The Complete McAuslan (48 page)

[I told that joke in the mess once, with mixed success: the Padre worked it, with Gaelic subtlety, into a sermon, but the second-in-command looked puzzled and asked: ‘And was anyone from the big house missing? No? Oh . . . bit of a mystery then, what?’]

However, you will note that there are two butts of the joke - the foreign gentry and the ignorant ghillies – which says something about grandmother’s outlook on life. Her censure knew no class boundaries; dukes and dustmen alike (and grandsons) had to be kept in their place, and she was the woman to do it, even when she was very old. My heart bled for her own maidservants when, as a small boy, I used to visit her home, that still, immaculate domain with its softly-chiming clock, redolent of beeswax and lavender, all swept and polished to perfection. I lived on tiptoe there, giving ornaments a wide berth, wondering at her bookshelves where Cruden’s
Concordance
and Bunyan’s
Holy War
lay beside long outdated fashion magazines from Paris, pushing in my chair to the exact inch when I received the almost imperceptible nod of dismissal from the stately, white-haired figure at the end of the table, straight and stiff as her own ebony walking-cane; dreading the cold eye and sharp, quiet voice, even when they were addressed to her maids and not to me. How they endured her, I’ll never know; perhaps they knew what I sensed as an infant: like her or not, you could be
sure
of her, and that is a quality that can count far beyond mere kindness.

Anyway, with that background I ought to have mastered the servant problem, but I never have, not from either side. On the occasions when I have had to serve, I have been a disaster, whether shirking my fagging duties at school, or burning toast, dropping plates, and letting the cookhouse boiler go out as a mess orderly and assistant scullion at Bellahouston Camp, Glasgow. Nor am I one of nature’s aristocrats, born to be ministered to and accepting it as my due; anything but. I hate being waited on; servants rattle me. I find their attentions embarrassing, and they know it, damn them. There was a butler once, about seven feet tall, with a bald head and frock coat, who received me at a front door; he looked me up and down and said: ‘Good morning, sir. Would you care to wash . . . at all?’ I can’t describe what he put into that pause before the two final words, but it implied that I was filthy beyond his powers of description. Nor am I deceived by the wine-waiter unctuously proffering his bottle for my inspection: this bum wouldn’t know it from turpentine, is what he’s thinking.

Such an advanced state of doulophobia is bad enough in civilian life; for an army officer it is serious, since he has to have a body-servant, or orderly, or batman, call it what you will, whether he likes it or not. This did not trouble me when I first encountered it as a cadet in India; we had native bearers who brought our morning tea, cleaned our kit and rooms, laid out our uniforms, dressed us on ceremonial occasions, and generally nannied us through a fourteen-hour day of such intensive activity that we couldn’t have survived without them; there was even a
nappy-wallah
who shaved you as you sat bleary-eyed on the edge of your cot – and never have I had a chin so smooth. It seemed perfectly natural fifty years ago; it would not have seemed natural from a white servant – and before anyone from the race relations industry leaps in triumphantly with his labels, I should remark that the Indian cadets were of the same opinion (as often as not, so-called race prejudice is mere class distinction) and were, on the whole, less considerate masters than we were. My own bearer was called Timbooswami, son and grandson and great-grandson of bearers – and proud father of an Indian Army officer. So much for the wicked old British Raj.

My troubles began when I joined my Highland battalion in North Africa and had to have a batman from the ranks of my own platoon. No doubt I had been spoiled in India, but the contrast was dramatic. Where I had been accustomed to waking to the soft murmur of
‘Chota hazri,
sahib’, and having a
pialla
of perfectly-brewed tea and a sliced mango on my bedside table, there was now a crash of hob-nailed boots and a raucous cry of ′Erzi tea! Some o’ it’s spillt, an’ there’s nae sugar. Aye, an’ the rain’s oan again.′ Not the same, somehow. And where once there had been a fresh-laundered shirt on a hanger, there was now a freckled Glaswegian holding up last night’s garment in distaste and exclaiming: ‘Whit in Goad’s name ye been daein’ in this? Look at the state o’ it. Were ye fu’, or whit? Aye, weel, it’ll hiv tae dae – yer ither yins arenae back frae the
dhobi.
Unless he’s refused them. Aye. Weel, ye gettin’ up, or are ye gaunae lie there a’ day . . . sur?’

That was Coulter. I got rid of him inside three days, and appealed to Telfer, my platoon sergeant, for a replacement. And I hate to record it, for I like to think well of Telfer, who was a splendid soldier, but he then did one of the most diabolic things any sergeant could do to his new, green, and trusting platoon commander. Without batting an eye, and with full knowledge of what he was doing, this veteran of Alamein and Anzio glanced at his platoon roll, frowned, and said: ‘What about McAuslan?’

