Fortunes of War

by Olivia Manning

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Peter took a diary from an inner pocket: ‘If you’d like a transfer, I might work it. A chap who’s good at finding his way round has his uses in the desert. You could become a liaison officer. Would that appeal to you?’

  Simon, feeling guilty that this day of misfortune might also be the day of opportunity, blushed and said, ‘It would indeed, sir.’

  Edwina, returning to the room as Peter was noting down Simon’s name and position at the front, was relieved to find the men on easy terms. She gave Simon a conciliatory smile then, watching Peter as he wrote, stood, waiting, with a sort of avid patience until he was ready for her.

  Putting the diary back in his pocket, he said, ‘Right, I’ll start things moving,’ then he called to Edwina: ‘Come along,’ and she followed him obediently from the flat.

  Simon, looking after them, at once forgot the proposed transfer, and felt only amazement that Edwina, who had been Hugo’s girl, should now be subject to this heavy-featured colonel. It had seemed to him that while Edwina shared his love for Hugo, Hugo was not completely dead. Remembering Hugo’s looks, his gentleness, his absolute niceness, he felt these qualities slighted — and yet, what good would they be to her now?

  Harriet, pitying his downcast face, said: ‘You’ll stay to supper, won’t you?’

  ‘No. No thank you.’ Simon felt he only wanted to get away from this room which held Edwina’s lingering fragrance, but did not know where he would go. This flat, because it was Edwina’s flat, had had for him a glowing, beckoning quality, and he knew nowhere else in Cairo. He did not know the name of any street except the one in the army song: the Berka. That was where the men went to find bints.

  ‘Well, have another drink before you go.’

  Realizing he had no heart for bints that evening, Simon let Harriet refill his glass and asked: ‘Who is this Colonel Lisdoonvarna? It’s an unusual name.’

  ‘It’s an Irish name. He’s Lord Lisdoonvarna but, as you know, we don’t use titles these days.’

  ‘I see.’ Simon did indeed see. The fact that Peter was a peer solved a mystery but the solution was more painful than his earlier perplexity. He sat silent, glass in hand, not drinking, hearing the safragi laying the supper table. If he were going, he should go now, but instead he sat on, too dispirited to move.

  The front door opened and another occupant of the flat entered the room. This was a woman older than Edwina or Harriet, delicately built with dark eyes and a fine, regular face.

  Coming in quickly, saying ‘Hello’ to Harriet, she gave an impression of genial gaiety, an impression that surprised Simon who had recognized her at once. She was Lady Hooper. He had been one of a picnic party that had gone uninvited to the Hoopers’ house in the Fayoum and had blundered in on tragedy.

  Harriet said, ‘Angela, do you remember Simon Boulderstone?’

  ‘Yes, I remember.’ Whether the memory was painful or not, she smiled happily on Simon and taking his hand, held it as she said: ‘You were the young officer who was in the room when I brought in my little boy. We didn’t know he was dead, you know: or perhaps we couldn’t bear to know. It must have been upsetting for you. I’m sorry.’ Angela gazed at Simon still smiling and waited as though there was point in apologizing so long after the event.

  Harriet said, ‘I’m afraid Simon has another reason to be upset. His brother has been killed.’

  ‘Oh, poor boy!’ She placed her other hand on top of his and held on to him: ‘So we are both bereaved! You will stay with us, won’t you?’ She turned to Harriet to ask: ‘Who’s in tonight? What about Guy?’ Guy was Harriet’s husband. Harriet shook her head. ‘Not Guy, that goes without saying. And Edwina’s out with Peter. It’s Dobson’s night on duty at the Embassy, so that leaves only us and Percy Gibbon.’

  ‘Percy Gibbon! Oh lord, that’s good reason to go out. Let’s take this beautiful young man into the world. Let’s flaunt him.’ She laughed at Simon and squeezed his hand: ‘Where would you like to go?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never been anywhere in Cairo. I haven’t even been to the Berka.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ Angela’s amusement was such that she dropped back on to the sofa taking Simon with her: ‘You dreadful creature, wanting to visit the Berka!’

  Simon reddened in his confusion: ‘I didn’t mean I wanted. . . It’s just that the men talk about it. It’s the only street name I know.’

