At this moment, just as the men were beginning to settle down, Captain Mayfield appeared. “Where the hell are those platoon commanders?” he asked. “And what is the company doing here? I said the B in Bee, this is the E in Garden.”
A discussion followed, inaudible to Alastair except for an occasional phrase, “ring contour,” “track junction” and again and again “well the map’s wrong.” Captain Brown seemed to get the better of the argument; at any rate Captain Mayfield went away in search of his O group and left the company in possession.
Half an hour passed. Captain Brown felt impelled to explain the delay.
“The platoon commanders are making their recces,” he said.
Presently the C.O. arrived. “Is this C Company?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what’s happening? You ought to be on the start line by now.” Then since it was clearly no use attacking Captain Brown about that, he said in a way Captain Brown had learned to dread, “I must have missed your sentries coming along. Just put me in the picture, will you, of your local defense.”
“Well, sir, we’ve just halted here…”
The C.O. led Captain Brown away.
“He’s getting a rocket,” said the anti-tank man. It was the first moment of satisfaction he had known that day.
Captain Brown came back looking shaken and began posting air look-outs and gas sentries with feverish activity. While he was in the middle of it the platoon orderlies came back to lead the platoons to assembly positions. Alastair advanced with the platoon another half mile. Then they halted. Mr. Smallwood appeared and collected the section commanders round him. The C.O. was there too, listening to Mr. Smallwood’s orders. When they were finished he said, “I don’t think you mentioned the R.A.P., did you, Smallwood?”
“R.A.P. sir. No, sir, I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.”
The C.O. led Mr. Smallwood out of hearing of his platoon.
“Now he’s getting a rocket,” said the anti-tank man with glee.
The section-commanders came back to their men. Mr. Smallwood’s orders had been full of detail; start line, zero hour, boundaries inclusive and exclusive, objectives, supporting fire. “It’s like this,” said Corporal Deacon. “They’re over there and we’re here. So then we go for ’un.”
Another half hour passed. Captain Mayfield appeared. “For Christ’s sake, Smallwood, you ought to be half-way up the ridge by this time.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Smallwood. “Sorry. Come on. Forward.”
The platoon collected its equipment and toiled into action up the opposing slope. Major Bush, the second-in-command, appeared before them. They fired their blanks at him with enthusiasm. “Got him,” said the man next to Alastair.
“You’re coming under heavy fire,” said the Major. “Most of you are casualties.”
“He’s a casualty himself.”
“Well, what are you going to do, Smallwood?”
“Get down, sir.”
“Well, get down.”
“Get down,” ordered Mr. Smallwood.
“What are you going to do now?”
Mr. Smallwood looked round desperately for inspiration. “Put down smoke, sir.”
“Well, put down smoke.”
“Put down smoke,” said Mr. Smallwood to Alastair.
The Major went on his way to confuse the platoon on their flank.
“Come on,” said Mr. Smallwood. “We’ve got to get up this infernal hill sometime. We might as well do it now.”
It was shorter than it looked; they were up in twenty minutes and at the summit there was a prolonged shambles. Bit by bit the whole battalion appeared from different quarters. C Company was collected and fallen in; then they were fallen out to eat their dinners. No one had any dinner left, so they lay on their backs and smoked.
Marching home the C.O. said, “Not so bad for a first attempt.”
“Not so bad, Colonel,” said Major Bush.
“Bit slow off the mark.”
“A bit sticky.”
“Smallwood didn’t do too well.”
“He was very slow off the mark.”
“Well, I think we learned some lessons. The men were interested. You could see that.”
It was dark by the time the battalion reached camp. They marched to attention passing the guardroom, split into companies, and halted on the company parade ground.
“All rifles to be pulled through before supper,” said Captain Mayfield. “Platoon sergeants collect empties. Foot inspection by platoons.” Then he dismissed the company.
Alastair had time to slip away to the telephone box and summon Sonia before Mr. Mayfield came round the hut examining the feet with an electric torch. He pulled on a clean pair of socks, pushed his boots under his palliasse and put on a pair of shoes; then he was ready. Sonia was outside the guardroom, waiting for him in the car. “Darling, you smell very sweaty,” she said. “What have you been doing?”
“I put down smoke,” said Alastair proudly. “The whole advance was held up until I put down smoke.”
“Darling, you are clever. I’ve got a tinned beefsteak and kidney pudding for dinner.”
After dinner Alastair settled in a chair. “Don’t let me go to sleep,” he said. “I must be in by midnight.”
“I’ll wake you.”
“I wonder if a real battle is much like that,” said Alastair just before he dropped off.
Peter Pastmaster’s expedition never sailed. He resumed his former uniform and his former habits. His regiment was in barracks in London; his mother was still at the Ritz; most of his friends were still to be found round the bar at Bratt’s. With time on his hands and the prospect of action, for a few days imminent now postponed, but always present as the basis of any future plans, Peter began to suffer from pangs of dynastic conscience. He was thirty-three years old. He might pop off any day. “Mama,” he said, “d’you think I ought to marry?”
“Who?”
“Anyone.”
“I don’t see that you can say anyone ought to marry anyone.”
