The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  “Our new schoolmaster arrived today, mummy,” said her son, kissing her cheek and dumping his blazer on the grass. “He looks smashing. He was shot in the army and still wears a sling. We’re going to start a cadet corps.”

  His mother’s laugh was throaty. “You are going to be mummy’s little soldier, eh? That will be nice—now you’ll have to polish your shoes.”

  “He’s going to teach some history to the young ones too, and maybe he will have an art class.”

  Rene looked at her son over the cover of the magazine. “I haven’t seen you so enthusiastic for ages,” she said, tilting her half-frame reading glasses.

  “That place has been more boring than Switzerland.” John unbuttoned his monogrammed silk shirt and threw it on the grass, beside his jacket. He sat, and his mother traced the arched line of his spine with the tips of her fingers. “Except for Miss Stead, and she’s kind of silly. That Reverend Mr. Pearkes gives me the creeps.”

  “Isn’t he directing your play?” asked his mother.

  “He’s a big ham,” replied John. “He is trying to tell me how to be a merchant! He should have cast daddy in the part!”

  The boy was always approaching these dangerous waters, and his mother gently deflected his course. “Daddy provides you with those nice shirts,” she said. “We shouldn’t be too hard on him.”

  “Captain MacQueen said that he is designing a uniform and his mother is giving a dance to pay for them. He wants us to be ushers—isn’t that great?”

  “Well!” said John’s mother softly. She always respected her son’s viewpoint and she was pleased that he had found a new enthusiasm. “I must meet this gentleman someday.”

  Rene Warnefeld-Davies had never been presented at court, and she pretended that the Establishment was a bore. She had arrived in exciting London as a modestly well-off refugee from the Free Corps invasion of Silesia, where her grandfather had been a large native landowner. Stemming from minor Slavic nobility, she married an energetic entrepreneur twice her age and who was involved in the field of cosmetics just before the market crash of 1929. When silk supplies vanished, and before nylon was invented, he made a large fortune from cream makeup for ladies’ legs.

  In the meantime, Rene’s grandfather’s estates had become a battleground and were confiscated. This property had been in her family since the defeat of the Teutonic Order in 1411, awarded by the Emperor Sigismund; they had fought against the Golden Horde itself. In 1929, the last traces of this barbaric grandeur vanished down the sinkhole of Wall Street.

  In France, when the Germans broke through in 1940, Rene had been at Monaco, ignoring her husband’s infidelities. Her son, John, had just joined her for the summer. The two of them trekked together to Spain and then sailed, via the Azores, to Bermuda. The air raids in London, and her husband’s increasing carnality, were no encouragement to return.

  Angella agreed to put her bicycle on the train and ride the few miles to Somerset with Patrick. Earlier that day she had shown him around the grounds, and then they went to the common room for tea. There was a small girls’ establishment nearby under the nominal control of Mrs. Stalker, but actually run by an ardent Englishwoman who somewhat resembled comedienne and singer Gracie Fields. She was a Nordic blonde known as Mrs. Beach, and this horsey female was in direct contrast to Miss Stead’s more delicate and winsome nature. Her voice boomed, and she was always spilling tea while attempting to control her not-altogether-spontaneous bursts of laughter.

  Mrs. Beach had developed a consuming lust for the Orthodox Reverend Mr. Pearkes. This worthy gentleman claimed to have served with distinction in the first war, and he had a shortened arm to prove it. It was attached to a tiny hand that looked as though it belonged to someone else. He had a saturnine face, not unlike the French actor Charles Boyer, and a vast appetite for the good things in life that were beyond his reach. His voice was a deep Oxford, and he certainly knew his way around the social scene, but his past was mostly mysterious. He taught Latin and English literature, coached drama, and could even bat a cricket ball with one hand. Mrs. Stalker found his presence disturbing, and he found the presence of the headmaster unbearable. The trio were barely civil to one another, but were tied together like the Mariner and the albatross. There seemed to be a sinister secret somewhere, yet the Reverend Pearkes was planning to forsake Orthodoxy and join the Church of England. He hoped to become the bishop’s secretary, and then—who knows—perhaps wear the very mitre itself?