  This renewed Angela’s laughter and Simon, watching her as she wiped her eyes and said ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ was disturbed by this gaiety and wondered how she could so quickly put death out of mind. Yet he smiled and Harriet, also disturbed by Angela’s light-hearted behaviour, was relieved to see his smile.

  ‘Let’s send Hassan out for a taxi.’ Angela turned to Harriet: ‘If we’re going on the tiles, we’ll need more male protection. Where shall we find it? How about the Union? Who’s likely to be there?’

  ‘Castlebar, I imagine.’

  Angela, who had left her husband after her son’s death, had come to live in Dobson’s flat hoping, as she said, to find congenial company. She had found Harriet and through her had met Castlebar. The mention of Castlebar was a joke between them and Harriet explained to Simon.

  ‘Castlebar haunts the place. When he’s not sitting on the lawn, it’s as though a familiar tree had been cut down.’

  Listening to this, Angela became restless and broke in to say: ‘Come on. Let’s get going.’

  Hassan, told to find them a taxi, goggled in indignation: ‘No need taxi. All food on table now.’ Forced out on what he saw as a superfluous task, he came back with a gharry and said, ‘No taxis, not anywhere.’

  Angela, taking it for granted that Simon would accompany them, led him down to the gharry and sat beside him. As the gharry ambled through Garden City to the main road, she held him tightly by the hand and talked boisterously so, whether he wanted to come or not, he was given no chance to refuse.

  Bemused by all that was happening, he thought of her carrying the dead child into the Fayoum house, and felt she was beyond his understanding. He tried to ease his hand away but she would not let him go and so, still clasped like lovers, they crossed the dark water towards the riverside lights of Gezira.

  There was no moon. The lawns of the Anglo-Egyptian Union were lit by the windows of the club house and the bright, greenish light of the Officers’ Club that faced it. At the edge of the lawn, old trees, that had grown to a great height, crowded their heads darkly above the tables set out for the club members.

  Having conducted Simon into the club, Angela let him go and walked on ahead, apparently looking for someone who was not there. When they sat down at a table, she was subdued as though disappointed.

  Unlike the other members who were drinking coffee or Stella beer, Angela ordered a bottle of whisky and told the safragi to bring half a dozen glasses. Her advent at the Union a few weeks before had caused a sensation, but she was a sensation no longer. The Union membership comprised university lecturers, teachers of English and others of the poorer English sort while Angela was known to be a rich woman who mixed with the Cairo gambling, polo-playing set. Her nightly order of a bottle of whisky had startled the safragis at first but now it was brought without question.

  Harriet, who did not like whisky, was given wine but Simon accepted the glass poured for him though he did not drink it. When they were all served, the bottle was placed like a beacon in the middle of the table and almost at once it drew Castlebar from the snooker table.

  Harriet, from where she sat, could see his figure wavering through the shadows, drooping and edging round the tables, coming with cautious purpose towards the bottle, like an animal that keeps to windward of its prey. He paused a couple of yards from the table and Angela, knowing he was there, smiled to herself.

  Though their friendship seemed to have sprung up fully grown, he edged forward with sly diffidence, still unable to believe in his good fortune. And, Harriet thought, he might well be diffident for it was
beyond her to understand what Angela saw in him.

  Harriet was not the only one critical of this middle-aged teacher-poet who had the broken-down air of a man to whom money spent on anything but drink and cigarettes was money wasted. As they observed his circuitous approach, people murmured together, their faces keen with curiosity and disapproval. When he made the last few feet towards her, Angela jerked her head round and laughed as though he had pulled off a clever trick.

  ‘H-h-hello, there!’ he stammered, trying to sound hearty.

  ‘Welcome. Sit beside me. Have a drink.’

  Doing as he was bid, Castlebar made a deprecating noise, mumbling: ‘Must let me put something in the kitty.’

  ‘No. My treat.’

  Castlebar did not argue. Taking whisky into his mouth, he held it there, moving it round his gums in ruminative appreciation, then let it slide slowly down his throat. After this, he went through his usual ritual of placing a cigarette packet squarely in front of him, one cigarette propped ready to hand so there need be no interval between smokes. As he concentrated on getting the cigarette upright, Angela smiled indulgently. All set, he raised his thick, pale eyelids and they exchanged a long, meaningful look.