“Darling, don’t confuse me. What I mean is, supposing I get killed.”
“I don’t see a great deal in it for the poor girl,” said Margot.
“I mean I should like to have a son.”
“Well, then, you had better marry, darling. D’you know any girls?”
“I don’t think I do.”
“I don’t think I do either, come to think of it. I believe Emma Granchester’s second girl is very pretty—try her. There are probably lots of others. I’ll make enquiries.”
So Peter, little accustomed to their society, began, awkwardly at first, taking out a series of very young and very eligible girls; he quickly gained confidence; it was easy as falling off a log. Soon there were a dozen mothers who were old-fashioned enough to be pleasurably excited at the prospect of finding in their son-in-law all the Victorian excellences of an old title, a new fortune, and a shapely leg in blue overalls.
“Peter,” Margot said to him one day. “D’you ever give yourself time from debutantes to see old friends? What’s become of Angela? I never see her now.”
“I suppose she’s gone back to the country.”
“Not with Basil?”
“No, not with Basil.”
But she was living still above the block of flats in Gros-venor Square. Below, layer upon layer of rich men and women came and went about their business, layer below layer down to street level; below that again, underground, the management were adapting the basement to serve as an air-raid shelter. Angela seldom went beyond her door, except once or twice a week to visit the cinema; she always went alone. She had taken to wearing spectacles of smoked glass; she wore them indoors, as well as out; she wore them in the subdued, concealed lighting of her drawing-room, as she sat hour after hour with the radio standing by the decanter and glass at her elbow; she wore them when she looked at herself in the mirror. Only Grainger, her maid, knew what was the matter with Mrs. Lyne,
and she only knew the shell of it. Grainger knew the number of bottles, empty and full, in the little pantry; she saw Mrs. Lyne’s face when the blackout was taken down in the morning. (She never had to wake Mrs. Lyne nowadays; her eyes were always open when the maid came to call her; sometimes Mrs. Lyne was up and sitting in her chair; sometimes she lay in bed, staring ahead, waiting to be called.) She knew the trays of food that came up from the restaurant and went back, as often as not, untasted. All this Grainger knew and, being a dull sensible girl, she kept her own counsel; but, being a dull and sensible girl, she was spared the knowledge of what went on in Mrs. Lyne’s mind.
So the snows vanished and the weeks of winter melted away with them; presently, oblivious of the hazards of war, the swallows returned to their ancestral building grounds.
Three
Spring
Two events decided Basil to return to London. First, the yeomanry moved back to the country under canvas. Freddy telephoned to Barbara:
“Good news,” he said, “we’re coming home.”
“Freddy, how splendid,” said Barbara, her spirits falling a little. “When?”
“I arrive to-morrow. I’m bringing Jack Cathcart; he’s our second-in-command now. We’re going to lay out a camp. We’ll stay at Malfrey while we’re doing it.”
“Lovely,” said Barbara.
“We’ll be bringing servants, so we’ll be self-supporting as far as that goes. There’ll be a couple of sergeants. Benson can look after them. And I say, Barbara, what do you say to having the camp in the Park?”
“Oh, no, Freddy, for God’s sake.”
“We could open up the saloon and have the mess there. I could live in. You’d have to have old Colonel Sproggin and probably Cathcart, too, but you wouldn’t mind that, would you?”
“Please, Freddy, don’t decide anything in a hurry.”
“Well, I have practically decided. See you to-morrow. I say, is Basil still with you?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t see him getting on terribly well with Cathcart. Couldn’t you give him a gentle hint?”
Barbara hung up sadly and went to make arrangements for Freddy’s and Major Cathcart’s reception.
Basil was at Grantley Green. He returned to Malfrey after dinner, to find Barbara still up.
“Darling, you’ve got to go away.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Freddy’s coming home.”
“Oh, damn Freddy; who cares for him? Bill’s coming home.”
“What does she say?”
“Believe it or not, she’s as pleased as Punch.”
“Ungrateful beast,” said Barbara, and, after a pause, “You never wrote that book either.”
“No, but we’ve had a lovely time, haven’t we, Babs? Quite like the old days.”
“I suppose you’ll want some money.”
“I could always do with some more, but as it happens I’m quite rich at the moment.”
“Basil, how?”
“One thing and another. I tell you what I will do before I go. I’ll get the Connollies off your hands again. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting them rather in the last few weeks.”
That led to the second deciding event.
On his way to and from Grantley Green, Basil had noticed a pretty stucco house standing in paddock and orchard, which seemed exactly suited to harbor the Connollies. He had asked Barbara about it, but she could tell him nothing. Basil was getting lax and, confident now in his methods, no longer bothered himself with much research before choosing his victims. The stucco house was marked down and next day he packed the Connollies into the car and drove over to do his business.
It was ten in the morning but he found the proprietor at breakfast. He did not appear to be quite the type that Basil was used to deal with. He was younger than the G.P.O. list. A game leg, stuck awkwardly askew, explained why he was not in uniform. He had got this injury in a motor race, he explained later to Basil. He had ginger hair and a ginger moustache and malevolent pinkish eyes. His name was Mr. Todhunter.