Innocent that I was, those doom-laden words meant nothing to me. I didn’t know, then, that McAuslan was the dirtiest soldier in the world, a byword from Maryhill Barracks to the bazaars of Port Said for his foulness, stupidity, incompetence, illiteracy, and general unfitness for the service, an ill-made disaster whom Falstaff wouldn’t have looked at, much less marched with through Coventry. This was the Tartan Caliban who had to be forcibly washed by his fellows and locked in cupboards during inspections, whom Telfer was wishing on me as batman. In fairness I can see that a sergeant might go to desperate lengths to keep McAuslan off parade and out of public view, but it was still a terrible thing to do to a subaltern not yet come of age.

I had seen McAuslan, of course – at least I had been aware of a sort of uniformed yeti that lurked at the far end of the barrack-room or vanished round corners like a startled sloth at the approach of authority, which he dreaded; I had even heard his cry, a raucous snarl of complaint and justification, for beneath his unkempt exterior there was a proud and independent spirit, sensitive of abuse. He had fought in North Africa, mostly against the Germans, but with the Military Police on occasion; his crime-sheet was rich in offences of neglect and omission, but rarely of intentional mischief, for McAuslan had this virtue: he tried. In a way he was something of a platoon mascot; the other Jocks took a perverse pride in his awfulness, and wouldn’t have parted with him.

Of all this I was happily ignorant at the time, and it gave me quite a start when I got my first view of him, crouched to attention in my doorway, eyeing me like a wary gargoyle preparing to wrestle; he always stood to attention like that, I was to discover; it was a gift, like his habit of swinging left arm and left leg in unison when marching. He appeared to be short in stature, but since he was never fully erect one couldn’t be sure; his face was primitive and pimpled, partly obscured by hair hanging over an unwashed brow, his denims would have disgraced an Alexandrine beggar (and possibly had), but the crowning touch was the filthy napkin draped carelessly over one forearm – I believe now that he was trying to convince me that he had once been a waiter, and knew his business.

‘14687347Pr’iteMcAuslansah!’ he announced. ‘Ah’m yer new batman, Sarn’t Telfer sez. Whit’ll Ah clean first?’

The smart answer to that would have been ‘Yourself, and do it somewhere else’, but I was a very new second-lieutenant.

‘Ah brung ma cleanin’ kit,’ he went on, fishing a repulsive hold-all from inside his shirt. ‘Oh, aye, it’s a’ here,’ and he shook out on to the table a collection of noisome rags and old iron in which I recognised a battered Brasso tin, several bits of wire gauze and dried-up blanco, a toothbrush without bristles, and a stump of candle. (That last item shook me; was it possible, I wondered, that he performed his toilet by this illumination alone? It would have explained a lot.) It all looked as though it had been dredged from the Sweetwater Canal.

He made a sudden shambling pounce and snatched two rusted objects from the mess with a glad cry. ‘Aw, there th’are! Goad, an’ me lookin’ a’ ower the shop! Ah thought Ah’d loast them!’ He beamed, wiping them vigorously on his shirt, adding a touch of colour.

‘What are they?’ I asked, not really wanting to know.

‘Ma fork an’ spoon! They musta got in there that time I wis givin′ ma mess-tins a wee polish – ye hiv tae scoor them, sur, ye see, or ye get gingivitis an’ a’ yer teeth fa’ oot, the M.O. sez.’ He peered fondly at the rusting horrors, like an archaeologist with burial fragments. ‘Here, that’s great! It’s been a dam’ nuisance bein’ wi’oot them at meal-times,’ he added, conjuring up a picture so frightful that I closed my eyes. When I opened them again he was still there, frowning at my service dress, which was hanging outside the wardrobe.

‘That’s yer good kit,’ he said, in the grim reflective tone in which Sir Henry Morgan might have said: ‘That’s Panama.’ He took a purposeful shuffle towards it, and I sprang to bar his way.

‘It’s all right, McAuslan – it’s fine, it’s all clean and ready. I shan’t need it until five-thirty, for Retreat.’ I sought for some task that should keep him at a safe distance from my belongings. ‘Look, why don’t you sweep the floor – out in the passage? The sand keeps blowing in . . . and the windows haven’t been washed for weeks; you could do them – from the outside,’ I added hastily. ‘And let’s see . . . what else?’ But he was shaking his matted head, all insanitary reproach.

