Snakes and Ladders

by Dirk Bogarde

  For a couple of days we did our polishing and preparing, had a sort of frantic dummy run with an empty pine coffin round the Drill Yard, and one bright afternoon were loaded on to a 15 cwt truck, with Palmers Green lying boxed at our feet.

  At the station, among a little group of curious citizens, there were two pale women in black, clutching handkerchiefs. The sisters from Hammersmith come to conduct him home. The coffin was hastily covered with an immense Union Jack, for which we were quite unprepared, having humped an unadorned coffin round on our shoulders during the rehearsals. On top of this, even more worrying, was placed a wreath of yellow flowers, presumably from the Royal Corps of Signals, although I couldn’t see the writing on the flapping label. To add to our growing unease, sparkling away in brass and blanco in the hot sun, we became aware that there was a small flight of steps to be negotiated, and we hadn’t actually rehearsed steps. However, out of sight of the mourning sisters, and without a great deal of elegance, Palmers Green was loaded on to our brave young shoulders. We immediately sagged and buckled at the knees. The shortest were in the front, Derek on the right, Grimm on the left, in the middle Gooley and Piper, behind, as we were marginally taller and therefore presumed, inaccurately, to be stronger, Tilly and myself supporting the head-part of the coffin. The heaviest we supposed, and envied Derek and Grimm having only the shins and feet, so to speak, to carry.

  It was an uneven stagger which brought Palmers Green towards the steps and his black clad relations from Hammersmith; he seemed rather small for his coffin. Slid about a bit, up and down it seemed, as we angled him upwards. Gooley cursing under his breath, Tilly muttering “Steady, lads, steady,” as if we were at sea, and the sweat beading under our caps, trickling into the serge of our uniforms. Mercifully we negotiated the steps, shoulders aching, legs slightly splayed, arms locked in desperate attachment to the ever increasing weight of our lost companion. “It’s de wind,” said Gooley under his breath, and trying to catch it, “dey say dey always blow up wid de wind after a few days. Sweet Mary! but he’s a heavy bugger.”

  Exhausted, blinded with a mist of sweat, breathless, we reached the entrance to the platform and started down the endless vista to the Guard’s Van. Right at the end of the train, practically as far away as York. The escort marched glitteringly ahead of us, the draggle of people, plus the two black women with their handkerchiefs, trailed along on either side and then a sudden gust of wind riffled the immense Union Jack causing it to whip about like the sail of a yacht in a force nine gale. Tilly and I, separated as we were by the apparently enormous bulk of the coffin, could only see to our immediate left or, in his case, right, but we did hear the smothered cry from Derek in the front as he stumbled suddenly, swirled about in the Union Jack. We felt, all too helplessly, the wild lurch of our possession, saw the yellow wreath slither out of sight, the flag cascade in a shimmer of red, white and blue about our feet, and in spite of desperate struggles on the part of all the rest of us, Palmers Green slid inexorably, and not ungracefully, to his feet, almost upright, on the wide platform. Derek lay wrapped in the colours, with Grimm beside him and the wreath between them. I don’t know what happened to the mourners. The escort broke formation and rushed to our assistance, Derek was on his feet, the flag whipped out of sight, the coffin reverently placed back on our aching shoulders and with squint caps, sweat coursing, and a Lance Corporal carrying the wreath like a suitcase we made the Guard’s Van and bundled our load into the more expert hands of the L.N.E.R. An ignominious attempt at chivalry.

  Riding back to Camp in the 15 cwt, we smoked nervously, wondering if we would be put on a charge or what exactly would happen. Derek was on the point of collapse most of the way, and Grimm had to bawl at him to “belt up” at least three times before he subsided into hiccups.

