Sword of Honor

  Thus whatever romantic image of himself Ludovic had ever set up was finally defaced.

  In his lonely condition he found more than solace, positive excitement, in the art of writing. The further he removed from human society and the less he attended to human speech, the more did words, printed and written, occupy his mind. The books he read were books about words. As he lay unshriven, his sleep was never troubled by the monstrous memories which might have been supposed to lie in wait for him in the dark. He dreamed of words and woke repeating them as though memorizing a foreign vocabulary. Ludovic had become an addict of that potent intoxicant, the English language.

  Not laboriously, luxuriously rather, Ludovic worked over his notebooks, curtailing, expanding, polishing; often consulting Fowler, not disdaining Roget; writing and rewriting in his small clerkly hand on the lined sheets of paper which the army supplied; telling no one what he was up to, until at length there were fifty foolscap pages, which he sent to Sir Ralph, not asking his opinion, but instructing him to find a publisher.

  It was in miniature a golden age for the book-trade; anything sold; the supply of paper alone determined a writer’s popularity. But publishers had obligations to old clients and an eye to the future. Ludovic’s pensées stirred no hopes of a sequel of best-selling novels. The established firms were on the look-out for promise rather than accomplishment. Sir Ralph therefore sent the manuscript to Everard Spruce, the founder and editor of Survival; a man who cherished no ambitions for the future, believing, despite the title of his monthly review, that the human race was destined to dissolve in chaos.

  The war had raised Spruce, who in the years preceding it had not been the most esteemed of his coterie of youngish, socialist writers, to unrivaled eminence. Those of his friends who had not fled to Ireland or to America had joined the Fire Brigade. Spruce by contrast had stood out for himself and in that disorderly period when Guy had sat in Bellamy’s writing so many fruitless appeals for military employment, had announced the birth of a magazine devoted “to the Survival of Values.” The Ministry of Information gave it protection, exempted its staff from other duties, granted it a generous allowance of paper, and exported it in bulk to whatever countries were still open to British shipping. Copies were even scattered from aeroplanes in regions under German domination and patiently construed by partisans with the aid of dictionaries. A member who complained in the House of Commons that so far as its contents were intelligible to him, they were pessimistic in tone and unconnected in subject with the war effort, was told at some length by the Minister that free expression in the arts was an essential of democracy. “I personally have no doubt,” he said, “and I am confirmed in my opinion by many reports, that great encouragement is given to our allies and sympathizers throughout the world by the survival” (laughter) “in this country of what is almost unique in present conditions, a periodical entirely independent of official direction.”

  Spruce lived in a fine house in Cheyne Walk cared for by secretaries to the number of four. It was there that Ludovic was directed by Sir Ralph. He went on foot through the lightless streets, smelling the river before him in the deepening fog.

  He was not entirely unacquainted with men of letters. Several had been habitués of Ebury Street; he had sat at café tables with them on the Mediterranean coast; but always in those days he had been an appendage of Sir Ralph’s, sometimes ignored, sometimes punctiliously brought into the conversation, often impertinently studied; never regarded as a possible confrère. This was the first time that Ludovic had gone among them in his own right. He was not the least nervous but he was proudly conscious of a change of status far more gratifying than any conferred by military rank.

  Spruce was in his middle thirties. Time was, he cultivated a proletarian, youthful, aspect; not successfully; now, perhaps without design, he looked older than his years and presented the negligent elegance of a fashionable don. Tonight he wore a heavy silk, heavily striped shirt and a bow tie above noncommittal trousers. The secretaries were dressed rather like him though in commoner materials; they wore their hair long and enveloping, in a style which fifteen years later was to be associated by the newspapers with the King’s Road. One went bare-footed as though to emphasize her servile condition. They were sometimes spoken of as “Spruce’s veiled ladies.” They gave him their full devotion; also their rations of butter, meat and sugar.

  One of these opened the door to Ludovic and without asking his name said through a curtain of hair: “Do come in quick. The black-out’s not very efficient. They’re all upstairs.”

