Kif

by Josephine Tey

  'I should be very glad, sir.'

  'Ten rounds?'

  'If you like, sir.'

  'Very good. I shall see that it comes off. Good morning, corporal.'

  And a very puzzled corporal went out into the sunlight.

  It may be said here that the bout was duly fought a fortnight later at the divisional tournament, of which it proved by far the most popular item. Fare of this piquancy had not been offered within service memory. No secrets can be kept in the army; it is too full of batmen for one thing, and too self-centred for another. And though the Half-and-Halfers, who had put two and two together and made a most satisfactory five long before Blyth had done violence to his arithmetic in the same problem, were once more in the line by the time the bout was fought there was not a man in the audience who was ignorant of the history of its initiation, nor was there a single feint or blow which was not faithfully reported to the eager absentees. Not that there was much to report. The referee stopped the contest in the third round and Blyth was excused duty for the two succeeding days.

  When Tim came, still indignant but relieved at the leniency of the sentence, Kif said without preamble: 'Will you meet Marcelle for me to-night and tell her I'm on duty?'

  'I'll certainly meet Marcelle if you want me to, but I'm blowed if I'll say you're on duty. Why this modesty? Don't you realise that you're the complete little hero of fiction who has defended the right and is now suffering martyrdom for it? Marcelle will adore you more than ever when she hears about it.'

  'Oh, stop it,' said Kif wearily. 'It isn't a bit like that, and you know it.' In the revulsion of feeling that had succeeded his night of anger the very contemplation of the incident gave him a faint feeling of loathing. 'Jimmy'd go, but I thought you'd better, somehow.'

  This was his way of saying that he thought Barclay the more understanding of the the pair, and Tim relented.

  'I'll do whatever you like, Kif. Instruct me.'

  'Say I'm on duty and that I'll write her a letter.'

  'That all?'

  Kif hesitated. 'Make it clear to her somehow that I'm not just backing out.'

  'I'll do that,' said Tim heartily. 'Where do I meet her?'

  Kif told him. As he was departing Kif said: 'I say—' and as his friend turned he mumbled hastily: 'Don't tell your people about it, will you?'

  And Tim promised.

  But Marcelle knew all about the affair. She had collected linen that afternoon from the commanding officers' quarters, and Heaton's batman, Carey, a talkative worthy whose natural propensities suffered sore constriction in his daily intercourse with Heaton, took the heaven-sent occasion with both hands and did it justice. Marcelle's face as he unfolded the story was spur to his talents, and he embroidered his subject with an artistry worthy of such a tale of gallantry. After her first exclamation of dismay she stood quite still, listening to the man's chattering gesticulative cockney, her grave eyes on his bright careless ones, her basket still propped against her hip. When he had finished and she had learned the extent of Kif's punishment she said: 'Thank you for telling it to me all,' and turned to go.

  Carey followed her admiringly with his eyes. He picked up the dubbin tin again and was regretfully about to resume his labours when he bethought him. Something in the situation was missing. Such a tale called for a beau geste.

  'I say, miss, if you'd like some of us to beat up that little runt of a corporal, just say the word.'

  When his meaning was plain she shook her head. 'No, no,' she said, 'there has enough happened,' and went away.

  So Barclay did not find her at the rendezvous and had to seek her out. He ran her to earth in a cottage on the outskirts of the town, a cottage with lime-green shutters and a garden full of round tight heavy cabbage roses of a boiled-sweet pink and a scent that drove to wild indiscretions. It was her mother who came in answer to his knock—a tall woman with unexpectant eyes and a presence as fine as Marcelle's. Tim explained his errand and she received his explanation politely but with a subtle reserve, very much as a reigning sovereign might treat a man from a hostile country whose ambassadorial privileges made his entertainment a necessity. Marcelle, she said, was at the back of the cottage taking in the washing. And there Tim found her, her bare arms round a bundle of linen and her supple body bending and straightening as she picked the dried garments from the grass.

  'Mademoiselle Fleureau,' he said, and she turned.

