Men at Arms (4 page)

‘How about the others?’

‘Look at me. Look at your grandfather – and your great uncle Peregrine he’s appallingly sane.’

‘He’s spending his time collecting binoculars and sending them to the War Office. Is that sane?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I’m glad you told me.’

Presently Angela called: ‘Come in, you two. It’s quite dark. What are you talking about?’

‘Tony thinks he’s going mad.’

‘Mrs Groat is. She left the larder un-blacked-out.’

They sat in the library with their backs to Guy’s bed. Quite soon Tony rose to say good night.

‘Mass is at eight,’ said Angela. ‘We ought to start at twenty to. I’m picking up some evacuees in Uley.’

‘Oh I say, isn’t there something later? I was looking forward to a long lie.’

‘I thought we might all go to communion tomorrow. Do come, Tony.’

‘All right, Mum, of course I will. Only make it twenty-five-to in that case. I shall have to go to scrape after weeks of wickedness.’

Box-Bender looked self-conscious, as he still did, always, when religious practices were spoken of. He did not get used to it – this ease with the Awful.

‘I shall be with you in spirit,’ he said.

Then he left too, and stumbled across the garden to the cottage. Angela and Guy were left alone.

‘He’s a charming boy, Angela.’

‘Yes, so military, isn’t he? All in a matter of months. He doesn’t mind a bit going to France.’

‘I should think not indeed.’

‘Oh, Guy, you’re too young to remember. I grew up with the first war. I’m one of the girls you read about who danced with the men who were being killed. I remember the telegram coming about Gervase. You were just a schoolboy going short of sweets. I remember the first lot who went out. There wasn’t one of them left at the end. What chance has a boy of Tony’s age starting now at the very beginning? I worked in a hospital, you remember. That’s why I couldn’t bear it when Tony talked of a nice neat wound and being cosseted.’

‘He oughtn’t to have said that’

‘There weren’t any nice little wounds. They were all perfectly beastly and this time there’ll be all kinds of ghastly new chemicals too, I suppose. You heard how he spoke about Chemical Warfare – a hobby for “wet” officers. He doesn’t know what it will be like. There isn’t even the hope of his being taken prisoner this time. Under the Kaiser the Germans were still a civilized people. These brutes will do anything.’

‘Angela, there’s nothing I can say except that you know very well you wouldn’t have Tony a bit different. You wouldn’t want him to be one of those wretched boys I hear about who have run away to Ireland or America.’

‘That’s quite inconceivable, of course.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I know. I know. Time for bed. I’m afraid we’ve filled your room with smoke. You can open the window when the light’s out. Thank goodness Arthur has gone ahead. I can use my torch across the garden without being accused of attracting Zeppelins.’

That night, lying long awake, obliged to choose between air and light, choosing air, not reading, Guy thought: Why Tony? What crazy economy was it that squandered Tony and saved himself? In China when called to the army it was honourable to hire a poor young man and send him in one’s place. Tony was rich in love and promise. He himself destitute, possessed of nothing save a few dry grains of faith. Why could he not go to France in Tony’s place, to the neat little wound or the barbarous prison?

But next morning as he knelt at the altar-rail beside Angela and Tony he seemed to hear his answer in the words of the canon:
Domine non sum dignus
.

GUY
had planned to stay two nights and go on Monday to visit his father at Matchet. Instead be left before luncheon on Sunday so as to leave Angela uninterrupted in her last hours with Tony. It was a journey he had often made before. Box-Bender used to send him into Bristol by car. His father used to send for him to the mainline station. Now all the world seemed on the move and he was obliged to travel tediously with several changes of bus and train. It was late afternoon when he arrived at Matchet station and found his father with his old golden retriever waiting on the platform.

‘I don’t know where the hotel porter is,’ said Mr Crouchback. ‘He should be here. I told him he would be needed. But everyone’s very busy. Leave your bag here. I expect we’ll meet him on the way.’

Father and son and dog walked out together into the sunset down the steep little streets of the town.