  There was a party in the drawing-room on the first floor.

  “Which is Mr. Spruce?”

  “Don’t you know? Over there, of course, talking to the Smart Woman.”

  Ludovic looked round the room where, in a company of twenty or so, women predominated, but none appeared notably dressy, but the host identified himself by coming forward with an expression of sharp enquiry.

  “I am Ludovic,” said Ludovic. “Ralph Brompton said you were expecting me.”

  “Yes, of course. Don’t go until we have had the chance of a talk. I must apologize for the crowd. Two anti-fascist neutrals have been wished on me by the Ministry of Information. They asked me to collect some interesting people. Not easy these days. Do you speak Turkish or Portuguese?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a pity. They are both professors of English Literature but not very fluent in conversation. Come and talk to Lady Perdita.”

  He led Ludovic to the woman with whom he had been standing. She was wearing the uniform of an air-raid warden and had smudges of soot on her face. “Smart,” Ludovic perceived denoted rank rather than chic in this milieu.

  “I was at your wedding,” said Ludovic.

  “Surely not? No one was.”

  “Your first wedding.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, everyone was there.”

  “I held my sword over your head when you left the church.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Lady Perdita. “Think of it; swords.”

  The bare-footed secretary approached with a jug and a glass.

  “Will you have a drink?”

  “What is it?”

  “There’s nothing else,” she said. “I made it. Half South African sherry and half something called ‘Olde Falstaffe Gin.’ ”

  “I don’t think I will, thank you,” said Ludovic.

  “Snob,” said Lady Perdita. “Fill me up, Frankie, there’s a dear.”

  “There’s hardly enough to go round.”

  “I’ll have this chap’s ration.”

  The host interrupted: “Perdita, I want you to meet Dr. Iago from Coimbra. He talks a bit of French.”

  Ludovic was left with the secretary, who kept custody of her eyes. Addressing her bare toes she said: “One thing about a party, it does warm the room. Who are you?” she asked.

  “Ludovic. Mr. Spruce has accepted something I wrote for Survival.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I know all about you now. I read your manuscript too. Everard is awfully impressed with it. He said it was as though Logan Pearsall Smith had written Kafka. Do you know Logan?”

  “Only by his writing.”

  “You must meet him. He’s not here tonight. He doesn’t go out now. I say, what a relief to meet a real writer instead of all these smarties Everard wastes his time on” (this with a dark glance from her feet to the air-raid warden). “Look; there is some whisky. We’ve only got one bottle so we have to be rather careful with it. Come next door and I’ll give you some.”

  “Next door” was the office, a smaller room austerely, even meanly furnished. Back numbers of Survival were piled on the bare floorboards, manuscripts and photographs on the bare table; a black sheet was secured by drawing-pins to cover the window. Here, when they were not engaged on domestic tasks—cooking, queuing or darning—the four secretaries stoked the cultural beacon which blazed from Iceland to Adelaide; here the girl who could type answered S
pruce’s numerous “fan letters” and the girl who could spell corrected proofs. Here it seemed some of them slept, for there were divan beds covered with blankets only and a large, much undenticulated, comb.

  Frankie went to the cupboard and revealed a bottle. Many strange concoctions of the “Olde Falstaffe” kind circulated in those days. This was not one of them.

  “Not opened yet,” she said.

  Ludovic was not fond of spirits nor was whisky any rarity at his well-found station; nevertheless he accepted the offered drink with a solemnity which verged on reverence. This was no mere clandestine treat. Frankie was initiating him into the occult company of Logan and Kafka. He would find time in the days to come to learn who Kafka was. Now he drained the glass swallowing almost without repugnance the highly valued distillation.

  “You seemed to want that,” said Frankie. “I daren’t offer you another yet I’m afraid. Perhaps later. It depends who else turns up.”

  “It was just what I wanted,” said Ludovic; “all that I wanted,” repressing a momentary inclination to retch.

