The Broken Sword

by R. Mingo Sweeney

  Wing Cmdr. Sir James Dunstan-Fyfe, Bt. R.A.F.,

  D.S.O. (bar), D.F.C.

  Patrick never saw the wing commander again.

  71

  Sub-Lieutenant Patrick MacQueen arrived at Paddington Station in London in the middle of a hit-and-run air raid. The entire city was blacked out, but the sky above it was an awesome spectacle of pyrotechnics. Searchlights waved over the rooftops and reflected off the overhanging clouds. Long lines of tracer bullets arched into the heavens and every anti-aircraft gun in the county was blazing merrily into the night. The sullen crump of distant explosions in the east could be felt through one’s feet, and shrapnel fell into the deserted streets. The crowds hovered in dark doorways, and some went to the air-raid shelters.

  The train had been crowded and smoky, and it was delayed and sidetracked for other trains with a higher priority of soldiers or munitions. At one stage a bandsman from the Coldstream Guards had complained about his officers’ hairstyles and showed Patrick how he kept the front of his cap high with a knife blade. They had stopped at Exeter and then at Taunton. At the wrecked Paddington Station, a lonely stationmaster carrying a lantern had escorted Patrick through heavy blackout curtains, into a basement canteen. There he ate a tasteless sandwich and drank a mug of tea. This cellar was pillared with a vaulted ceiling; the building above it had been demolished by bombs. Not a ray of light escaped into the night, but that basement was crowded with men in uniform carrying haversacks and knapsacks and gunnysacks. They were all in transit, going somewhere.

  Patrick lugged his suitcases into the lobby of the Great Northern Hotel and breathed a prayer of gratitude to the transport officer. The hotel was attached to the station, which was crowded with jostling figures trying to catch the right train or make connections. Against the backdrop of the air raid, the scene was bedlam. The desk clerk had a powdering of fine plaster dust on the top of his head. He looked at Patrick’s reservation form.

  “You’ll have to wait, sir,” said the desk clerk. “We can’t get anyone to leave until it’s over.”

  Patrick slumped into a stuffed chair, put his feet onto the suitcases, and was asleep in an instant. He was awakened by someone poking him in the ribs. He looked up at a young army captain wearing a shiny leather Sam Browne belt and glittering buttons.

  “I say,” said the captain, “are you looking for a room?”

  Patrick had never seen such an impeccable soldier, except possibly one he recalled from the Royal Canadian Regiment. This young warrior made Patrick feel like a tramp. “Yes, I am,” replied Patrick.

  “Fine, that’s jolly good,” said the captain. “The manager fella has got two adjoining rooms with one bathroom. If you don’t mind we’ll share?”

  “Fine with me,” said Patrick. He slowly stood up, his back aching from the wooden railway bench.

  “Edwin Pym, Army Service Corps.” The captain placed his swagger stick under his left arm and offered his hand. Patrick grasped the firm dry hand.

  “I’m Patrick MacQueen from Canada. Is it always so noisy around here?” he asked with a laugh.

  The “all-clear” sirens were wailing their banshee cry, a dominant note of mid-century Europe. The two men signed the register, and each was given a key. They then carried the luggage up three flights of stairs, assisted by an old porter. Patrick’s bags were heavily loaded with cosmetics, chocolate bars, and American cigarettes. The captain carried a small haversack over one shoulder. They both carried respirators in awkward pouches, in case Hitler decided to bomb them with gas, or they decided to bomb Hitler.

  “I’m down from Northumberland for a meeting at the War Office,” said Captain Pym. “Are you on business?”

  “I’m on leave,” said Patrick. “It’s my first trip to London.” The porter opened a door and walked through the bathroom to open another door.

  “Really!” said the captain, as though that was an unfortunate colonial oversight. “We’ll have to find some dancing girls.”

  Patrick seemed destined to fall in with archetypes, which only happens when one is travelling alone. He smiled and looked at his shiny new friend. “That would be nice,” he answered. He gave the porter a half-crown, which was too generous for a man of the world.

  “All these Yanks in town spoil it,” complained Captain Pym. “They’ve got too much money. I want to marry a girl in the Wrens, but she’s got her eye on a Baronet. They’ll do anything for a title.”

