Present Tense [Round Two of The Great Game]

by Dave Duncan

  The local train was as crowded as the express, puffing along from station to station, full of farmers and West Country burr. Jones disembarked at Wassal, hoping his bike was still where he had left it, chained to the railings. Smedley carried on alone to Greyfriars.

  And there he was met by Mrs. Bodgley. Surprisingly, she was just as large and loud as he remembered her, a weathered dreadnought armored in Harris tweed. Her hair was streaked with silver now; there were lines like trenches radiating from her eyes. She beamed at him and boomed at him, saying nothing that might surprise anyone overhearing. Luggage? No luggage? Well, that made things simpler. The cart was this way, for of course motorcars were out of the question these days. He braced himself for questions about medals and the war, for mention of his mother's death or her husband's or Timothy's murder—and none came. He realized as they strode up the station stairs together that Ginger would have warned her about his nerves.

  The dogcart might have belonged to Queen Anne, and the shaggy pony between the shafts was almost as ancient. Before Smedley could protest, Mrs. Bodgley scrambled up nimbly on the near side. There she sat, calmly adjusting her skirt, apparently engrossed in watching a gaggle of children playing hopscotch. For a moment he dithered. Of course, when a couple rode together the gentleman must drive, but ... but she knew about his hand. With a rush of both gratitude and embarrassment, he heaved himself awkwardly into the driver's place. He almost tied himself in a knot reaching the brake. He jiggled the reins. The pony did not know he could not use the whip. It wandered off homeward, dragging the dogcart behind it.

  Timothy Bodgley, poor old Bagpipe, had been Exeter's friend, not especially Smedley's. Smedley had never visited the Grange. He whistled under his breath when he saw it in the distance, a crenelated backdrop to a hundred acres of stately park. There were sheep grazing in that park! Nothing he had seen that day had so clearly shown him the changes that war had brought.

  Now the Army occupied the Grange, and his destination was the Dower House—a gloomy, ugly box buried in monstrous yew trees, ancestral storage for unwanted mothers-in-law. As he drove into the yard, three enormous dogs came roaring to greet him.

  "Down, Brutus!” Mrs. Bodgley bellowed. “Be quiet, Jenghis! Oh, do stop that, Cuddles! There was a most beautiful house here, you know, designed by Adam. There's an etching of it in the Grange library. But Gilbert's grandmother had it torn down and put up this dreadful Victorian barn. I shouldn't complain. I can't imagine what I should have done if the Army hadn't taken over the big house. Oh, these dreadful pigeons! They turned it into a hospital, you know. Can't get servants for love nor money these days, and with just myself, it would be far too ... Heaven knows what I'll do with it after the war is over. Let me do that. And I'll give Elspeth her rubdown. Please don't argue. She's used to me. Just go on inside, dear boy. Captain, I mean. Make yourself at home. If you want to put the kettle on we can have a cup of tea. Jones said the others would be arriving on the four fifteen, so we've lots of time...."

  The Dower House was dark and smelled of damp. Its furniture was old and lumpish, its plaster stained. There was no electricity, not even gas. Smedley filled the black iron kettle from the pump and carried it indoors. He poked up a flame in the range, which would have roasted oxen in herds. Just a little place, this—only seven bedrooms. It was a mausoleum, but at least his nerves would not be troubled by crowds. The kitchen was the size of a ballroom, a vast expanse of shadow and stone. It echoed, full of emptiness. He thought of prisons. He sat on one of the hard wooden chairs and wondered what life should have been.

  "There you are!” Mrs. Bodgley boomed, bustling in with the dogs all around her. “I can show you to your room if you like. No, don't thank me. It is I who should be grateful. I have so little company these days. Stop that, Brutus! One tries to keep busy, you know, and do one's bit. Knitting for the troops and war bond committees and visiting our poor dear boys up at the Grange, but I do confess that sometimes the evenings drag, so I was only too happy when Mr. Jones called, and I do so want to hear Exeter's story from his own lips because I never for one moment believed he had anything to do with what happened to Timothy. And where he went to! I have some Madeira cake around somewhere. That inspector man was utterly incompetent, and Gilbert himself was quite distrait at the time. Where did he disappear to so dramatically, do you know?"

