by Dai Smith
‘What the hell does a mother-in-law matter?’ Curly said sharply. ‘Look here, Taff. You’ve got to get home and carry her to hospital yourself if you don’t want her to die. D’you understand? Especially with all these air raids. It’s cruel to leave her alone.’
‘But what about the kids? She can’t take them to hospital with her.’
‘Get them evacuated. Or send them to your mother-in-law’s.’
‘What? That bastard?’
‘I’d like to knock your head off, Taffy,’ Curly said with cold and exasperated anger.
‘I wouldn’t care much if you did,’ Taffy replied, suddenly plunged in despondency. Like his temper, which had flared against the sergeant, his blues came on him without warning.
‘Come on,’ Curly insisted crossly. ‘Pull yourself together. It doesn’t matter about you. It’s your wife and kiddies I’m thinking about. Get up to the office and show this letter to the OC. You’ve got to get home.’
‘Catch him giving me a forty-eight hours’ leave after Crumb has told him what I said,’ Taffy said, hang-dog.
‘I’ll see Crumb at once and ask him to hold the charge back,’ Curly said, turning to go.
‘What about my charge?’ Rosendale asked. He had been hanging round the fringe of Taffy’s trouble, like an uncomfortable curate with a dyspepsia of his own. ‘Can’t you talk it over with me, Curl?’
‘Your charge isn’t important,’ Curly said, hurrying out.
‘Bloody intellectuals! They’re all the same, the pack of them,’ Rosendale muttered.
Sergeant Crumb was already closeted with the OC when Curly got back to the office. The Nissen hut was divided into two rooms by a central plywood partition with a door. Curly stood by the door listening.
They were talking about Sergeant Crumb’s wife. It was a matter of long standing, and Curly knew enough about it from the sergeant’s occasional confidences to see that he had been ruined by it so gradually and completely that he himself didn’t know the extent or nature of the damage. He had joined the Army eight years back to get away from a powerful woman who had him tucked into her bed whenever she wanted him and who was pushing him to divorce his wife. He was afraid of ruining his business, a small garage, by the publicity of a divorce; moreover, he wasn’t in love with either of the women though he slept with each in turn. So he joined up to let time and distance settle the mess. Oddly enough it was still unsolved. His wife had gone back to a factory job and taken a small flat. After several years he had called on her on leave, having been discarded by the other woman who preferred a civilian lover. He was very proud of that night. He had wooed his wife back to him; Gable had nothing to show him, he told Curly, recounting in some detail. So things reverted to the old ways for a while, until he received information from a sister of his who lived near his wife that his wife had another man, somebody in the works, a young fellow in a reserved occupation. It wasn’t definitely established; Sergeant Crumb wasn’t one to beard lions; he hadn’t asked his wife point-blank, nor did he intend offering her a divorce. He preferred to use the welfare machinery of the Army. Through the OC he had got in touch with the regimental paymaster and requested him to investigate his wife’s conduct through the local police with a view to stopping her allowance, to which he contributed fourteen shillings a week, if her guilt could be established. Meanwhile he continued to prove his manhood and independence by making love promiscuously wherever he was stationed, and displaying a definite penchant for married women. His heart wasn’t affected by the affair any more, his affections weren’t involved. That was the whole trouble, it seemed to Curly. It was simply a matter of pride, of getting his own back. He took it out of his staff in the same way, blustering at them, telling the OC of their disloyalties and delinquencies, keeping well in with his chiefs, at once toady and bully. At the same time he was efficient and hard-working, smart at drill and a master of office routine and military redtape. His files were neat and complete, correspondence properly indexed, ACIs and Battalion Orders always to hand. Messing indents, pay rolls, men’s documents were all open for inspection. The only man who knew that Sergeant Crumb depended entirely upon Private Norris, his clerk general, was Curly Norris himself. And because of his peculiar comic outlook on life he had no desire to split. It amused him to contemplate the sergeant’s self-importance and it paid him to be useful in a number of small ways. He could get a weekend pass for the asking. He could use the office at nights to type out his private work – some learned bilge he was preparing for a classical quarterly – and as the war was a stalemate and the Command board had rejected his application for a commission after one look at his stoop, he had grown to consider these small amenities as perhaps more important than the restless discontent that produces poets or heroes or corpses.