  “It was that bloody flag,” he said in between trying to hold his breath and count to ten as Gooley had told him. “Whipped round my face, I couldn’t see a thing, not a bloody thing, dears. Smothered I was, simply smothered. I wouldn’t have done it on purpose, you all know that. I just buckled and went over. Oh the shame of it, and I’ve always been able to manage my skirts.” But we were all too exhausted to care. What kind of punishment was there for dropping a full coffin, we wondered? All that actually happened was that we got a severe dressing down about being slack, weak, and a disgrace to the Royal Corps of Signals from the R.S.M., who finally admonished us into shame by saying that it was the last time we’d ever be entrusted to carry a coffin again in public. Which made us wonder just how many more he was envisaging during our stay.

  Chapter 2

  Boredom, as my father had prophesied, began to leak into life, indeed into all our lives, after a few weeks. Sitting about in the grey NAAFI with a slab of sodden cake and diluted coffee, at ringed tables under a flat light made us all depressed and stale and it was during one of these deathly evenings, with someone bashing out Ivor Novello medleys at the upright piano in the corner, that Gooley had the bright thought of starting up the abandoned concert party idea. So the notice was, once again, put up on the board and this time, to our surprised delight, or mine at any rate, we got a much better haul and auditions were started round the Upright every free evening. It seemed that almost everyone in the camp had discovered a latent talent for singing endless versions of “I’ll Walk Beside You”, “Because” and “Ave Maria”. In stultified misery we heard them all and realised that these splendid tenors, baritones and hog-callers would only compound the boredom, not relieve it. And after one or two extra talents like conjuring, impersonations, and when Derek of the cortège had given us some pretty fancy high kicks and a couple of agonized splits, which hurt him, because, as he pointed out, he was “not in practice”, we settled for a Dramatic Society instead.

  At the end of June I was promoted to Lance Corporal. And smirked with astonished pride. Someone seemed to think that I was at least showing signs of something, perhaps in leadership if not in Morse or the rest of the required activities. Slightly weighed down with the importance of my chevroned arms, I moved into the small cubicle at the end of the hut with a real bed, and assumed the responsibilities, unwittingly, for the entire Squad Hut. I lost no time in informing my father on a postcard of Richmond Castle, in heavy pencil, stiff with exclamation marks of false surprise. Overstating as usual.

  The Dramatic Society flourished. We started off with a thriller, Patrick Hamilton’s “Rope”. Fairly easy since it had one set and only two parts for women, and a splendid part for me. The women’s parts were willingly filled by ladies from the Officers’ Quarters up the hill outside the camp who were just as bored with the Yorkshire moors as we were, and enjoyed their evenings, bringing all their friends, their knitting, thermos flasks of tea or coffee and sandwiches, imbuing the whole business with the atmosphere of a mixed Women’s Institute.

  We even managed a small orchestra for the intervals and the overture. Instruments were sent for from home, band parts scored, and before you could say “Curtain Up” we were off. The play was a whacking success, so much so that we had to play it for four nights instead of only one, and travelled it about the county to less fortunate companions in arms. Bundled into trucks, with our costumes in kitbags and the band parts of “Roses of Picardy” and “Me and My Girl: Selections”, we covered Yorkshire. There was usually a party in an Officers’ Mess afterwards, with sausage rolls and small gins and limes, and warming congratulations for boosting the morale, which pleased us since the main object had been to boost our own. However, ambition had been roused and was not about to be quenched easily. I decided on another play, and before the course was over we presented a more ambitious effort in Elmer Rice’s “Judgement Day”, which was an even greater success. It hardly felt like being in the army at all. If this was what it could be like, if I was crafty, I’d perhaps never have to go to Madagascar or Singapore, but might just manage to stay put and boost morale. After all, I reasoned happily, someone had to do it, why not me?

  But that sort of idi
ocy came to an abrupt end when Tilly and I and a couple of others were sent for to be interviewed as officer material. Worriedly we cleaned and polished and blancoed days before the event, and one hot morning were summoned to our inquisition. Tilly, I noticed with regret, sparkled like a Jewish wedding. I felt sure that he would pass, he was so determined, and that I’d probably be set aside, for I looked anything but chic in my battledress, even though my brasses shone like bright deeds.