Despite the forty years that divided them there was a marked likeness between Mr Crouchback and Guy. Mr Crouchback was rather the taller and he wore an expression of steadfast benevolence quite lacking in Guy. ‘
Racé
rather than
distingué
’ was how Miss Vavasour, a fellow resident at the Marine Hotel, defined Mr Crouchback’s evident charm. There was nothing of the old dandy about him, nothing crusted, nothing crotchety. He was not at all what is called ‘a character’. He was an innocent, affable old man who had somehow preserved his good humour – much more than that, a mysterious and tranquil joy – throughout a life which to all outward observation had been overloaded with misfortune. He had like many another been born in full sunlight and lived to see night fall. England was full of such Jobs who had been disappointed in their prospects. Mr Crouchback had lost his home. Partly in his father’s hands, partly in his own, without extravagance or speculation, his inheritance had melted away. He had rather early lost his beloved wife and been left to a long widowhood. He had an ancient name which was now little regarded and threatened with extinction. Only God and Guy knew the massive and singular quality of Mr Crouchback’s family pride. He kept it to himself. That passion, which is often so thorny a growth, bore nothing save roses for Mr Crouchback. He was quite without class consciousness because he saw the whole intricate social structure of his country divided neatly into two unequal and unmistakable parts. On one side stood the Crouchbacks and certain inconspicuous, anciently allied families; on the other side stood the rest of mankind, Box-Bender, the butcher, the Duke of Omnium (whose onetime wealth derived from monastic spoils), Lloyd George, Neville Chamberlain – all of a piece together. Mr Crouchback acknowledged no monarch since James II. It was not an entirely sane conspectus but it engendered in his gentle breast two rare qualities, tolerance and humility. For nothing much, he assumed, could reasonably be expected from the commonalty; it was remarkable how well some of them did behave on occasions; while, for himself, any virtue he had came from afar without his deserving, and every small fault was grossly culpable in a man of his high tradition.

He had a further natural advantage over Guy; he was fortified by a memory which kept only the good things and rejected the ill. Despite his sorrows, he had had a fair share of joys, and these were ever fresh and accessible in Mr Crouchback’s mind. He never mourned the loss of Broome. He still inhabited it as he had known it in bright boyhood and in early, requited love.

In his actual leaving home there had been no complaining. He attended every day of the sale seated in the marquee on the auctioneer’s platform, munching pheasant sandwiches, drinking port from a flask and watching the bidding with tireless interest, all unlike the ruined squire of Victorian iconography.

‘… Who’d have thought those old vases worth £18? Where did that table come from? Never saw it before in my life ... Awful shabby the carpets look when you get them out … What on earth can Mrs Chadwick want with a stuffed bear? …’

The Marine Hotel, Matchet, was kept by old servants from Broome. They made him very welcome. There he brought a few photographs, the bedroom furniture to which he was accustomed, complete and rather severe – the brass bedstead, the oak presses and boot-rack, the circular shaving glass, the mahogany prie-dieu. His sitting-room was furnished from the smoking-room at Broome with a careful selection of old favourites from the library. And there he had lived ever since, greatly respected by Miss Vavasour and the other permanent residents. The original manager sold out and went to Canada; his successor took on Mr Crouchback with the other effects. Once a year he revisited Broome, when a requiem was sung for his ancestors. He never lamented his changed state or mentioned it to newcomers. He went to mass every day, walking, punctually down the High Street before the shops were open; walking punctually back as the shutters were coming down, with a word of greeting for everyone he passed. All his pride of family was a schoolboy hobby compared with his religious faith. When Virginia left Guy childless, it did not occur to Mr Crouchback, as it had never ceased occurring to Box-Bender, that the continuance of his line was worth a tiff with the Church; that Guy should marry by civil law and beget an heir and settle things up later with the ecclesiastical authorities as other people seemed somehow to do. Family pride could not be served in dishonour. There were in fact two medieval excommunications and a seventeenth century apostasy clearly set out in the family annals, but those were among the things that Mr Crouchback’s memory extruded.