  Tim was conscious even in that moment of amazement. So this was Kif's girl'! What he noticed at the time was the graciousness of her air; what he remembered afterwards was her fine eyebrows and the perfection of her grooming.

  'Monsieur?'

  Tim said that he was a friend of Kif's, and had come to explain his absence, but before he had time to commit himself further she said:

  'I have heard. They told me at the commandant's. And ever since I think. All the afternoon I think. It would be of no good that I would go to the colonel and ask pardon for him?'

  Barclay was afraid not.

  'The colonel knows me—and my mother,' she added. 'Might he not listen?'

  Barclay explained that the colonel was in Paris and that, in any case, Kif had received the lightest punishment that they could have hoped for, and that no good could come of interference. There had to be some kind of punishment for discipline's sake.

  'Deescipline!' she said, with unutterable scorn. 'That is men's talk. That is of the war. Not real, made up—what do you say?—artifeecial, non-sense! One cannot have justice, one cannot have comfort, one cannot have pleasure. Be calm! It is the deescipline…It is dreadful!'

  She became conscious of Barclay's reality and looked at him deliberately for the first time 'Are you Teem?' she asked.

  'Yes.'

  She put out her hand and shook his calmly. 'How do you do?' she said. She looked at him a moment longer. 'Did Keef ask you to come?'

  'Yes.' He explained what Kif had wanted him to do and gave her his messages.

  'And Jeemy? What does he do?…Jeemy is perhaps "beatin' up" Mistair Blyth?' She smiled for the first time, and Tim wondered afresh at Kif's girl. 'You have met my mother? Please come in and have a sirop.'

  Barclay thanked her and helped, unnecessarily, to carry the basket of clothes into the cool tiled kitchen. He stayed for nearly half an hour, being pleasant to Madame and watching Marcelle, none of them mentioning Kif. When he rose to go Marcelle went with him to the door.

  'Tell Keef that I shall write to him. And I shall see him before you go away altogether. It will not be long now—three days? five days?—but I shall see him, and it will be all right.' She stood searching his face.

  'You are a good friend of his?' It was a question, not a statement.

  'I hope so. Kif is a good boy.'

  'Yes.' She was not going to discuss Kif with him. 'Thank you for coming. I am very grateful.'

  She did not ask him, as he had half hoped, to come again, nor did he ever speak to her again. He saw her only once more, a fleeting glimpse as the battalion marched out to the railway on their way up the line. But for years afterwards Marcelle Fleureau was a vivid and gracious memory to him.

  Kif's farewell to her was almost as brief. The battalion left the town thirty-six hours earlier than had been anticipated, and two hours after Kif's release. Kif, almost frantic at the imminence of their departure, would have broken still more canons sired by 'deescipline' if he had not been forcibly restrained by Jimmy, who pointed out with fervour and brilliant blasphemy that any more 'quod' just now would be unthinkable.

  So Kif said good-bye to Marcelle as they passed up the pavé road between the poplars towards the low blue, sweetly curving hills that hid the gaping horror beyond; and not a man of the company, witnessing the leave-taking, called a ribald word or sucked a suggestive breath.

  'I'll come back, Marcelle. I'll come back,' stammered Kif, and pulling himself away ran to get his lost place in the ranks.

  CHAPTER TEN

  On July the first, as all the world
knows, the Somme offensive started. The Half-and-Halfers went into action at La Boiselle through the morning mists under the lifting barrage. Kif had waited in the intolerable racket of that first colossal bombardment like a two-year-old at a starting-gate, nervous, panicky, heart-quickened. And inside him was that other quickening which had nothing to do with his clamorous heart and which made Danger for him a siren—loved and hated and sought again. Uncertainty had reached its apex. The whole of life swung poised like a bubble on the moment. And every moment from now on was to hold a bubble poised. Fear. Ecstasy.

  Perception was sharpened to an incredible fineness. Every blade of grass was remarkable. His finger-tip where it lay resting on his rifle, a little pebble embedded in the chalk of the parapet, the feel of the mist on his cheek, the texture of his khaki sleeve, all were miracles. All were caught up into the wonder of that poised moment. The mists swung and eddied. The guns stormed. And presently…Even now…

  Fear. Ectasy.