  “My ship is in Londonderry,” said Patrick, derailing the captain’s conversational thrust. “I flew down in a bomber.”

  “Good show!” exclaimed the captain. “I have to see my general first thing in the morning. It’s hush-hush.”

  The framework was now established. Patrick produced a bottle of navy rum, which came from Demerara and was dark and strong. The captain proposed a toast to Lord Nelson, and the sub-lieutenant remembered Lord Wellington. They drank, and the captain choked.

  “God!” he spluttered. “That’s strong!”

  Patrick took a warm bath, then shaved and put on a clean white shirt. They stepped out into the scarred city, where a half moon hung in the sky. There were no street lamps, and the shadows were ebony, casting jagged patterns across the moonlit streets from the tottering remains of walls blasted by the air raids. The few cars had shrouded headlamps and proceeded slowly across the silver and black checkerboard of London. Barrage balloons floated silently above them in the moonlight, like hovering ghosts. The sounds of a Strauss waltz faintly edged out of a doorway and lost itself in the dark side streets, accompanied by their steel heels ringing on the pavement. A sailor walked past with a woman on his arm smelling like a perfumed tigress. In every cranny of this old city there was nothing but the war. It was its own creation…it spread and eddied and filled the crevices. It was the master of all, and everyone was its servant. It stirred and slept and exploded, but it was always there.

  “I love the army—it is my mistress,” said Captain Pym. “What else is there for a fellow like me? I want to grow old and retire as a brigadier with a white moustache and a belly full of port.”

  Patrick stopped and laughed, shaking his head in admiration. “God!” he exclaimed joyfully. “No wonder the empire hangs together! Nobody could beat chaps like you!” He laughed again.

  “I’m quite serious, old boy,” said the captain. “Can you imagine me selling stocks and bonds? That’s what the baronet does!”

  “You’ll be the proconsul of a thousand miles of desert,” prophesized Patrick MacQueen. “You’ll rule it from a camel, like Lawrence of Arabia, and your tribute will be paid in dancing girls.”

  “Bravo!” said the captain. “Right now, I could do with another drink of rum.”

  72

  Patrick MacQueen walked along a tree-lined street near Marble Arch and turned into a marble hallway. He checked the names on the post boxes set into the wall and then pressed the button opposite one labelled CNTSS. V. VON BERNSTOG in script.

  He mounted the winding marble staircase on the note of a buzzer, and his heels echoed along a lofty corridor. His friend, Captain Pym, had seen his general, and he was heading back for Northumberland. Patrick had tried to contact his brother in Sicily, but no one would tell him where he was.

  “Patrick!” exclaimed the countess, with arms stretched in greeting. She was standing in a high doorway, and she wore a long blue housecoat with white-feathered trim. Patrick took off his cap, and they kissed. “How handsome you are!” she gasped. “My dear, you will be the toast of London! Come in, I want you to meet a friend of mine—a very dear friend. How is your darling mother?”

  Patrick placed a non-regulation paper parcel on a Duncan Phyfe hall table, placed his cap beside it, and threw his gloves into the cap. He patted his hair before a mirror and adjusted his cuffs, stretching his neck in the stiff white collar. “Mother is fine,” he said. “She is back home now, as you know. Father sold Moville at the rock bottom of the market.”

  “Oh dear,” said Vivienne. “Come a
nd have a drink, it will make you feel better. Don’t tell me anything depressing, my dear, this war is hell.”

  Patrick followed the countess into a high-ceilinged drawing room with long windows overlooking Hyde Park. There was a marble fireplace topped by a gigantic mirror; the drapes were an oyster colour, and the carpet was a deep cream. A light grey sofa faced the mirror, flanked by matching chairs and a low coffee table. A white grand piano sat in one corner, flanked by one window that faced Park Lane; the other window faced the towering plane trees of the park. On the sofa sat a lady with long auburn hair carefully parted and combed over one eye. She was smoking a cigarette, and she fondled the Pekinese dog, which was lying on a towel and looked exhausted. She watched Patrick’s progress in the mirror then turned her head and smiled.

  “Patrick, my darling boy,” said the countess. “I want you to meet Brenda Lynch -Silbey, my dearest of dear friends—next to your mother, of course.”

  “Hello, Patrick,” said Brenda. He enclosed her long fingers lightly in his hand. She smelled of Yardley soap. In this setting she was the perfection of English womanhood, and Patrick didn’t even try to resist.

