured his tea; he pushed the cup to one side with a grimace.
‘And the pupil?’
‘Our paths crossed in the dark on the professor’s doorstep. I was early for supper. He was on the way out after a German lesson. Davidson. Lachlan Davidson. I’d seen him some time before. At a House dinner. Diplomatic, I think. And later I saw him talking to the professor’s granddaughter, Dinah, not long before she disappeared.’
‘And you told Thomas about him?’
‘Yes, as I’ve just said. When we met in Gloria’s. Davidson. I couldn’t recall the Christian name then. Very able.’
The cold eyes became thoughtful for a moment. ‘That other man about whom Thomas asked you – claimed he worked for the BBC – you didn’t come across him?’
‘No. Though it shouldn’t be difficult to locate him with that description.’
‘There could be a number.’ Bill’s tone was factual. ‘Thank you. I must go. Could you please wait here for five minutes after I’ve left. And, as with Nick, please do not recognise me.’
Chilly was an understatement. Very Wykhamist, “Bill”, though the self-regard was worse than most. He drank the tea. Not bad, though he preferred the coffee. He used the five minutes to deal with the brown envelope. A single sheet of unheaded plain paper on which was typed ‘East London Rifles 2nd Battalion’ and an address in Walthamstow, in east London. ‘Major Wilmot. 2–5’. There was no signature.
****
The major had seen better days, his tweed suit smarter days; his regimental tie was a sad affair. ‘Surname: Hill? Christian names: Peter Anselm Louis? No, don’t show me any papers. You’re in the right place. Yes. Here you are. What they call a special reference. Came by despatch rider. Birth certificate not required. Fill the rest of this in and sign at the bottom. Then wait outside. Sergeant, ask the doctor to step round.’
One small window let in the fading light and the bulb over his scratched brown desk had power just sufficient to illuminate the pile of folders and forms on his inky blotter and three books in a little shelf, the Manual of Military Law, the Army List, and a Bible. A two-bar electric fire glowed by his swing chair.
‘Hang on for a moment. You’ve left “Technical Skills” vacant. Drive, can you? Put it down. Speak a language? French? Put it down. Previous military experience? In the Officers Training Corps? Put it down. The more you get down the better. If you can play the spoons, I say put it down. Of course, a lot of the men who come in here have skills they’d rather not own up to. Have you signed? I’ll counter-sign. Go and wait for the doctor.’
Standing back from his signature, watching the major scrawl his and hunt for rubber stamp and ink pad, he wondered why he’d turned up in this s
orry place. Might-have-beens were pretty pointless, but a friend might be asking why on earth he hadn’t called Harry’s bluff and made a run for France and on to Egypt and Father.
To answer that was easy. Even if it was in him to run, how could he have faced his father, who would certainly have heard from Anselm about his skipping the country? But before all this, much earlier, why hadn’t he told Creevey-Adams and Miriam to go to the devil? The fact was he’d been content to ramble along, interestingly, pleasurably, inquisitively; life as flâneur, explorer, observer, involved but detached. An avenue here, an arcade there. It had all been so interesting. And really harmless. In reality, he saw now, he’d been depending on other people’s lives to give his direction. He was to pay—well, what price?
As for Dinah and the professor? Dark eyes had engaged his for ever and, standing there, his heart ached desperately for her.
His musings were interrupted by the doctor, tall and cadaverous. Another dingy office, another scratched brown desk and two-bar fire. Height, weight, touch toes, arms up, light in eyes, light in ears, listen to heart, lungs, drop trousers and shorts and cough. ‘A Jew-boy are you?’
‘No. I had a surgical removal when I was three. Tight foreskin.’
‘They say when a woman’s had one circumcised, she never wants one with a foreskin again. That’s why Jews make such good gigolos. True, d’you think?’
‘I’m saving myself for marriage. But I’ve not heard that.’
‘I’d leave your sense of humour at home, if I were you. A1.’