  Exeter, not the general. “He went to another world, Mrs. Bodgley."

  Mrs. Bodgley had been rummaging in a drawer for spoons. She straightened to her full height and transfixed Smedley with a stiletto eye.

  "Did you say, ‘Another world'?"

  "Yes, I did."

  "Oh.” Mrs. Bodgley pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “How very curious!” she murmured, and returned her attention to the cutlery.

  He had never felt so helpless in his life. He was appalled to discover that his hostess had no resident servants, only “old Tattler's daughter who comes in twice a week to do the rough cleaning.” Moreover, Mrs. Bodgley did not seem to find that situation remarkable. He had not realized how much the war had changed things.

  She began peeling spuds. He could not help with that. He might possibly make beds, but she assured him the beds were already made up. There was no shortage of linen. She had trunks and trunks of stuff she had brought from the big house, she said. Perhaps he could just look through that one and find some more plates?

  He had run out of fags. He could not even walk into town to buy some—partly because he was a hunted fugitive, mostly because he had no money. Oh hell! How had he ever blundered into this bog?

  Rumbling nonstop as she prepared dinner, Mrs. Bodgley spouted news of his old chums, and he felt the chill of the war's grim shadow. Wounded, wounded, dead, dead, dead ... She talked of the difficulties the school was having now, for although she was no longer wife of the chairman and hence Honorary Godmother, she had maintained her interest.

  She asked what his plans were now. He had to confess that he had none. He had always assumed that he would return to India, where he had been born, following in the guv'nor's footsteps. The Government of India would probably prefer men with two hands, but he had some gongs and he was Sir Thomas's son ... but the police were after him now. Whatever happened in the next week or two, that blot would never fade from his record. Scratch India.

  He kept thinking of Exeter's Olympus—dressing for dinner in the jungle, house servants galore ... but that mythical world was wilting under the clammy breath of reality. Magical powers and miracle cures, prophecy and vindictive gods ... how could anyone believe such ravings?

  Oh, for a cigarette!

  The time came to harness up the pony again. Mrs. Bodgley set off for Greyfriars and the station. Smedley wandered out into the garden. The vegetables were well tended, the flowers needed work. He removed his jacket and tie. Clippers or lawn mower were beyond him, but he found a hand fork in the shed and set to work on the weeds. When that palled, he established that he could use a hoe, after a fashion, and even rake leaves.

  The scent of fresh earth reminded him of the trenches. But this was an autumn afternoon in England. He was Home. Thick hedges and ivy-furred walls enclosed him like a womb. There were leaves overhead and white clouds. He could hear a chaffinch and the pigeons. He had done his bit, his war was over. Home! Blighty! A fierce contentment seized him.

  After a while he realized that his invisible hand had gone, and he had not wept all day.

  The trap came jingling back, with Exeter driving. Smedley went to open the yard gate for them, but of course Alice was there. Alice was a girl. Confused by the strange shyness that suddenly possessed him, he hastened back to his gardening. There, at least, he would not have to listen while Exeter discussed old Bagpipe's murder with his mother, if they had not already gone over that.

  An hour or so must have drifted by before he heard a mechanical rattling. Exeter came around the corner, grinning cheerfully and pushing a lawn mower. “Escaped!” he said. “Tired of talking! You've got a g
ood show going here."

  He hung his jacket and tie on a branch. After a few passes across the straggly lawn, he stopped and glanced at the hedges. The lane outside was a cul de sac, with no traffic. He took off his shirt, to work in his undervest. The ladies were busy in the kitchen, he said. They wouldn't notice. It wasn't quite gentlemanly, but it did make sense. Smedley removed his shirt also, and went back to killing weeds.

  His mood of lonely content had faded. Every time he caught sight of Exeter's bronzed shoulders he thought of those ritual scars the man must still have on his ribs. How could he have gone native like that? What little he had said about the Service had made it seem like a very worthy cause. Olympus had sounded like a true outpost of civilization. But spears and mutilation and painted faces ... those were not pukka!