He was eating kidneys and eggs and sausages and bacon and an overcooked chop; his teapot stood on the hob. He looked like a drawing by Leach for a book by Surtees.
“Well,” he said, cautious but affable. “I know about you. You’re Mrs. Sothill’s brother at Malfrey. I don’t know Mrs. Sothill but I know all about her. I don’t know Captain Sothill but I know all about him. What can I do for you?”
“I’m the billeting officer for this district,” said Basil.
“Indeed. I’m interested to meet you. Go on. You don’t mind my eating, I’m sure.”
Feeling a little less confident than usual, Basil went through his now stereotyped preface. “… Getting harder to find billets, particularly since the anti-aircraft battery had come to South Grappling and put their men in the cottages there… important to stop the backwash to the towns… bad impression if the bigger houses seemed not to be doing their share… natural reluctance to employ compulsory powers but these powers were there, if necessary… three children who had caused some difficulty elsewhere…”
Mr. Todhunter finished his breakfast, stood with his back to the fire and began to fill his pipe. “And what if I don’t want these hard cases of yours,” he said. “What if I’d sooner pay the fine?”
Basil embarked on the second part of his recitation. “… official allowance barely covered cost of food… serious hardship to poor families… poor people valued their household gods even more than the rich… possible to find a cottage where a few pounds would make all the difference between dead loss and a small and welcome profit…”
Mr. Todhunter heard him in silence. At last he said, “So that’s how you do it. Thank you. That was most instructive, very instructive indeed. I liked the bit about household gods.”
Basil began to realize that he was dealing with a fellow of broad and rather dangerous sympathies; someone like himself. “In more cultured circles I say Lares et Penates.”
“Household gods is good enough. Household gods is very good indeed. What d’you generally count on raising?”
“Five pounds is the worst, thirty-five the best I’ve had so far.”
“So far? Do you hope to carry on long with this trade?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you something. D’you know who’s billeting officer in this district? I am. Mrs. Sothill’s district ends at the main road. You’re muscling in on my territory when you come past the crossing. Now what have you got to say for yourself?”
“D’you mean to say that Grantley Green is yours?”
“Certainly.”
“How damned funny.”
“Why funny?”
“I can’t tell you,” said Basil. “But it is—exquisitely funny.”
“So I’ll ask you to keep to your own side of the road in future. Not that I’m ungrateful for your visit. It’s given me some interesting ideas. I always felt there was money in this racket somehow, but I could never quite see my way to get it. Now I know. I’ll remember about the household gods.”
“Wait a minute,” said Basil. “It isn’t quite as easy as all that you know. It isn’t just a matter of having the idea; you have to have the Connollies too. You don’t understand it, and I don’t understand it, but the fact remains that quite a number of otherwise sane human beings are perfectly ready to take children in; they like them; it makes them feel virtuous; they like the little pattering feet about the house—I know it sounds screwy but it’s the truth. I’ve seen it again and again.”
“So have I,” said Mr. Todhunter. “There’s no sense in it, but it’s a fact—they make household gods of them.”
“Now the Connollies are something quite special; no one could make a household god of them. Come and have a look.”
He and Mr. Todhunter went out into the circle of gravel in front of the porch where Basil had left the car.
“Doris,” he said. “Come out and meet Mr
. Todhunter. Bring Micky and Marlene too.”
The three frightful children stood in a line to be inspected.
“Take that scarf off your head, Doris. Show him your hair.”
In spite of himself Mr. Todhunter could not disguise the fact that he was profoundly moved. “Yes,” he said. “I give you that. They are special. If it’s not a rude question, what did you pay for them?”
“I got them free. But I’ve put a lot of money into them since—fried fish and cinemas.”
“How did you get the girl’s hair that way?”
“She did it herself,” said Basil, “for love.”
“They certainly are special,” repeated Mr. Todhunter with awe.
“You haven’t seen anything yet. You should see them in action.”
“I can imagine it,” said Mr. Todhunter. “Well, what d’you want for them?”
“Five pounds a leg and that’s cheap, because I’m thinking of closing down the business anyhow.”
Mr. Todhunter was not a man to haggle when he was on a good thing. “Done,” he said.
Basil addressed the Connollies. “Well, children, this is your new headquarters.”
“Are we to muck ’em about?” asked Doris.
“That’s up to Mr. Todhunter. I’m handing you over to him now. You’ll be working for him in future.”
“Ain’t we never going to be with you again?” asked Doris.
“Never again, Doris. But you’ll find you like Mr. Todhunter just as much. He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
“Not as handsome as you.”
“No, perhaps not, but he’s got a fine little red moustache, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, it’s a lovely moustache,” Doris conceded; she looked from her old to her new master critically. “But he’s shorter than you.”
“Dammit, girl,” said Basil impatiently. “Don’t you realize there’s a war on? We’ve all got to make sacrifices. There’s many a little girl would be very grateful for Mr. Todhunter. Look at his fine red nob.”
“Yes, it is red.”
Mr. Todhunter tired of the comparison and stumped indoors to fetch his check book.