Chapter Ten
The ridiculous thing was, he wrote to Rutherglen Stanley, that he came pretty well equipped for basic army life, though the first months were designed to shock, even terrify, the recruit out of his slack civilian character and turn him into a military machine. Hadn’t he spent much of his life away from home, breaking ice in washbasins, plunging into cold baths, taking long runs in all weathers, sleeping in dormitories, keeping things neat, obeying orders?
His fellow squaddies had never been away. The barrack-room was awash with their misery, homesickness and loss. In their tight communities, in the familiar warren of streets, alleys and courts they called home, support was always at hand. Mother and grandmother. Neighbour and street corner. Pub and pawnshop. The Assistance, the district nurse, the union official. And how desperately unfit and undernourished they were as well, even those who’d found jobs in workshops, markets, and docks. Now at least they had three meals a day, physical training, and money in their pocket. A pitifully small amount, but cash, gone at once on fags and beer.
He noted with something like admiration their culture of avoidance—of trouble, of work, of responsibility. They were good at avoidance, ingenious and skilful. And that culture also said if a man wanted to keep himself to himself, they respected his wish. Everyone knew somebody with something to hide.
‘Has the reputation of a “get away” regiment, sir,’ the club hall porter had told him. ‘Get away from the law, get away from debt collectors and bailiffs, get away from the wife or the wife’s mother. No questions asked, no answers expected.’ Get away in another sense, too. ‘“Eat, Leave, Run”, was their nickname in the first war, sir.’
Altogether, wasn’t the East London Rifles just the place for a bastard, the misbegotten?
****
He was ordered to the adjutant.
Normally, someone of 6035 Rifleman Hill’s qualifications and background would be steered to officer selection and training. In his case, just to make the position clear, there was no question of it. If he eventually won promotion, corporal would be the limit. And not only could he not expect to be treated any differently from the rest, he would have to work his passage hard and prove himself. The ELR was not a rest home for undesirables, no matter how well connected. But and on the other hand if 6035 Rifleman Hill played ball with them – the adjutant gave Rifleman Hill, rigidly at attention and staring just above the adjutant’s head, a close look – they would play ball with him.
****
With the weather bitterly cold, the most desirable fatigue was the cookhouse, even the breakfast call at 0430 hours; the least desirable, cleaning the frozen latrines. Peter found himself on constant latrine cleaning until the cook sergeant-major, a poetry lover with a liking for Wordsworth, brought him on to the cookhouse roster.
Fortified by bacon-and-egg sandwiches and strong tea, he enjoyed the change; non-stop potato peeling was a hypnotically restful experience. But behind his back, squaddies were shaking their heads and looking forward to trouble. Hadn’t 6035 Hill displaced “Podger” Potts from his billet in the cookhouse? “Podger” – king of the other training platoon. “Podger” – heavy, moon-face, tiny mouth and dead eyes. “Podger” – professional East London bullyboy. The Old Bill had run Podger out of his tough working-class patch on the borders of Finsbury and Stoke Newington and straight into the ELR, taking advantage of the war to put an end to his brutal goings-on.
Sharper than he looked, Podger had grasped the ripe pickings the army offered and where to find them. The cookhouse became his home from home. Ejected to make way for Rifleman Hill, not only was Podger exposed to general fatigues, he also lost the perks for his followers, who bulled his kit and harassed his chosen enemies. To the top of that list went 6035 Rifleman Hill P. Finsbury or ELR barracks, nobody challenged Podger—and survived. His supporters gleefully predicted a bloody end for Rifleman Hill. The news spread. The barrack rooms were waiting, expectant. In keeping with the ELR’s traditions, no one said anything to Peter, though the cook-corporal dropped a hint.
Podger Potts’s plan brought them face to face by night.
As Peter took a short cut along the rear of a barrack block, Potts slid round the corner to stand in his way, three or four of his acolytes eagerly bringing up the rear. Potts flicked his right hand: something bright and narrow glinted against his thigh. He licked his lips and grinned at his followers.