Tonight the town seemed fuller than usual. Guy knew Matchet well. He had picnicked there as a child and visited his father whenever he came to England. The Marine Hotel lay outside the town, on the cliff beside the coast-guard station. Their way led down the harbour, along the waterfront, then up again by a red rock track. Lundy Island could be seen in the setting sun, beyond the brown waters. The channel was full of shipping held by the Contraband Control.

‘I should have liked to say good-bye to Tony,’ said Mr Crouchback. ‘I didn’t know he was off so soon. There’s something I looked out for him the other day and wanted to give him. I know he’d have liked to have it – Gervase’s medal of Our Lady of Lourdes. He bought it in France on a holiday the year the war broke out and he always wore it. They sent it back after he was killed with his watch and things. Tony ought to have it.’

‘I don’t think there’d be time to get it to him now.’

‘I’d like to have given it to him myself. It’s not the same thing sending it in a letter. Harder to explain.’

‘It didn’t protect Gervase much, did it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Crouchback, ‘much more than you might think. He told me when he came to say good-bye before going out. The army is full of temptations for a boy. Once in London, when he was in training, he got rather drunk with some of his regiment and in the end he found himself left alone with a girl they’d picked up somewhere. She began to fool about and pulled off his tie and then she found the medal and all of a sudden they both sobered down and she began talking about the convent where she’d been at school and so they parted friends and no harm done. I call that being protected. I’ve worn a medal all my life. Do you?’

‘I have from time to time. I haven’t one at the moment’

‘You should, you know, with bombs and things about. If you get hit and taken to hospital, they know you’re a Catholic and send for a priest. A nurse once told me that. Would you care to have Gervase’s medal, if Tony can’t?’

‘Very much. Besides I hope to get into the army too.’

‘So you said in your letter. But they’ve turned you down?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be much competition for me.’

‘What a shame. But I can’t imagine you a soldier. You never liked motor-cars, did you? It’s all motor-cars now, you know. The yeomanry haven’t had any horses since the year before last, a man was telling me, and they haven’t any motor-cars either. Seems a silly business. But you don’t care for horses either do you?’

‘Not lately,’ said Guy, remembering the eight horses he and Virginia had kept in Kenya, the rides round the lake at dawn; remembering, too, the Ford van which he had driven to market twice a month over the dirt track.

‘Trains deluxe are more in your line, eh?’

‘There wasn’t anything very luxurious about today’s trains,’ said Guy.

‘No,’ said his father. ‘I’ve no business to chaff you. It’s very nice of you to come all this, way to see me, my boy. I don’t think you’ll be dull. There are all kinds of new people in the inn – most amusing. I’ve made a whole new circle of friends in the last fortnight. Charming, people. You’ll be surprised.’

‘More Miss Vavasours?’

‘No, no, different people. All sorts of quite young people. A charming Mrs Tickeridge and her daughter. Her husband is a major in the Halberdiers. He’s come down for Sunday. You’ll like them awfully.’

The Marine Hotel was full and overflowing, as all hotels seemed to be all over the country. Formerly when he came to visit his father, Guy had been conscious of a stir of interest among guests and staff. Now he found it difficult to get any attention.

‘No, we’re quite full up,’ said the manageress, ‘Mr Crouchback did ask for a room for you but we were expecting you tomorrow. There’s nothing at all tonight.’

‘Perhaps you could fix him up in my sitting-room.’

‘We’ll do what we can, if you don’t mind waiting a bit.’ The porter who should have been at the station was helping hand round drinks in the lounge.

‘I’ll go just as soon as I can, sir,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind waiting until after dinner.’

Guy did mind. He wanted a change of shirt after his journey, but the man was gone with his tray of glasses before Guy could answer.

‘Isn’t it a gay scene?’ said Mr Crouchback. ‘Those are the Tickeridges over there. Do come and meet them.’