  Angela whispered, ‘Any news?’

  ‘I had a cable. She says she’ll get back by hook or by crook.’

  They were talking of Castlebar’s wife who had gone on holiday to England and been marooned there by the outbreak of war. The threat of her return hung over Angela who said, ‘But surely she won’t make it?’

  Castlebar giggled: ‘S-s-she’s a p-p-pretty ruthless bitch. If anyone can do it, she will.’ He appeared to take pride in having such a wife and Angela, raising her brows, turned from him until he made amends.

  ‘Don’t worry. She’ll tread on anyone’s face to get what she wants, but it won’t work this time. Why should they send her out?’ Castlebar slid his hand across the table towards her and she bent and gave it a rapid kiss.

  Their enclosed intimacy embarrassed Simon, who looked away, while Harriet, feeling excluded, was envious and depressed. Guy could be affectionate but he never lost consciousness of the outside world. It was always there for him and its claim on him had caused dissension between them.

  Leaving Angela and Castlebar to their communion, she asked Simon about his army life. When they had climbed the pyramid together, they had sat at the top and talked of the war in the desert. He had said, ‘I don’t know what it’s like out there,’ but now he knew and she asked him how he spent his days.

  ‘Not doing much. We’re so far from the main positions, there seems no point in being there.’

  ‘But of course there is a point?’

  ‘Oh yes. I asked our sergeant once. I said, “What’s the use, our being here, bored stiff and doing nothing?” and he said, “What’d happen if we weren’t here?” You can see what he meant.’

  A taxi came in the gate and a man, jumping down and hurriedly settling with the driver, came to the whisky as though it had sent a call out to him. This new arrival was Castlebar’s friend, Jake Jackman, who described himself as a freelance journalist, but what he really did, not even Castlebar could say. His aquiline face, though not unhandsome, was spoilt by an aggrieved expression that became more aggrieved when he saw Angela and Castlebar holding hands. Still, Angela was the owner of the bottle and he had to accept things as they were. Forced to show her some courtesy, he stretched his lips in a momentary smile and saying, ‘Mind if I join you?’ sat down before she could reply. She laughed and pushed the bottle towards him. Having taken a drink, he bent forward and pulling at his long beak of a nose, looked angrily at Simon: ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’m not in uniform?’

  Simon began to disclaim any such interest but Jackman was not listening. Having distracted Angela and Castlebar from each other, he told them: ‘You know that old bag Rutter? Got too much money for her own good. Saw her at Groppi’s this afternoon and what do you think she said? She said, “Young man, why aren’t you in uniform?” Impertinent old cow!’

  Castlebar giggled: ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, “Madam, if you think I’ll sacrifice my life to preserve you and your bank balance, you’ve got another think coming.” That ruffled the old hen’s feathers. She said, “You’re a very rude young man!” “You’re dead right, missus,” I said.’ Having recounted his story, Jackman sat up, willing to think of other things: ‘You people going somewhere to eat?’

  Angela looked tenderly at Castlebar: ‘What do you want to do, Bill?’

  Castlebar, lowering his eyelids, smiled, conveying his future plans, but for the moment he was content to eat: ‘We might get a bite somewhere.’

  ‘The Extase, then,’ Angela said and Jackman jumped up, ready to depart.

  They could have walked to the Extase, which was on the river bank at Bulaq, but Angela waved to a taxi at the gate and it took them across the bridge. The fare was only a few piastres and Angela allowed Castlebar to settle it while she went into the Extase to pay the entrance fees. Simon, unused to her largesse, hurried after her, offering his share, but she closed his hand over the notes he was holding and led him inside, a captive guest.

  Harriet had her own ways of repaying Angela’s hospitality and so, no doubt, had Castlebar, but Jackman accepted it without question, having once said to Harriet, ‘If Angela insists on taking us to places we can’t afford, then it’s up to her. She knows I haven’t the lolly for these parties.’ This might be true but, Harriet noted, he was, more often than not, self-invited.