  Kif never remembered much about that attack. He was drunk with excitement, bloodlust and achievement. He had been 'over' before on many occasions, but none were like this. He remembered realising that the crumpled white mess of chalk, wire and wood at his feet was the enemy front line and wondering why there were no Boches to do in. He remembered Jimmy cheering like a maniac a few yards away and almost inaudible in the row. He remembered realising that the heavy rain was machine-gun bullets. He remembered stumbling over a steel hat on his way to the second line and realising that its owner's head was in it and that the owner was Wigs. Of the fighting in the second line he remembered nothing at all, except that he seemed to carry a pain about with him which gradually localised itself to his feet, and that on looking down to rid himself of the hindrance he found that one puttee was red and soaking and already growing sticky. He remembered seeing Heaton, unwontedly flushed, a bomb in one hand and a revolver in the other, and wondering what he was doing there.

  He had just come up from clearing out a dug-out, two dazed men at his bayonet's point, when a 5.9 burst at the end of the section. Something hit him on the shoulder and spun him round. His legs felt like cotton-wool and refused to move, and the ground came up and hit him.

  But in that last moment of consciousness before he fell his eyes saw the picture he carried away with him of the torn wire of the enemy second line, and Jimmy Struthers hung across it like a wet rag, his brave career finished.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He realised that the thing above him was a far-away white ceiling. That he was in bed. That he was Kif. For a long time now—he could not tell how long—he had been aware of the world he had come back to, of hands and voices. But he had not known what the hands did; the voices had been meaningless. The body the hands had moved and tended had not been his, and he had had no interest in the wordless voices. But now he entered fully into possession of his identity. He was Kif. And he was in hospital presumably. He tried to turn his head that he might enlarge the view, but the pillow was deep and he gasped at the pain which tore him. In that dim other-world he had inhabited he had been conscious of pain far away, as he had been aware of the hands and voices. But now the pain was a localised and searing reality. He could not breathe. It seemed to him that to draw another of even these shallow and inadequate breaths was more than he could manage. The ceiling wavered and grew distant. If he lay very still perhaps he could cheat the pain a little. But there was this business of breathing. He had to breathe. You couldn't live without breathing. Well, he would rather die than have to suffer like this. If only he would die quickly and get it over.

  Someone near at hand was moaning softly and continuously. A voice said: 'It's all right, sonny, we'll soon have you more comfortable.' He opened his eyes to see if the ceiling had grown steadier and found the nurse looking down at him. It was to him she was talking. Was it he who had been making the row? He tried to say something, but she forbade it. 'I know it's pretty bad, but it won't be long now.' She had a round jolly face and dark hair that frizzed out from under her cap. 'It's your turn next and then you can have a long sleep and feel like a new person.' And she went away. He tried to piece things together. It must be a long time since that attack. Was this Britain or France? And what had happened at La Boiselle?

  Jimmy! He saw the picture clearly and cried aloud in his mind. The ceiling pressed suddenly down to crush him, and as suddenly retreated to an illimitable distance. And Tim. He didn't know what had happened to him. And he had such a thirst. Why hadn't he asked the nurse for a drink? If she couldn't stop this hellish pain at least she might give him some water. 'A cup of cold water.' Something out of the Bible. 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of these.' She couldn't refuse him that. He was managing his breaths better now. You sneaked one in when the pain wasn't looking, as it were. As long as he didn't move he could just bear it. That fellow had stopped his row. Oh, no, of course, it had been himself. Funny. If only he could get a drink? Just a few drops of cold water on his tongue. The well on the moor road at Tarn had never gone dry, not even in summer. How had he ever chosen beer when he could have had water for the asking? Water. Cool clear stuff. God, why didn't someone give him some cold water. He knew now what the fellows in the Legion felt like. Only they didn't have this pain. Not always. Tim had been good lending him all those books. What had happened to him? Was he like Jimmy? Oh, Jimmy? Perhaps he was the only one left of them all. It was no good asking them here because of course they'd not know anything about it. All he could do was to wait. Lie still and try to dodge the pain. It was like stalking a Boche in the dark. You never knew where he was or the minute you were going to bump up against him. If only Heaton were here. He could work it in a minute. No, how silly of him. Heaton didn't know anything about doctor's business. Heaton knew all about…