  “How do you do,” said Patrick, with a formal little bow. He was tempted to kiss her hand.

  “Brenda’s husband, Sir John, has just left for Portugal,” said Countess Bernstog. “We will take you to a party tonight, then you two young people can go to a nightclub. You mustn’t say no, it will be great fun.”

  “I have some presents for you,” said Patrick, looking at Brenda. “Do I call you ‘lady’?”

  “Please don’t,” said Brenda. “That’s only for the greengrocer.”

  “You are such a dear,” said Vivienne. “You were always a dear—and you know me so well. What did you bring me, you darling boy? Let’s have a drink first. I have some gin. Would you like to mix them, Patrick? A dry martini would be very nice.”

  The windows were open in the summer sunshine, and a breeze rustled the long drapes. Outside each window was a tiny wrought iron balcony, and the trees sounded like the sea against the muted hum of the city. Brenda was wearing alligator pumps and a soft pastel suit and skirt, with an open silk blouse that had pearl buttons. Her face was lean and her cheekbones were high. Her lower jaw jutted slightly—like a Habsburg, thought Patrick, with approval.

  He went to the kitchen and carried an ice tray to the small discreet bar in the corner. The countess put on a record of Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers, and Patrick stirred the martinis. He placed the silver tray on the low table and poured the drinks. He spied a small bottle of tiny onions and popped one into each stemmed glass.

  “Your little friend looks tired,” he said, gesturing towards the sleeping dog.

  “Poor Mathilde never recovered from her mal de mer,” said the countess. “It was a dreadful voyage home, and all of my wardrobe is now at the bottom of the ocean.”

  The notes of Bizet hung in the air, and Patrick envisioned a lonely beach on the Tyrrhenian Sea. Dark fishing boats were bobbing offshore, against the moon rising above Monte Cristo. Brenda was with him on the beach, and they were drinking harsh native wine from a wicker jug. Brenda looked at him through the gathering darkness….

  “Patrick, are you all right?” asked the countess in mild alarm.

  He shook his head and smiled. “Of course,” he answered. “The gin will wake me up. I haven’t had much sleep.”

  “You won’t get much tonight,” said Brenda. She knew what was affecting this young man. “Would you like a pill?”

  “No, thanks,” said Patrick. “I’ll get your presents.”

  Patrick produced the lipsticks, two little boxes of mascara, some tinted face powder, and two bottles of Caron perfume: Fleur de Rocaille and Nuit de Noël. The ladies were ecstatic, or at least they pretended to be, and set the lipsticks on the low table, like a chess set. And then Patrick produced six pairs of silk stockings. None of these things had been available in London for years, and they were worth a small fortune on the black market. He capped it all with a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes, and he felt like Rhett Butler. These things were cheap in St. John’s, but in London they were a currency of their own.

  “It’s heaven!” exclaimed the countess. “Brenda, my dear, we’ll split them right down the middle. My face looks as though it dropped into a flour barrel and I want to fix it up right away!”

  “You have the first choice,” said Brenda. “After all, Patrick is your friend. He just met me today.”

  “I have more,” said Patrick.

  “I’d like to pay you,” said Brenda, “but I know you wouldn’t take it. Is there anything special you would like to do?”

  “I’d like to take you to the party,” said Patrick. His heart was wide open now and he didn’t care. Whatever the price, he would pay it. They looked at one another, and the countess cleared her throat. Sir John has only been gone for a day, thought the countess. What have I done?

  The party was in another high-ceilinged flat, and a favoured diva sang standing beside a grand piano. A long table was loaded with hors d’oeuvres, and waiters carried trays of drinks. Three Polish officers were there, with their tunics buttoned tight at the throat and their square caps hanging in the cloakroom. The ladies wore long dresses with jewels, and a four-ring captain from the admiralty was introduced to Sub-Lieutenant MacQueen by his first name, Reginald. There were a couple of royal highnesses somewhere, from whatever House, and both Patrick and Brenda were bored.

  “Let’s go to Claridge’s and sit on a barstool,” said Brenda.