  A large horseshoe table; about six or seven officers. One very tall and elegant, who made little paper darts most of the time; three or four with tabs and redder faces; and another who sat at the side of the table, crouched over his papers, wearing rimless glasses looking like Himmler’s aunt. I was last to be called, on account of being “V”. Tilly was second last and came out grim and soldierly; he gave such a smashing salute as he left the room that I feared he must have hurt himself. He about-turned and marched blindly past me, giving me no clues whatever. Sick with apprehension, I entered. There was a lot of tittle tattle over my papers; my schooling, family background, and all the rest. The thing which seemed to stick in their craws was the unacceptable fact that I had been an actor. This, I gathered, was a sign of an unstable temperament. The elegant officer who stopped making paper darts for a second asked me what I had done in London in the theatre and looked completely blank until I mentioned “Diversion” at Wyndhams. At this he seemed to recognise something far away across the room and, staring into the breeze-block wall, he said mildly that he didn’t remember seeing me. I was not fool enough not to realise that this little pleasantry could be a trap: they did this kind of thing, I had been told, to try and throw you off kilter and see your reactions. Mine, I thought, were perfectly reasonable.

  “Well … I was in it … but it wasn’t much. I had a few lines in a couple of numbers and a bit of a song in a kilt.”

  He looked sadly at his collection of darts. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Well, I don’t suppose it would, Sir, I was a sort of chorus boy really.”

  A sudden hush. A red-tabbed one cleared his throat and echoed “chorus boy” as if I had said “child molester”. I felt the earth slipping away very gradually. Chorus boys, even I could see that, were probably not officer material.

  I tried to repair. “A glorified chorus boy; not really a dancer or anything like that, you know …” ending helplessly.

  But no one did know. They leant together and muttered away. Eventually another one, with red tabs but a younger face, asked about “Rope” and “Judgement Day”, to my astonishment. Until I realised that everything I had ever done in my life was set down in the papers before them. There was a murmuring about “jolly good show, boosting morale”—how that phrase cropped up with them all the time—and “organizing powers”. My heart lifted a little and the languid officer folded another dart.

  Suddenly a voice barked at me from Left Field.

  “Nothing to it, of course; acting.” He was older than the others, very red-tabbed, probably a General.

  “No, Sir, not really.”

  “Acting’s easy stuff. Girls do it.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Agree with him. Clearly he’s General Public.

  “Done it meself … so I know. It’s the organisation that counts.”

  “Yes, Sir, that’s really very hard …”

  “Did both, you know, so I know what I’m talking about. Heard of ‘Aladdin’?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Bloody good show. Did that.”

  The languid officer was stilled with deference. “You did, Sir?”

  He beamed round the table having caught their full attention. “Wrote it, played Widow Twankey, and produced it, what! Marvellous fun.”

  Everyone smiled politely and he turned his jealous eyes back to me. “Boosted morale no end, frightfully good show. Tickled ’em pink. Amritsar, 1926.”

  “It must have been marvellous, Sir.”

  “But acting’s all twaddle, anyone can do it.”

  “Yes, Sir, of course.”

  For a moment he glowered at me and then barked: “Your father!” Father, for God’s sake, what about him?

  “Yes, Sir?” Eager and with a pleasant filial smile.

  “Art editor of The Times, I believe. It says so on your papers.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Well, what exactly does the art editor do? I mean, that is to say, what is the art editor?”

  “He’s responsible for the picture page, all the photographs, and the arts page generally …”

  “Takes them himself, does he? Snaps, that sort of thing?”

  “Yes of course, Sir, but naturally he has hundreds of photographers of his own.”

  “Naturally,” the voice was ice.

  Hasten in to correct.

  “He selects the photographs for the News … landscapes … all those pictures of Sussex and Scotland … the half-page on Saturdays. Perhaps, Sir, you saw one he did of the Isle of Wight from Ashdown Forest. It was infra-red …”

  The elegant officer folded, very carefully, another paper dart.

  “Infra-red?”