  Dinner was a strange meal. Even with all the windows open, the sepulchral dining room was dim and breathless. Its monumental mahogany furniture would have seated twenty without trouble, so the four of them clustered at one end of the table, Smedley paired with—and tongue-tied by—Alice Prescott. If either of the ladies had ever studied the culinary arts, the food did not bear witness. They both wore dresses, but not evening dresses, and of course the men had nothing except the clothes that Ginger had acquired for them from the mythical barrow. The total absence of servants screamed wrongness.

  As compensation, the wines were superb. Everyone became a little louder than usual.

  Exeter hardly had a chance to eat. Whenever he paused, either Alice or Mrs. Bodgley would fire more questions at him. He repeated much that Smedley had heard before. He added a lot more. Mrs. Bodgley raised her eyebrows a time or two, but never expressed a doubt as the unlikely tale unfolded.

  If Exeter was making it up, or had imagined it all, it was astonishingly detailed and consistent. Reluctantly, Smedley began to sense belief creeping back again, and odd stirrings of something that felt strangely like relief. He was too close to being tipsy to work that out.

  After the cheese, the men declined port, and all four moved out to the little crazy-paving terrace to sit on a pair of extremely uncomfortable wrought-iron benches and watch the sky darken and the stars awaken. Alice brought coffee. Mrs. Bodgley disappeared and returned with cobwebs in her hair and a very dusty bottle in hand.

  "This is older even than I am,” she said. “It's part of a stock of wines and spirits that Gilbert laid down for Timothy when he was born. It seems only fitting that his friends should enjoy them. Edward, will you do the honors, please?"

  It was an angel of a brandy.

  There was only one thing wrong with the day now.

  "Captain?” Mrs. Bodgley boomed. “Mr. Exeter? What am I thinking of? I do believe there are still some of Gilbert's cigars in the humidor. Would either of you care..."

  It was a goddess of a cigar. Corona Corona, finest Cuban.

  "Listen!” Alice said. “That can't be a nightingale? This late in the year?"

  "Well?” Mrs. Bodgley demanded, shattering a reflective silence. “What are your plans now, Mr. Exeter?"

  Smedley jerked out of a reverie. Good question!

  "I do wish you would go back to calling me Edward, Mrs. Bodgley."

  He had asked that several times. Smedley was amused to see the redoubtable Mrs. Bodgley not in perfect control of her tongue, but he knew that this evening must be a devilish strain on her. She must feel haunted by ghosts of past, present, and future—son, husband, and better days. She deserved a medal for even trying.

  "Tch!” she said. “I keep forgetting. What are your plans now, Edward?"

  "I want to enlist, of course; do my bit."

  "Naturally. I would not expect anything different of a Fallow boy."

  Alice shifted on the bench at Smedley's side. He thought she was about to speak, but she did not.

  "Preferably not in the Foreign Legion,” Exeter added.

  Mrs. Bodgley thundered a brief laugh like a signal cannon. “Indeed not! But from what you say...” She was talkative but her wits were not befuddled. “Oh, some of Gilbert's friends will help. I'll think of someone in the morning."

  "That would be wonderful! Thank you.” Exeter's gaze flickered toward Smedley's empty cuff—and then away again, quickly. “But I also must get word back to the Service, on Nextdoor. About the traitor. That is urgent."

  Even the deepening twilight could not conceal the shrewdness in the old lady's stare. “But you say that only people can cross over? You cannot just drop a note?"

  Again Exeter glanced briefly at Smedley.

  "That is correct. All messages are verbal. Someone will have to make the trip there and back. One possibility would be Stonehenge, the portal I used before, but Alice says the Army has it shut off."

  "I am sure that is correct."

  Smedley waited for her to invoke some more of her late husband's friends, but she just sipped her brandy in silence.

  Exeter scratched his chin. He had cut it while shaving for dinner, and now he was making it bleed again. “Another approach would be to get in touch with the, ah, the numen who cured my leg. The one I called Mr. Goodfellow."

  "And where is he?"

  "Not far from here, but I'm not sure where. Do you have any local Ordnance Survey maps around?"

  "Gilbert had reams of them, but they're packed away in boxes somewhere. And I don't think you can buy any just now—in case of spies, you know. Why do you need them?"

  "To find a hill with standing stones on it."