Having discussed his marital affairs and got the OC to write another letter to the paymaster, Sergeant Crumb, as was his wont, made deposition against the malcontents, on this occasion Rosendale and Thomas. He suggested that each should be charged under section 40 of the Army Act. Curly, hearing the OC melt under the sergeant’s reasoned persuasion, shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. He knew it was poor look out for Mrs Thomas’ cancer of the throat. Certainly it was no use making any application at the moment. The OC had given him two weekends’ leave in the last six weeks, after air raids, to see that his wife was all right. It was Taffy’s own fault, the fool, for not getting her into hospital when he was home last. And now they had no money. Curly had already lent him his last train fare, and had no more cash to spare.
Rosendale came in with a pail of specially-sweet tea at that moment, hoping to mollify the powers. But Sergeant Crumb’s voice was unsweetened as he told him to get properly dressed and be ready to answer a charge in five minutes’ time.
The upshot of it was that both men got seven days’ CB and Curly a severe unofficial reprimand for attempting to shield Thomas. The OC always enjoyed a little adjudication. It gave him strength.
‘Sod the Army!’ Rosendale moaned, bitter and outraged.
‘King’s Regulations be damned. Better if they’d spend their time in strengthening the League-a-Nations or finding a living job for the unemployed or making things better somewhere, not pottering around with King’s Regulations.’
‘What wouldn’t I do to Mr bleeding Crumb if I met him in Civvy Street after the war,’ Taffy murmured fondly.
‘A lot of use that is to your wife,’ Curly snapped.
‘Go on. Rub it in,’ Taffy flared up, goaded to feel anguish at last. Disconsolate, he wheeled his barrow off to the incinerator, and Curly returned to the office to write letters to his friends.
Acting Captain Cochrane was sitting on the clerk’s table, tapping his swagger cane against the brown boots Taffy had brought to a nice shine and chatting to Sergeant Crumb over a cup of lukewarm tea.
‘Well, Norris,’ he said with a sardonic grin. ‘You see what comes of playing the barrister to a pair of fools.’
‘They’re not particularly fools, sir,’ Curly replied with proper deference. They’re both men. Thomas has worked in pits and steelworks, he’s taken the rap in Belgium, he’s trying to maintain a wife and two kiddies – that’s more than most of us have done.’
‘He’s still a fool,’ the OC said. ‘He’s like the rest of the working people. They’ve been too blind and stupid to help themselves when they had the chance. They could have had socialism any time in the last twenty years. They’ve got the vote. Why don’t they use it to get a Labour government? Because they can’t be bothered to lift a finger for their own interests. I’m a socialist at heart, but it’s not a bit of good trying to help the people. They don’t want to be helped.’
‘It isn’t entirely their fault, sir,’ Curly replied. ‘The middle class hasn’t helped them very much – the teachers and clergy and newspaper proprietors and business executives. They’ve all thrown dust in their eyes, confused or denied the real issues and disguised selfish interests and reactionary politics to app
ear progressive and in the public interest, as they say. They keep the world in a state of perpetual crisis in order to crush internal opposition by the need for national unity, and they buy off their critics by giving them minority posts in the Cabinet. Appeasement at home and abroad; give the beggar a penny and expect him to touch his cap.’
‘Hot air,’ the OC answered, offering Curly a cigarette. He always came in for a chat after giving anybody a dressing down; Curly surmised that it was a maxim of his that a man who is alternately severe and humane wins the respect as well as the affection of his subordinates. As a matter of fact the men distrusted his geniality and called him two-faced. They never knew how to take him; before asking a favour of him they always consulted Taffy or Curly about his mood. They were nervous of him in a surly way; not from fear, but because they disliked being treated curtly without being able to retort on natural terms. ‘Would you like England to become communist?’ he continued.