  V

  The Kilbannocks’ house in Eaton Terrace had suffered no direct damage from bombing; not a pane of glass had been broken, not a chimney-pot thrown down; but four years of war had left their marks on the once gay interior. Kerstie did her best, but paint, wallpapers, chintzes and carpets were stained and shabby. Despite these appearances the Kilbannocks had in fact recovered from the comparative penury of 1939. Kerstie no longer took lodgers. She had moved from the canteen of the Transit Camp to a well-paid job as a cipher clerk; Ian’s pay rose with the rings on his cuff; an aunt had died leaving him a modest legacy. And there was nothing in those days to tempt anyone to extravagance. Kerstie had had Ian’s evening clothes cleverly adapted into a serviceable coat and skirt. The children were still confided to their grandmother in Scotland and came to London only on occasions.

  On this October evening they were expecting Virginia Troy, once an inmate, now rather a rare visitor.

  “You’d better go out to Bellamy’s, or somewhere,” said Kerstie, “I gathered on the telephone that Virginia wants a heart-to-hearter.”

  “Trimmer?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I’m thinking of shipping him to America.”

  “It will be much the best thing.”

  “We’ve done pretty well all we can with him in this country. We’ve finished the film. The B.B.C. don’t want to renew ‘The Voice of Trimmer’ Sunday evening postscripts.”

  “I should think not.”

  “It seemed a good idea. Somehow it didn’t catch on. Trimmer has to be seen as well as heard. Besides, there are a lot of rival heroes with rather better credentials.”

  “You think the Americans will swallow him?”

  “He’ll be something new. They’re sick of fighter pilots. By the way, do you realize it was Trimmer who gave the monarch the idea for this Sword of Stalingrad? Indirectly, of course. In the big scene of Trimmer’s landing I gave him a ‘commando dagger’ to brandish. I don’t suppose you’ve even seen the things. They were an idea of Brides-in-the-Bath’s early on. A few hundred were issued. To my certain knowledge none was ever used in action. A Glasgow policeman got a nasty poke with one. They were mostly given away to tarts. But they were beautifully made little things. Well, you know how sharp the royal eye is for any detail of equipment. He was given a preview of the Trimmer film and spotted the dagger at once. Had one sent round to him. Then the royal mind brooded a bit and the final result was that thing in the Abbey. An odd item of contemporary history.”

  “Are you going to Bellamy’s?”

  “Everard Spruce asked us to a party. I might look in.”

  The bell of the front door sounded through the little house.

  “Virginia, I expect.”

  Ian let her in. She kissed with cold detestation and came upstairs.

  “I thought you were sending him out,” she said to Kerstie.

  “I am. Run along, Ian, we have things to talk about.”

  “Do I have to remind you that I am your direct superior officer?”

  “Oh God, how that joke bores me.”

  “I see you’ve brought luggage.”

  “Yes, can I stay for a bit, Kerstie?”

  “Yes, for a bit.”

  “Until Trimmer’s out of the country. He says he’s had a warning order to stand by for a trip—somewhere where he can’t take me, thank God.”

  “I always hoped,” said Ian, “you might come to like him.”

  “I’ve done two years.”

  “Yes, you’ve been jolly good. You deserve a holiday. Well, I’ll leave you two. I expect I’ll be pretty late home.”

  Neither woman showed any regret at this announcement. Ian went downstairs and out into the darkness.

  “There’s nothing in the house to drink,” said Kerstie. “We could go out somewhere.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Yes, I can manage that.”

  “Let’s stay in then.”

  “Nothing much to eat either. I’ve got some cod.”

  “No cod, thanks.”

  “I say, Virginia, you’re pretty low.”

  “Dead flat. What’s happened to everyone? London used to be full of chums. Now I don’t seem to know anyone. Do you realize that since my brother was killed I haven’t a single living relation?”

  “My dear, I am sorry. I hadn’t heard. In fact I didn’t know you had a brother.”