  Here was the nurse back and two orderlies with her. He managed to ask her for the drink. She shook her head and smiled at him just as if she had not taken away more than his hope of salvation. 'But I'll give you a real beauty when you come back,' she said. As the orderly insinuated a careful arm under his shoulders the pain came alive again: rampant, tearing, clutching. It was choking him. He couldn't bear it a second longer. Life at this price wasn't worth it. It wasn't worth it. Why did they fuss with him like this when he'd probably go west anyhow? It was just cruelty. They had put him down again. One of the orderlies said, 'Good man!' And the nurse was smiling at him again. That was the way with people. They thought it was their duty to torture you instead of putting you decently out of it as soon as they could. He remembered the first life he had ever taken. That rabbit he had jumped on unexpectedly coming over the fence by the low meadow. It had been in the grassy rut of the lane, lying doggo, and he had landed on it unawares. Well, he had not left it long in agony. Why couldn't they see that he'd rather…

  A new ceiling now. One with windows in it. And another nurse. This one didn't smile, and she hadn't such pretty hair. At least her cap hid it all. If he could stick this perhaps a second or two longer they might find some way of stopping it.

  A man's voice said: 'All right, Carter?'

  Some one behind him held a little white cap above his face. A sickeningly sweet scent began to steal out from it. He realised what it was and gave himself up to it.

  What a long time it was taking. He always thought anaesthetics…

  His clenched hands relaxed.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  There were daffodils round the slatted board at his feet, and a pale spring sky over his head. The wall at his back, covered with the meagre green of a budding pear-tree, reflected the warmth pleasantly. On his knees was a basket of mending wool which he was unravelling for the night sister, his big-jointed long-fingered hands, still smooth and thin from their months indoors, playing in and out among the tangle with the light sureness of a shuttle. And at the other end of the garden seat a fellow convalescent was stertorously engrossed in putting bead eyes in a bright woollen golliwog. Those were the days when a flood of golliwogs percolated out of the ho
spitals and inundated the country.

  Now and then Kif let his eyes rest absently on the green perspective of the garden, but he did not see the flame of the tulips in the beds nor did he hear the riot of bird-song. What he saw was Hyde Park Corner with the first wash of green on the trees; what he heard was London traffic. Presently—when they were satisfied about his lung—he would go there. And it seemed to him that all the weariness and the pain of the last nine months was a little price to pay for the chance of nine days in London. It would almost be worth while going west afterwards—though he had no intention of going west if he could help it—if his death would ensure that London would go on being the London he knew.

  Which is as near as Kif ever came to that form of exaltation known as dying for an idea.

  'Did I see you getting a cup of tea from the pantry-maid this morning?' asked the little man at the end of the bench.

  'You probably did if you were hanging around,' Kif said.

  'Well, you keep off the grass, young fellow. That's my cup of tea, that is. And she's a very nice girl, even if she is a duke's daughter. I don't hold with titles as a rule, but with a cup of tea thrown in I'm not one to stick at trifles. She's a nice girl and we're great friends, so don't you try to come it over me.'

  'Are you making that horror for her?' Kif asked, indicating the golliwog.

  'Not so much of it!' said the outraged artist in coloured wools. 'This is my shay-doover, this is. It's on commission, like an 'ouse or a picture or what-not, for sister. Not Big Bertha. My one.' He handled the gaudy heap on his lap lovingly. 'What d'you think?' he said, dreamily contemplative. 'Seriously. Do you think yellow legs would look better with the red body and them green arms, or would you 'ave the purple? I 'aven't used any of the purple yet. Pretty colour, ain't it? Like the vi'lets outside Charing Cross. What d'you think? Would you carry out the scheme, as they say, or would you 'ave a little variety?'