  Inside the open-air night club, there was the usual crowd of officers and such girls as they could find. The officers, most of them on leave, were drunk or nearly drunk, and there was an atmosphere of uproar.

  As they queued for a table, Harriet said to Angela: ‘Aren’t you suffocated by all this noise?’

  Angela’s laughter rose above it: ‘Can’t get enough of it.’

  The Extase, being so close to the river, was held to be cooler than other places but the arc lights poured heat down on the guests and the guests, amorous and sweating, generated more heat. It was not a place Harriet much liked. On a previous visit she had seen Guy with Edwina, and the shock of this sight still remained with her although Guy had protested he was merely comforting Edwina, who was distressed because Peter had failed to keep a date. Looking towards the table where they had been seated, she felt an impulse to run from the place — but she had nowhere to go and no one to go with.

  When their turn came to be led to a table, Angela gave an excited scream and pointed to the people at the next table. One of them was a friend and Angela demanded that the tables be placed together so the two parties could become one. She introduced the friend as ‘Mortimer’. Mortimer, a plain girl with a pleasant expression and a sun reddened skin, was in uniform of a sort and had with her two young captains in the regiment that was nicknamed ‘the Cherrypickers’.

  Looking round the double table, Angela said, ‘Isn’t this fun?’ and Mortimer, mellow with drink, agreed, ‘Great fun’, but there was no response from the others.

  Though the tables were united, there was division between the factions. The two hussars, called Terry and Tony, had been drinking champagne and were in an elated condition. They took no notice of Simon but the other men, Castlebar and Jackman, roused in them a hostile merriment. They stared unbelievingly at them then, turning to each other, fell together with gusts of laughter that brought tears to their eyes.

  Mortimer chided them, ‘Come on, now, boys!’ but they were beyond her control.

  To make matters worse, another non-combatant, one who had experienced Angela’s liberality in the past, approached the party and stood there like a mendicant, begging to be allowed in. He was Major Cookson, who, having lost all his Greek property and knowing no life but a life of pleasure, hung around places like the Extase and provided lonely officers with telephone numbers. Harriet, meeting his humble, pleading gaze, felt discomfited but it was not for her to invite him
to the table. Angela was too absorbed with her talk to notice him and so he stood, a very thin, epicene figure, much aged by his changed circumstances, the nubbled surface of his silk suit brushed with grime and his buckskin shoes, more grey than white, breaking at the sides.

  Harriet thought ‘The war has done for us all’ though, in fact, she and Guy were more fortunate than many. Because they had known Dobson in Bucharest, they had been lifted out of the clutter of refugees and given a room in his Embassy flat. She looked down at her own sandals, whitened each morning by the servants, and felt pleased with them. Yet, how curious it was that they could raise her self-esteem!

  Cookson’s behaviour during the evacuation from Greece had given her no cause to respect him but now, seeing him there old, dry, brittle, seedy, like a piece of seaweed that circumstances had cast above the tide line, she was sorry for him. She touched Angela’s arm and whispered to her. Angela, turning at once, called to him: ‘Major Cookson, have you come to join us?’

  A chair was found and Cookson was fitted in between Harriet and Castlebar. As he stretched a gaunt hand towards Castlebar’s cigarette pack, Castlebar with a snarling glance, like a hungry dog espying another, moved it out of reach.

  The Cherrypickers now found a new object for their scornful regard. As they stared at him, Cookson, probably attracted by their virile, youthful good looks, grew red and cast down his eyes. Terry, leaning towards him, enquired: ‘Did Lady Hooper say Major Cookson?’

  Cookson gave a brief, unhappy nod. His rank, acquired during the First War, was said by his enemies to have been acting and unpaid. Terry now asked with elaborate courtesy: ‘Brigade of Guards, weren’t you?’ This time Cookson gave a brief, unhappy shake of the head.

  Terry looked at Tony: ‘There was a Cookson in the Guards, wasn’t there? You must have known him?’

  Tony heartily agreed: ‘Jove, yes. Dear old Cookson. We used to call him Queenie. Had a queer way of sitting, Cookson had. Chaps used to ask “Why is Queenie like an engine?’”