  “He was called Tim—five years younger than me. We never got on. He was killed three years ago. You’ve such hundreds of children and parents and cousins, Kerstie. You can’t imagine what it feels like to be quite alone. There’s my step-mother in Switzerland. She never approved of me and I can’t get at her now anyway. I’m scared, Kerstie.”

  “Tell.”

  Virginia was never one whose confidences needed drawing out.

  “Money,” she said. “I’ve never known what it was like to have no money. It’s a very odd sensation, indeed. Tim made a will leaving all he had to some girl. Papa never left me anything. He thought I was well provided for.”

  “Surely Mr. Troy will have to cough up eventually. Americans are great ones for alimony.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s what my bank manager and lawyer said. At first they thought it was just some difficulty of exchange control. They wrote him a lot of letters polite at first, then firm, then threatening. Finally, about six months ago they hired a lawyer in New York to serve a writ. A fine move that turned out to be. Mr. Troy has divorced me.”

  “Surely he can’t do that?”

  “He’s done it. All signed and sealed. Apparently he’s had a man watching me and taking affidavits.”

  “How absolutely disgusting.”

  “It’s just like Mr. Troy. I ought to have suspected when he lay so low. We’ve sent for copies of the evidence in case there is any sort of appeal possible. But it doesn’t sound likely. After all, I haven’t been strictly faithful to Mr. Troy all this time.”

  “He could hardly expect that.”

  “So not only no alimony, but an overdraft and a huge lawyer’s bill. I did the only thing I could and sold jewels. The beasts gave me half what they cost; said no one was buying at the moment.”

  “Just what they said to Brenda.”

  “Then this morning a very awkward thing happened. One of the things I sold was a pair of clips Augustus gave me. I’d quite forgotten about them till they turned up in an old bag. What’s more I’d forgotten that when I lost them years ago I had reported it to the insurance company and been paid. Apparently I’ve committed a criminal offense. They’ve been fairly decent about that. They aren’t going to the police or anything but I’ve got to refund the money—£250. It doesn’t sound much but I haven’t got it. So this afternoon I’ve been hawking furs around. They say no one’s buying them either, though I should have thought it’s just what everyone will want with winter coming on and no coal.”

  “I
always envied your furs,” said Kerstie.

  “Yours for £250.”

  “What’s the best offer you got?”

  “Believe it or not, £75.”

  “I happen to have a little money in the bank at the moment,” said Kerstie thoughtfully. “I could go a bit higher than that.”

  “I need three times as much.”

  “You must have some other things left.”

  “All I possess in the world is downstairs in your hall.”

  “Let’s go through it, Virginia. You always had so many things. I’m sure we can find something. There’s that cigarette case you’re using now.”

  “It’s badly knocked about.”

  “But it was good once.”

  “Mr. Troy, Cannes, 1936.”

  “I’m sure we can find enough to make up £250.”

  “Oh Kerstie, you are a comfort to a girl.”

  So the two of them, who had “come out” the same year and led such different lives, the one so prodigal, the other so circumspect and sparing, spread out Virginia’s possessions over the grubby sofa and spent all that evening like gypsy hucksters examining and pricing those few surviving trophies of a decade of desirable womanhood, and in the end went off to bed comforted, each in her way, and contented with the traffic.

  VI

  Guy felt that he had been given a birthday present; the first for how many years? The card that had come popping out of the Electronic Personnel Selector bearing his name, like a “fortune” from a seaside slot-machine, like a fortune indeed in a more real sense—the luck of the draw in a lottery or sweepstake—brought an unfamiliar stir of exhilaration, such as he had felt in his first days in the Halberdiers, in his first minutes on enemy soil at Dakar; a sense of liberation such as he had felt when he had handed over Apthorpe’s legacy to Chatty Corner and when he broke his long silence in the hospital in Alexandria. These had been the memorable occasions of his army life; all had been during the first two years of war; of late he had ceased to look for a renewal. Now there was hope. There was still a place for him somewhere outside the futile routine of H.O.O. H.Q.