  The reverend’s charm was reserved for Lady Lemonton, who was rumoured to be vastly rich and a member of the Cliveden set, and who had a daughter at the girl’s school. Lady Lemonton barely knew that the Reverend Mr. Pearkes existed—and she certainly cared less. Sadly, both ladies Lemonton and Bernstog were very close with a sixpence.

  MacQueen didn’t learn much from Angella Stead on the railway train. She cost him one shilling and sixpence, and all that he could remember were those bewitching brown legs tucked into little oxblood loafers, each of which sported a little brass bell. Her eyes may have been close together, but her teeth were perfect, and the promise beginning to swell under that blouse made him dizzy. After their return trip they shyly put their foreheads together under the lamp light by the constabulary station, and then she mounted her bicycle and drove off into the darkness. MacQueen staggered home through the banana trees suffering agonies of frustration—as did all northerners on that fecund island.

  42

  With utter faith in his mother’s capabilities, Patrick MacQueen forged ahead with the equipping of his cadet corps. He bought khaki shorts for them all, with stripes of blue ribbon to run down the seams. He bought beige shirts for the troops and light blue ones for the sergeants. To these were added blue shoulder straps, with picturesque triangles under them for reinforcement from the rifles that they did not have. The sergeants would wear blue yachting caps, and he chose a cedar seahorse as the emblem.

  The Reverend Mr. Pearkes was named honorary major, and MacQueen assumed the rank of captain. His greatest stroke of luck was to have a fifteen-year-old boy with the coincidental name of Billy Hawkins, who had cadet experience. This lad stemmed from an old Bermudian family; he was freckled, cheerful, and senior to all the others. Without hesitation, he became the sergeant major.

  Eliminating tearful youngsters was a great problem, but the line was finally drawn at eleven years of age. This produced a corps of thirty-five boys, who were divided into three platoons. A drum was located, and John Warnefeld-Davies, Freddie Cowan, and a lad named Eric Watt were appointed sergeants.

  The boys took their unfinished uniforms home and their mothers (or their maids) finished them according to plan. On a Saturday morning, MacQueen took the ferry into Hamilton and selected some bronze crosses and medals from a sporting goods shop, then chose three colours of ribbon—red, blue, and yellow—from H. A. & E. Smith’s general goods store. He also found some coloured lanyards and a broad red sash for the sergeant major to wear across his chest. With two pairs of white cotton gloves for the drummer his army was ready to guard the dance. It was decided that only the sergeants would be required. This was a disappointment, but they were now soldiers, and they did as they were told.

  Mrs. MacQueen decided to hold the dance in the parish hall in Somerset. The IODE hall did not permit drinking, and Eva MacQueen knew the value of a bar. All of the local girls were invited, but they all had to arrive in a long dress. Experience had taught that this guaranteed a minimum of rowdiness.

  It would be quite a mixture of US Marines, British sailors, and Canadian soldiers, along with a scattering of local patrons and patriots. A base worker who fancied himself Gene Krupa’s rival would coordinate the swing band. Lieutenant Cyples had notices posted in the dockyard, and a committee was formed from Sandys Parish to oversee the decoration of the hall and other details.

  There was no air-conditioning anywhere, of course, so the shutters were opened wide and the hall was festooned. The parish was a two-storey limestone structure tha
t sat behind a high wall, and the yard was flagstone, with some lawn and old tables at one end. Racks for bicycles lined the wall, and a member of the Bermuda constabulary, with a striped cuff band to show that he was on official duty, would be stationed at the gate. Across the street was the only commercial bar in the village; beyond this, the Mangrove Bay stretched out past the dockyard and into the wide Atlantic.