Guy saw a mousy woman and a man in uniform with enormous handle-bar moustaches. ‘I expect they’ve sent their little girl up to bed. She’s a remarkable child. Only six, no nannie, and does everything for herself.’

The mousy woman smiled with unexpected charm at Mr Crouchback’s approach. The man with the moustaches began moving furniture about to make room.

‘Cheeroh,’ he said. ‘Pardon my glove.’ (He was holding a chair above his head with both hands.) ‘We were about to do a little light shopping. What’s yours, sir?’

Somehow he cleared a small space and filled it with chairs. Somehow he caught the porter. Mr Crouchback introduced Guy.

‘So you’re joining the lotus-eaters too? I’ve just settled madam and the offspring here for the duration. Charming spot. I wish I could spend a few weeks here instead of in barracks.’

‘No,’ said Guy, ‘I’m only here for one night.’

‘Pity. The madam wants company. Too many old pussycats around.’

In addition to his huge moustaches Major Tickeridge had tufts of wiry ginger whisker high on his cheekbones, almost in his eyes.

The porter brought them their drinks. Guy tried to engage him on the subject of his bag but he was off in a twinkling with ‘I’ll be with you in one minute, sir.’

‘Baggage problems?’ said the major. ‘They’re all in rather a flap here. What’s the trouble?’

Guy told him at some length.

‘That’s easy. I’ve, got the invaluable but usually invisible Halberdier Gold standing easy somewhere in the rear echelon. Let him go.’

‘No, I say, please…’

‘Halberdier Gold has not done a hand’s turn since we got here except call me too damned early this morning. He needs exercise. Besides he’s a married man and the housemaids won’t let him alone. It’ll do Halberdier Gold good to get away from them for a bit.’

Guy warmed towards this kind and hairy man.

‘Here’s how,’ said the major.

‘Here’s how,’ said the mousy wife.

‘Here’s how,’ said Mr Crouchback with complete serenity.

But Guy could only manage an embarrassed grunt.

‘First today,’ said the major, downing his pink gin. ‘Vi, order another round while I winkle out the Halberdier.’

With a series of collisions and apologies Major Tickeridge made his way across the hall.

‘It’s awfully kind of your husband.’

‘He can’t bear a man standing idle,’ said Mrs Tickeridge. ‘It’s his Halberdier training.’

Later when they separated for, dinner Mr Crouchback said: ‘Delightful people, didn’t I tell you? You’ll see Jenifer, tomorrow. A beautifully behaved child.’

In the dining-room the old residents had their tables round the wall. The newcomers were in the centre, and, it seemed to Guy, got more attention. Mr Crouchback by a long-standing arrangement brought his own wine and kept it in the hotel cellars. A bottle of Burgundy and a bottle of port were already on the table. The five courses were rather better than might have been expected.

‘It’s really remarkable how the Cuthberts cope with the influx. It’s all happened so suddenly. Of course one has to wait a bit between courses but they manage to turn out a very decent dinner, don’t they? There’s only one change I mind. They’ve asked me not to bring Felix in to meals. Of course he did take up an awful lot of room’

With the pudding the waiter put a plate of dog’s dinner on the table. Mr Crouchback studied it carefully, turning it over with his fork.

‘Yes, that looks delicious,’ he said. ‘Thank you so very much,’ and to Guy, ‘D’you mind if I take it up to Felix now? He’s used to it at this time. Help yourself to the port. I’ll be back directly.’

He carried the plate through the dining-room up to his sitting-room, now Guy’s bedroom, and soon returned.

‘We’ll take him out later,’ said Mr Crouchback. ‘At about ten. I see the Tickeridges have finished dinner. The last two nights they’ve joined me in a glass of port. They seem a little shy tonight. You don’t mind if I ask them over, do you?’

They came.

‘A beautiful wine, sir.’

‘Oh, it’s just something the people in London send down to me.’

‘I wish you could come to our mess one day. We’ve got some very fine port we bring out for guest nights. You, too,’ he added, addressing Guy.