‘Ah’m tae clean yer kit,’ he insisted. ‘Sarn’t Telfer sez. Ah’ve tae polish yer buttons an’ yer buits an’ yer Sam Broon an’ yer stag’s heid badge, an’ brush yer tunic, an′ press the pleats o′ yer kilt, an’ bell yer flashes wi’ rolled-up newspaper, an’ wash an’ dry yer sporran, and see the
dhobi
starches an’ irons yer shirts, an’ melt the bastard if he disnae dae it right, an’ mak’ yer bed . . .’ He had assumed the aspect of a dishevelled Priest of the Ape People chanting a prehistoric ritual, eyes shut and swaying slightly, ’. . . an’ lay oot yer gear, an’ blanco yer’ webbin’, an’ bring yer gunfire in ra mornin’, and collect yer fag ration, an’ fetch ye tea an’ wee cakes frae the Naafi for yer elevenses unless ye fancy a doughnut, an’ take ma turn as mess waiter oan guest nights, an’ . . .’

‘Stop!’ I cried, and he gargled to a halt and stood lowering and expectant. It was that last bit about being a mess waiter that had hit home – I had a nightmare vision of him, in his unspeakable denims, sidling up to the Brigadier’s wife with a tray of canapes and inquiring hoarsely, ‘Hey, missus, ye want a sangwidge? Ach, go on, pit anither in yer bag fur efter . . .’ ‘We can discuss it tomorrow,’ I said firmly. ‘My kit’s all ready for Retreat, and I’m on the range until five, so you can fall out until then. Right?’

It isn’t easy to read expressions on a face that looks like an artist’s impression of Early Man, but I seemed to detect disappointment in the way he blinked and drew his forearm audibly across his nose. ‘Can Ah no’ help ye oan wi’ yer gear?’ he suggested, and I snatched my bonnet from beneath his descending paw in the nick of time and hastily buckled on my belt and holster. ‘Thanks all the same, McAuslan,’ I said, withdrawing before he decided my collar needed adjustment – and he looked so deprived, somehow, that like a soft-hearted fool I added: ‘You can comb the sporran if you like . . . you better wash your hands first, perhaps, and be sure to hang it straight. Right, carry on.’

They say no good deed ever goes unpunished, but I could not foresee that in combing the big white horse-hair sporran he would drop it on the floor, tramp on it, decide that it needed rewashing, and then try to dry it over the cookhouse stove while the master-gyppo’s back was turned. They got the blaze under control, and probably only the gourmets noticed that the evening meal tasted of burned horse-hair. Meanwhile McAuslan, escaping undetected through the smoke, galloped back to my billet and tried to repair the charred remnant of my sporran by scraping it with my
sgian dubh,
snapping the blade in the process; he next tried daubing the stubble with white blanco, and dripped it on my best black shoes, which he then rendered permanently two-tone by scrubbing the spots with his sleeve. Warming to his work, he attempted to steal a sporran from Second-Lieutenant Keith next door, was detected and pursued by Keith’s batman, and defended his plunder by breaking my ashplant over the other’s head. After which they called the provost staff, and the Jeeves of 12 Platoon was removed struggling to the cells, protesting blasphemously that they couldnae dae this tae him, he hadnae finished gettin’ Mr MacNeill ready fur tae go on Retreat.

All this I learned when I got back from the range. I didn’t attend Retreat – well, you look conspicuous in mottled grey brogues and a bald, smoking sporran – and was awarded two days’ orderly officer in consequence; it was small comfort that McAuslan got seven days’ jankers for brawling and conduct prejudicial. I summoned him straight after his sentence, intending to announce his dismissal from my personal service in blistering terms; he lurched into my office (even in his best tunic and tartan he looked like a fugitive from Culloden who had been hiding in a peat-bog) and before I could vent my rage on him he cleared his throat thunderously and asked:

‘Can Ah say a word, sur?’

Expecting apology and contrition, I invited him to go ahead, and having closed his eyes, swayed, and gulped – symptoms, I was to learn, of embarrassment – he regarded me with a sort of nervous compassion.

‘Ah’m sorry, sur, but Ah’m givin’ notice. Ah mean, Ah’m resignin’ frae bein’ yer batman. Ah’m packin’ it in, sur, if ye don’t mind.’ He blinked, wondering how I would receive this bombshell, and my face must have been a study, for he added hastily: ‘Ah’m sorry, like, but ma mind’s made up.’

‘Is it, by God?’ I said. ‘Well, get this straight, McAuslan! You’re not
resigning,
my son, not by a dam’ sight, because – ’

‘Oh, but Ah am, sur. Beggin’ yer pardon. Ah want ye tae understand,’ he continued earnestly, ‘that it’s nuthin′ personal. Ye’re a gentleman, sur. But the fact is, if Ah’m lookin’ efter you, Ah hivnae time tae look efter mysel’ – an’ Ah’ve got a lot o’ bother, I can tell ye. Look at the day, frinstance – Ah wis rushed, an’ here Ah’m oan jankers – och, it’s no’ your fault, it’s that wee nyaff o’ a batman that works fur Mr Keith. Nae co-operation – ’