  Eva MacQueen chose a long taffeta dress to set the tone and arrived early to supervise the ladies. They were assembled around the hall like a random flower garden, each one hoping for more from this night than the uniforming of a few nasty boys. The sergeant major sported a new yellow ribbon on his chest and a red sash over his shoulder. He wore the blue cap cocked over his nose, and he commanded his three sergeants as though they were the last bastions of the Old Guard. The orchestra gathered and started to tune up, and the constable ordered the village drunk to go home. The US Marines set out by train, carriage, or bicycle; the British sailors and Canadian soldiers walked. Patrick MacQueen had loaned the Reverend Mr. Pearkes one of his white mess jackets, and Second Lieutenant Cyples had borrowed an Indian Army jacket from Major Stead. Miss Stead and her mother would arrive together later, the lieutenant would escort the countess, and there was a rumour that Lady Lemonton had agreed to participate as patroness. The headmaster knew that he and his wife would be like two rain clouds, so he vowed to tread lightly in their involvement. The governor and the admiral sent their regrets, which was thoughtful. No one had even asked Mrs. Beach.

  This mixing of upper and lower whites in Somerset was unique, but the war had loosened things even here, and Eva MacQueen was not interested in social mores. She knew where she was and that she had a job to do—she could operate at any level without a change of note. She would need all her talents to survive the evening that ensued.

  Spirits were high as the night began, and grew exponentially higher as other forms of spirits flowed. Lady Lemonton arrived, took one horrified look at the hot bedlam within, and departed. She was trailed by the inebriated Reverend Pearkes, who sang a ballad as he stumbled from the bandstand to the Cambridge Beaches Hotel, where he promptly fell asleep on the lawn. The Reverend Mr. Stalker finally succumbed to temptation; he arrived just as this couple was leaving. The raucous dance confirmed his belief in the extraordinary twists of God’s will, and he gathered the four cadets and hustled them back to their school. Eva MacQueen continued to function like a well-tuned social machine, until the party began to wane naturally. Lieutenant Cyples, the only officer present, discreetly removed himself with the countess, and they also repaired to the Cambridge Beaches. Patrick MacQueen received a stern dressing-down from Mrs. Stead for kissing her daughter.

  No party lasts forever, and when the last shutter was finally shut and the last light turned out, Eva MacQueen was staggering with fatigue and was all alone. There were no official casualties, but Mrs. MacQueen suddenly felt terribly abandoned. She shut the doors on the disarrayed hall, lifted a shopping bag containing the money and dozens of other assorted objects, and wearily started towards the gate and the long walk to Moville. A full moon hung low in the sky and nothing could be heard but the creaking of crickets and the gentle wash of waves on the beach behind the bar. Midnight had passed, and everything was closed and shuttered. A solitary electric bulb hung from a post over the gate, which Eva closed and locked with a chain. Everyone had deserted her.

  She staggered along the edge of the road in her high-heeled shoes, flashing a little beam from her torch to warn the toads to hop out of her path. She heard the faint clop clop of a horse’s hooves, and a carriage drew up beside her. Her son stepped down to relieve her of the shopping bag. The lantern of the carriage illuminated their faces, and a sudden tear appeared on the cheek of Eva MacQueen.

  “Your chariot, madam,” said her son softly. He was dressed in a short, white mess jacket, and he had put his healing arm through the sleeve. He assisted his mother into the back of the Victoria.

  “Where did you get this?” asked his mother, relaxing against the cushions with a sigh of relief.

  “Compliments of her ladyship,” said Patrick. “We even have a charioteer named Jove!”

  “Good evening, ma’am,” said Jove, high on the box in front of them and silhouetted against the moon.

  “There is a private party at the Cambridge Beaches—would you like to go?” asked Patrick. He tempted fate and cupped a flaring match in his two hands for his mother’s cigarette. Her profile was like a classic Florentine madonna against the background of the white beach and the shimmering moonlight on the water. She exhaled, and the scent of tobacco blended with the oleanders.

  “I would sell my soul for a nightcap,” she replied.

  Jove cracked his whip and they trotted through the shadows, down the right branch of the deserted road. The lights of the dockyard twinkled far out to the right and the toads, warned by the lanterns of the carriage, careened crazily into the underbrush. They swept between two silent gateposts and up a winding drive to a small dance pavilion overlooking Long Bay. A local troubadour named Sydney Bean was serenading a small group at one table. There were no other guests, and the bartender wished that they would go home.