‘I should be quite acclimatised to the change after serving in the Army,’ Curly replied. ‘We live a communal life here; all our clothes and equipment are public property; nobody makes any profits; we serve the state and follow the party line.’
‘You think the Army is based on Lenin’s ideas, do you?’ the OC said. ‘That would shake the colonel if he knew it.’
‘He needn’t worry,’ Curly said, laughing. ‘The Army hasn’t got a revolutionary purpose. It has no ideas worth speaking of except a conservative loyalty to the throne and a professional obligation to obtain a military victory. King Charles I’s ideas with Oliver Cromwell’s efficiency. That’s England all over. They never settle their differences, they always keep both sides going. The Royalists were beaten in the field, yet they dominate the Army. The Germans were licked, yet they’ve got Europe where they want it. There’s plenty of class distinction in the Army, black boots versus brown shoes, but no class conflict. I could go on quite a long time like this, sir. It’s more interesting than football.’ He laughed to hide his seriousness. He hadn’t been speaking in fun, but he preferred to be taken lightly. He knew himself to be a perpetual student, introspective, individualist, an antinomian with a deep respect for the privacy of others. His gentle and slightly neurotic liberalism took the edge off his revolutionary convictions. He lacked the strength to defy what is powerful in men, and he had no heart for extreme action. So he always preferred to be left in peace, to think and observe; his conflicts were within him. He had his own anguish.
‘I tell you what’s wrong with you, Norris,’ the OC said largely. Curly felt something wince in him. To be told again what was wrong with him. People were always presuming to do that, nearly always people who knew too little about him and about themselves. It wasn’t so bad if they spoke from kindness and a desire to help; that hurt, but it was understood by him. But when a man, like this young fascist type with his muddled democratic ideas and his desire to exercise his power over men, proffered him advice, he writhed like a split toad.
‘You haven’t got enough push, Norris. That’s what’s wrong with you. Too soft-hearted, not enough keenness. You don’t go for things as if you wanted them.’
Curly laughed.
‘My ambitions aren’t as tangible as yours, sir,’ he replied.
‘Well; get some ambitions, then, for God’s sake. Your life won’t go on forever. Get cracking.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll submit my scheme for defeating Germany to Sir John Dill immediately.’
The OC shrugged his shoulders, confessing to himself that here was another man who wasn’t worth helping because he refused to be helped. He was browned off with fools.
‘If you want to help anybody, you might help Thomas to get his wife into hospital, sir.’
The OC snorted and narrowed his eyes.
‘I know the difference between seven days’ CB and a weekend leave,’ he said curtly. ‘Thomas won’t pull that old gag over me again.’ Curly hadn’t enough vigour to insist. He clenched his fists on the table, knowing how important it was that Taffy should get leave, knowing it suddenly with anguish. But, as so often, the conflict smashed itself up inside him like two contrary tides, and he said nothing because the intensity of his feelings made him impotent.
The door opened and Sergeant Crumb came in, followed astonishingly by a very dashing young lady. The sergeant was all smiles and deference, inclining his body courteously to her and pointing with a wave of his hand to the OC.
Curly stood to attention. The OC stood flushed.
‘Lady to see you, sir,’ Crumb said urbanely.
‘Hector,’ the lady said, her rouge parting in a slow private smile. She held out her gloved hand, letting her fur coat fall open.
‘But – but come in,’ the OC stumbled. He pushed open the door of his room and she swept through in a swirl of fur and silk and interesting perfumes. He closed the door after her, humbly.
‘Gives you the impression of expensive cutlery,’ Curly said softly, ‘though I doubt whether she is stainless.’
‘It’s the colonel’s daughter,’ Crumb whispered, his head inclined and movements subdued as though he were in the presence of the saints.
Curly hoped she wanted some love, so that he’d have a little peace to write his letters. But he had scarcely started when the door opened and she came out again.
‘Don’t trouble to see me to the gate,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’re busy. This private will escort me.’