  "Nathaniel Glossop."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Nathaniel Glossop,” Mrs. Bodgley repeated infallibly. “A neighbor. He knows all the local archaeology. I shall call on him in the morning."

  "Oh, jolly good!” Exeter said. “Spiffing! That would be very good of you."

  "No trouble, Edward. But tell me something. Why did it take you three years to return?"

  His hesitation was interesting.

  "Well, the Service weren't frightfully helpful, I admit."

  "You were a prisoner?"

  "Er, hardly! But they'd suspended all Home leave during hostilities, and the Committee didn't want to make a special case for me. They kept saying that the war would be over before I could do any good. Olympus doesn't keep up to date very well, you see. The Times doesn't circulate there. We knew the war was still going on, but months would go by without news, and the war always seemed to be on the point of ending. And ... they had this conviction that I have a destiny to play out as the Liberator."

  Mrs. Bodgley made clucking noises of disapproval. The moon was rising, silver behind the sable yews.

  "Well, naturally they're more concerned about what's happening on Nextdoor than here,” Exeter said defensively. “They're very dedicated to their own cause. And it did take me almost two years to arrive at Olympus in the first place."

  "Why?"

  He peered at his fingers and found the blood on them. Muttering angrily, he fumbled for a handkerchief. “What? Oh, the Vales are primitive compared to Europe. The distances are not great, but it's like wandering around Afghanistan or ancient Greece. Strangers attract suspicion. Unattached young men are apt to be taken for spies. Remember how Elizabethans felt about paupers—Poor Law, and all that—send them back to their home parish? There's slavery in some places. Thargvale, in particular."

  "How barbaric!"

  "Believe me, it is! And if not slavery, then military service. For the first year or so, I was caught up in a war."

  Pause. “A war?” Mrs. Bodgley repeated the word with disapproval. The brandy was making her louder and more matriarchal than ever. Smedley wondered what Alice was making of her. Alice had not spoken in a long time. She was too close for him to see her expression. She was too close.

  "'Fraid so,” Exeter agreed.

  "Like Afghanistan, you said? Bows and arrows? Some squalid tribal squabble?"

  "Very much squalid."

  "Edward, I'm afraid I feel a little disappointed in you! Could you not have left the natives to fight their own
battles? I really can't see why it need have been any of your business. Your duty lay back here, surely?"

  Smedley wondered what the good lady was going to say when she heard about the scars and the face paint. Perhaps Exeter could guess, because he did not mention them.

  "I felt that way too, Mrs. Bodgley. But it wasn't so easy. First, no army tolerates deserters. Secondly, I—” Exeter shot another brief, cryptic glance at Smedley, as if checking his reactions. “Well, I had responsibilities there, too. I had made friends, you see, who had given me hospitality, so I could hardly just run away and leave them, could I?"

  "You weren't fighting in the ranks, though, were you?” Alice said.

  Exeter pulled a face. “Not in the end,” he admitted.

  "They elected you leader?"

  He nodded unwillingly.

  "Leader?” Mrs. Bodgley paused, as if rolling the idea around in her mind. “Leader of what?"

  "The combined Joalian and Nagian armies. In our terms not much more than a brigade, five or six thousand."

  "Indeed? Well, that does make a difference, I admit."

  It certainly did, Smedley thought. Brigadier Exeter? Field-Marshal Exeter! Bloody good show!

  "Of course, it would be just like a Fallow boy to take command,” Mrs. Bodgley mused approvingly. “Leadership! Initiative! The traditions of the Old School. The school magazine will—No, I suppose not."

  "Oh, it was nothing to do with me,” Exeter protested. “It was just my stranger's charisma."

  "You are modest, Edward. It is starting to get chilly, isn't it? But let's stay out here a little longer. I hate the smell of those paraffin lamps. Do tell us about this war of yours."

  Exeter laughed unconvincingly. “It wasn't very noble. I worked my way up from the ranks. By the time they elected me supremo, we were locked up in a besieged city with the finest army in the Vales certain to come after us as soon as spring opened the passes. The seasons are running about three months behind ours just now, so that would have been roughly a year after I crossed over."

  "Your cause was just, I trust?"