  “Yes, Sir; actually he managed to save a great deal of the South Coast from ribbon-development, from things like Peacehaven … you know …”

  I was talking far too much, and perhaps he liked Peacehaven. Impatience eddied in the air like a bad odour. Time was running out … the elegant officer gave a little laugh and said: “All rather high quality stuff, General … not Men Only.” There was polite laughter, and throats were cleared. I lied swiftly.

  “Of course he knows all the other editors, you know; they er … work together really …”

  The General looked up from my folder which he was in the act of closing gently. Like a curtain falling slowly on a play.

  “Does he, indeed? Knows the editors? Of Men Only as well? The Times?”

  “It’s all journalism after all, Sir, they all know each other.”

  “I know that!”

  I stood stiffly to attention, the elegant officer leant back in his wooden chair. The General stroked his nose.

  “Perhaps The Times might care to send us a few snaps, shall we say? To cheer up the Mess, what? Something half-page size … that sort of thing?”

  Don’t be over eager. State a fact.

  “Yes, Sir, I’m sure.”

  “But not landscapes of course … ha ha ha … something a little more, can we say, inspiring?”

  “Of course, Sir.” Lie as hard as you can and hope to God that your unsuspecting father will come to your assistance. This is the point of no return.

  Shortly afterwards I was dismissed, threw a correct salute, about-turned under the stone eyes of the RSM, and left the room, just as a small paper dart skimmed through the air and plummeted against the windows.

  That evening, from a call-box outside the NAAFI, reversing the charges, I telephoned my father.

  “You do know the editor of Men Only, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, could you arrange to send me, oh, something like a dozen, quite big, photos of nude women? But quickly …”

  “For your Mess?”

  “No, for the Officers’ Mess. I’ve just had my interview for an OCTU.”

  The line crackled for a few seconds. “I see.”

  “Quite large, you know. And coloured if you can.”

  “I’ll do what I can. What is Men Only?”

  Fourteen anxious days later Tilly and I and one other fellow saw our names on the board stating that from such and such a date we were now Officer Cadets and should put-up our white-tabs forthwith.

  My father had been as good, as they say, as his word.

  * * *

  I had just finished Gooley’s weekly letter to Kitty. It had become a firm routine over the weeks, and I sometimes felt that I knew Kitty almost as well as he did himself. It was a very intimate relationship, his and mine, for in charging me with the task of writing his passions to Cork and the girl he loved, he
had placed himself confidently in my hands. In fact, after a time he simply indicated more or less what he wanted to tell her that week, and left me cheerfully to find the words (which I did, with the aid of the Oxford Book of Modern Verse), most of which he didn’t know himself, and many of which I felt pretty sure Kitty wouldn’t know either. However, he was always filled with self-pride when I read them back to him and sat in stiff amazed delight, shaking his cropped head, bemused, often moved to the point of tears.

  This latest letter was the cruncher, for it was the Proposal Letter and we had spent some considerable time on its composition. He was determined that it should not sound daft, and that it should be more businesslike than poetical. “Her Dad owns a pub, he’s no fool, you know … It’s not de pub I’m after, Toff, it’s de daughter … get that straight and clear.” He insisted on the final lines himself, choosing, “Be assured of my strict intentions, my darling girl, Kitty, from your respectful, hoping-to-be-accepted-husband, Patrick Gooley.” He scrawled a signature, the only thing he could actually write with any authority, and read it through slowly and carefully.

  “Dat’s beautiful!”

  “I don’t know why you don’t write your own letters, for God’s sake.”

  “I just haven’t de touch, and anyway she enjoys your letters more dan mine, she says so every time. Dat’s de only ting dat worries me … when I leave here she’ll not be gettin’ any letters and she’ll likely be expecting me to talk like you write, and dat’s going to be a bugger, I can tell you.” He folded the letter carefully, put it into the envelope and, with his fat tongue sticking out, laboriously printed, in his own hand, the address.

  I folded my arms behind my head and looked up at the ceiling: there was a dry moth in a cobweb.

  “Gooley. When you hit that old woman on the head, that time, with the iron, what did you feel? Do you remember?”