‘Not at all,’ said the helpless captain, following her out with her gloves.
‘Stand easy, stand easy,’ Crumb said as the door closed behind them. ‘She must have been jilted or something,’ he sneered.
The OC came back in a hell of a tear. ‘Where’s that bloody fool Thomas? Tell him to go to my billet and polish my shoes and Sam Browne till he can see his face in them. And tell Rosendale I want him to take a message for me. At once.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Sergeant Crumb leapt to it, realizing the situation was urgent. The room was suddenly in a turmoil, as though the young lady had been a German parachutist.
The OC took a sheet of paper and scribbled a quick note, put it in an envelope, and threw it into the OUT tray.
‘Tell Rosendale to deliver that when he comes, Norris.’
He put on his service cap, took his stick and gloves, and went out. He was excited and flustered. Probably going to cool off by catching the sentry sitting down or the cookhouse staff eating the men’s cheese rations, or the fatigue party throwing stones into the cesspool they were cleaning.
Rosendale came and collected the letter.
‘Forgot to lick the envelope,’ he said. ‘What is it? Is there a war on?’
‘Run away,’ said Curly, weary of everything.
Rosendale cycled out of camp and down the road till he was out of observation. Then he opened the letter and read it through.
Dear Eva, [it said] Sorry I can’t meet you tonight as we arranged. I’m on duty again and won’t be able to see you this week. I seem to have so little free time these days that I doubt whether it’s worth our while carrying on any more. What do you think?
Affectionately yours, Hector Cochrane, Capt.
‘Hector Cochrane, Capt.,’ Rosendale repeated, curling his lip. He cycled down coast to the town, knowing where to go; he had been to the little street behind the gasworks on other occasions. Miss Barthgate was the name, and very nice, too. Smart little milliner, deserved better luck than to fall in love with him. Rosendale’s mind was working by devious ways. He’d seen the flash dame in the fur coat with rich smells about her. Maybe he’d get a bit of his own back for that seven days’ CB.
He knocked at the door, propping his cycle against the wall. She worked in the parlour; he could see the sewing machine through the window. But the place sounded quiet today, as though she hadn’t started working yet.
There was some delay before she opened the door. She was in a loose-fitting frock let out at the waist. Her face was nervous, her dark eyes looked dilated. Her beauty seem
ed agitated, on pins. ‘Yes?’ she said, almost breathing the word, at the same time holding her hand out for the note he held between his fingers. Grinning a little, Rosendale handed it to her, watched her read it, waited a long time while she tried to raise her head…
At last she looked up. She wasn’t bothering to hide anything. He could see it clear as daylight.
‘There’s no answer,’ she said.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘No answer.’ He shuffled, half turning to go. Then he looked up at her shrewdly.
‘He isn’t on duty,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d tell you. I shouldn’t mind about him if I were you.’
‘No,’ she said, looking at him vaguely with her unutterable distress.
He had intended to say more, but her look confused him. He turned, mounted his cycle, and pedalled off. She didn’t move all the time.
There was a new sensation buzzing through cookhouse, stores, office, and guardroom when he returned. The sentry told it him as he cycled through the gate; and because of it he decided to withhold his own bits of gossip till the chaps would be readier to appreciate it. He didn’t want any competition.
The news was that Taffy Thomas couldn’t be found anywhere. His denim overalls were on the floor by his bed, his best battledress and respirator were missing. He hadn’t answered Crocker’s quavering version of Defaulters bugle, he hadn’t come forward to shine the OC’s Sam Browne. He’d done a bunk.
Curly was waiting for Rosendale with another message, this time for the Swansea police, asking them to visit Taffy’s house at night and instruct him forcibly to return by the next train. The OC had said something about a court martial; it would be the colonel’s charge at least. That meant probably twenty-eight days’ detention and no pay for himself or his wife. It was a bad business, all things considered; but Curly was glad Taffy had gone. Perhaps he’d save his wife’s life; twenty-eight days was cheap at that price.