  They quietly departed from the party and Patrick managed to hail a London taxi. They sat together in the back seat and Patrick fiddled with his gloves. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Brenda, which she took, her hand trembling a bit. The bar at Claridge’s was full; one naval officer had an orange patch on his sleeve from South Africa. Brenda seemed to know a lot of people, but she only waved and they did not interrupt. An American colonel gave her his barstool and Patrick stood beside her. When he ordered their drinks, he passed the bartender the wing commander’s card. The bartender looked at it, then he smiled and served them quickly. “It’s on the house,” said the bartender in a cockney accent.

  “You have lots of little tricks,” said Brenda.

  Then they went to a nightclub where everyone had their own bottle and a jazz orchestra alternated with another band from Cuba. In theory, this was a private club, and the waiters looked like gangsters in dinner jackets. Some drunken American officers broke into the club and presented an air vice marshal with a black eye. White-helmeted US Military Police coshed their officers and dragged them out through the blackout curtains. A bejewelled seventy-five-year-old dowager flirted with a lieutenant commander, and one of the general staff tangoed with a beautiful teenager whose breasts were like melons.

  “You’ve seen it, now let’s go home,” said Brenda. “This is the May Fair but it has gone on too long and some of them never know when to quit. God, I hope I never grow old!”

  “Will you come with me?” asked Patrick. He was moderately drunk, and the Latin band reminded him of Bermuda and Bill Cyples trying to do the rumba. The small, raised dance floor was crowded, and the general staff officer was wearing a monocle and undress blues, like the uniform Patrick had once worn in Nova Scotia. In Latin terms, his young companion was sinuosa as she wiggled and smirked and aroused varied emotions—including lust and jealousy and envy and hate—in everyone. No one loved this flower, but everyone wanted her…if only to drink her blood.

  “We’ll go to my flat,” said Brenda. “I’ll cook some bacon and eggs—you must be starving.”

  Patrick staggered a little. The half moon was veiled with a thin cloud that ran across its silver face. The city loomed dark and mysterious around them, and Brenda had a slim flashlight to warn of the curbs. They passed two bobbies with black helmets and chains resting on their chins. Brenda wore a short fur jacket, and she put her arm through one of Patrick’s and entwined her fingers in h
is hand. “Our fighting boys would blow that place up,” she said.

  Patrick laughed. “Just expand the party,” he said. “They would all rather join it than spoil it.”

  “You sound like a Scotsman,” said Brenda. “They want everyone to be noble. Well everyone isn’t noble. And half of that crowd back there are nobility, for heaven’s sake!”

  “You sound like a socialist, m’lady,” said Patrick. He felt debonair, walking the streets of London with a beautiful woman on his arm. The ominous-looking barrage balloons hanging in the moonlight inverted his perspective as though he was looking up from the bottom of a giant fish bowl. It was a strange dream world, in this bed of Mars, where people danced the rumba while they were slowly sucked into a vortex of destruction.

  “I don’t know what I am,” replied Brenda. “Here we are. Forgive the mess if the charwoman hasn’t been here. She’s getting old too.”

  They pushed through two layers of black curtains into a dimly lit hallway. Brenda inserted a key into a lock and pushed the door. Patrick followed her into a small entrance that led through a Roman arch, into a drawing room. The decor of the room was the colours of autumn, and a painting of the hunt hung over the mantel. The room was dimly lit by standing lamps, and on the other side was a small dining room, all black-and-white with vivid red trim. The two rooms were in odd contrast, as though designed by a schizophrenic decorator.

  “Pour yourself a whisky,” said Brenda, gesturing towards a crystal decanter. “I’m going to get out of this dress and be comfortable.”

  Brenda Lynch-Silbey fancied herself a sensible English girl who had married well. She had ridden the hunt and she knew the smart set in London. The fact that her husband, a diplomat, was a thundering bore didn’t bother her much. She was accustomed to masculine bores, and the females she knew were no great improvement. Her enjoyment of country life was aesthetic, but she felt strongly that there was no way to escape the hard-riding, hard-drinking crowd. Occasionally she would slip away for a secret trip to the Costa Brava, where she once made love to a real matador. But it had turned ugly when that man had taken the relationship seriously and became violent with her. When she told him it was over, it took six strong members of the Guardia Civil to cart his struggling body away. He was gored to death in a bullring within a week, which solved the problem but left Brenda very cautious of hot-blooded men.