  “Isn’t this heaven!” exclaimed Eva MacQueen. The Reverend Mr. Pearkes had revived, but, with dismay, MacQueen noticed grass stains on his mess jacket. Lieutenant Cyples was arguing with Lady Lemonton about the Nuremburg rallies, and the countess was trying to memorize some of the lyrics of Sydney Bean’s song.

  “My mama don’t like no peas nor rice nor coconut oil…”

  Lady Lemonton ordered a complete round of drinks for everyone. A small grate-fire was burning on the other side of the miniscule dance floor, and the lawns rolled over the cliffs and into the sea. The weary bartender mixed another pitcher of rum swizzles, lacing it heavily in the hope that it would prove the last.

  “I was just telling Lieutenant Cyples that your party was noisier than one of Hitler’s rallies,” said Lady Lemonton in a loud, slurred voice. She tossed her straight blonde hair and looked smugly into her glass. Her skin was evenly tanned and glowed warmly in the pale moonlight and the embers from the fire. She wore a white strapless evening gown and looked like a cruel goddess. Patrick listened in to the various conversations around him.

  “She just wants some sugar and candy, to sweeten up her brandy…” sang Sydney Bean.

  “I remember a ball given in honour of Pedro II—my dear, I was supposed to be his mistress! His real one was black…” said the countess.

  “The word ‘drum’ is onomatopoeic…” said the Reverend Mr. Pearkes, speaking as an honorary major.

  “This is your sister’s birthday,” said Mrs. MacQueen.

  “Have you heard that Herr Hess was captured yesterday?” asked Lady Lemonton. The conversation faltered. The moon was touching the horizon.

  “What does that mean?” asked Patrick.

  “It means that Hitler is going to attack Russia,” she said slowly. “It means that we are going to get out of the war and let him finish off Stalin for good.”

  MacQueen felt the blood drain from his face. Bill Cyples glanced at him quickly, then ejected a short bark of a laugh.

  “That’s what it means,” repeated Lady Lemonton insistently. The conversations moved past the disruption and raised again into the night sky.

  At least she had a part of it right. The German army had attacked Yugoslavia and occupied the entire Balkan Peninsula. The U-boats were moving farther out into the Atlantic, and Finland had sued for peace, having been abandoned by everyone.

  43

  The next day at Moville, Lieutenant Cyples was standing in the middle of the room that Mrs. MacQueen had converted into a bed and sitting room. “There is no damned way that Churchill can pull out of this war,” he exclaimed. The lieutenant was arrayed in the full uniform of a captain of the Canadian Army Medical Corps. It was Dr. MacQueen’s old uniform, which Patrick had found in a metal box above the empty stables.

  Th
e countess unbuttoned a flap of his tunic and turned out the pocket. “Saville Row!” she exclaimed. “I know an Austrian at the censor board that used to be a tailor—he would fit you into this like a glove.”

  Sweat gleamed on the lieutenant’s brow as he stood in front of them in whipcord breeches and mouldy riding boots. It was not a summer costume for the tropics.

  “I’d have to get the buttons changed,” he said. He turned to Eva MacQueen. “But how can I pay you for all of this?” An array of military regalia lay scattered on the floor and draped on a chair.

  “My dear Bill,” replied Eva MacQueen. “It’s no good to us, for heaven’s sake. I hope it’s not too old-fashioned, but I don’t know much about the finer points.” Patrick was delighted that his friend would be equipped for any eventuality.

  “The tailor won’t cost you anything,” said the countess. “Just leave him to me, the little worm.”

  “Do you think Lady Lemonton was drunk the other night?” asked Eva MacQueen, reverting to their original conversation.

  “Who knows what she takes?” asked the countess. “She’s a queer fish. Nancy Astor told me herself that the woman was dangerous.” The countess flicked open a compact and started to powder her nose. Patrick helped Bill Cyples out of the hot tunic.

  “Some dubbin might restore those boots,” he said dubiously.

  “Order what you need and I’ll pay for it,” said the countess, in a flash of uncharacteristic generosity.

  “Vivienne, how kind you are,” said Mrs. MacQueen.

  “Canadian second lieutenants are expensive!” Patrick said, laughing.

  “I’m a confirmed first lieutenant now,” stated William Cyples. “It came through yesterday.”