‘Do you see this arsehole fuckin’ toff.’ Still grinning, he slowly raised his right hand above his shoulder. ‘He fuckin’ asked for a fuckin’ lesson.’
The razor rattled on the path. Writhing, sobbing with pain, Potts went down with it. Peter had kicked him in the knee, hearing something snap under his ammunition boot.
He picked up the razor and showed it to the acolytes, who turned and ran. Then he squatted, lifted Potts’s head and held the razor’s edge at the whimpering man’s streaming eyes, almost caressing the skin of the eye-socket. He let the head drop, stood and took several deep breaths, then pushed the razor into his boot and attempted to brush the mark of his toecap from Potts’s knee.
In the guardroom he reported Rifleman Potts lying on the path, some sort of accident, needing urgent assistance. The fire-picket who were sent to pick him up reported that “Podger” Potts smelled terrible. ‘He pissed and shitted himself. It was like carryin’ a sack o’ shit. He was cryin’ wi’ pain.’
****
Under his blankets, Peter felt cold to his marrow for the remainder of the night. Facing Potts, he’d just reacted. The memory of Hampstead Heath enough. He’d had to finish with him, but why demean the man, sweat running over the moon face in the freezing night? Such a surge of anger. Was it just Potts?
Towards the end of the night, almost dozing, he remembered Walter Thomas’s comment – ‘I guess gentlemen don’t kick each other much’ – and smiled wryly in the darkness. Toff indeed. Half-Polish bastard.
****
His status was transformed. He was the king of his own barrack room and even the self-proclaimed hard man lance-corporal – ‘Idle, worthless sack of shit’ delivered at full shout into the ear from an inch away – treated him warily. Men from Potts’s barrack-room made way for him. That he was by far the best shot in his platoon, in the company, bolstered his position.
Through the cruelly cold weather, as basic training went on, he began to feel he might be afloat, riding the tide. “Not being able to govern events, I govern myself.” Montaign
e offered the right lesson.
****
In full battle-order, they were practising route-marches by night, on narrow roads through Epping Forest and beyond. ‘Maintain contact with the formations ahead, no stretching, keep tight.’
For this night’s march, a quarter-moon out of a cloudless sky made keeping contact easier than on earlier pitch-black nights. The sergeant, who had just returned from an obviously profitable 72-hours’ leave, abruptly ordered Peter to the rear as marker, moving him from his usual place near the front of his section. He was to march at the very back: ‘Ten paces behind the last file, keep the final echelon closed up, pick up any shit-bag stragglers, hold the red fuckin’ tail light’.
****
It was fortunate, all agreed, that at the very moment when the motorcycle and sidecar came out of a track or a forest path, 6035 Rifleman Hill had put the tail light down for a moment to see to a rifleman who’d fallen out. The bike seemed to have accelerated furiously straight at the light but the heavy sidecar struck 6035 Hill a more or less sideways blow. Skidding but skilfully recovering, the rider roared off into the forest. It was fortunate, all agreed, that whereas 6035 Hill might have been critically injured, even killed, as it was he suffered only bad concussion, severe contusions, and a possible broken rib or two. True, he had been thrown right off his feet and come down hard on the road, out for the count.
Another casualty of the blackout? Marching troops were at risk. Though it was odd, the officer told the police inspector, how the motorcycle had come out of nowhere and hadn’t stopped. ‘A fifth columnist, I wouldn’t be surprised. We should have shot him.’ The inspector looked disapproving and wondered if the men in the rear could have a strip of luminous paint on their boots or helmets.
‘Make them a bit obvious to the enemy.’
The rifleman who’d fallen out swore he’d heard a shrill whistle, a night bird he’d thought, just before the bike, but he was a known malingerer. He’d also had the impression of a figure rising up in the sidecar.
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