The Fortunes of Fingel

by Simon Raven

  “No, sir. Sphinck bides on his arse when I go there. And did he no tell himself that he knew of no key?”

  “So,” said Fingel. “That trunk is simply a trunk marked Theatre Props, until recently on charge to the RQMS. And that is all.”

  “But how did you explain it to him when you got him to sign for it?” I asked. “He must have known it came from you.”

  “I told him it came on special distribution from the Education Corps – part of a scheme to encourage amateur dramatics.”

  “They’ll soon explode that,” I said. “Can’t you see, Fingel? Your cover was perfectly sound if it had just been a case of some busybody reporting that those books were going round the place. No connection could ever have been established, as you rightly calculated, between them and that trunk or between them and you. But now the trunk itself has been seized…and the moment the Colonel gets it open and his ‘wifey’ gets a sight of those technicolour pudibunda flailing about, they’re going to track that trunk back, inch by inch, to where it truly belongs, and they’re going to wind up pointing at you.”

  “Och aye, Your Honour,” said Mack, nudging Fingel fiercely in the navel, “the Captain here says sooth. At ilka cost we must stop the Colonel from opening that trunk.”

  “Sweet Jesus Christ,” droned Fingel, “why must this happen just before dinner? Very well, Sergeant Mack: follow me…”

  “Really, you know, Sergeant Mack is getting to be a bit much,” said Fingel, as we finally set off for the Urania an hour and a half later.

  “I can’t see that any of this is his fault. Anyway, what happened at the Colonel’s?”

  “Well,” Sweenie and I drove to his house in the Land Rover, hoping it wasn’t too late, and told him how sorry we were there was no key to the trunk, and that we’d come to take it off to the MT Workshops, where we’d open it up for him with one of those implement things they have and then bring it back. Desperation ploy, you see. Anyhow, it was too late. The Colonel looked as grim as hell, and said his wife had already picked it open with a hairpin.

  “‘I hope she found something suitable for the Ball,’ I said, meaning to bluff it out to the last.

  “‘She found something all right,’ the Colonel said, and looked more savage than ever. So then I got ready for the worst, and began to marshal all my lies about how I had no idea what was in the trunk or how it got there – when suddenly there was a scream of ‘Oh, Major Fingel, and what do you think of this?’, and down the stairs came the Colonel’s lady, all got up like La Goulue the Can-Can dancer, black net stockings and one of those dresses with a kind of rubbery hoop, that tilted up under her chin every two seconds and showed off acres of mottled thigh and a bunch of blue ribbons flapping about on her crotch. No wonder the Colonel looked so fierce. ‘Isn’t it amusing?’ she trilled. ‘Just what I fancy for the Ball. I’ll go as a Loose Woman. Only as a joke, of course. But so original.’

  “There was a funny strained look on Sergeant Mack’s face, as if he didn’t know whether to cry or to be sick, and as for me, all I could do was say sillily, ‘So you found that in the trunk, did you?’ ‘Oh yes,’ she squeals, ‘and dozens more underneath, but I didn’t bother with them because I knew this was mine the moment I saw it. It must win the prize. So daring.’

  “‘Then perhaps, mahm,’ says Mack, choking on every word, ‘ye wouldna mind if we took yon trunk away to the Welfare Stores again. You’ll no want it cluttering up the hoose, I’m thinking.’

  “‘Yes, for God’s sake take the damn thing away,’ said the Colonel, and sotto voce to me, ‘before she finds a Salome kit or something.’

  “So we yanked the trunk down the stairs and out of the house, followed by Madame’s happy laughter, and took it to my office. Inside it, sure enough, was a great pile of dresses, ranging from the Queen of the Amazons to the Indian Maiden, and underneath them all, safe and sound and undisturbed, was a layer of our porn.”

  “But where on earth,” I said, “had the dresses come from?”

  “Just what I said to Sweenie Mack. And then he started giggling and falling about, and out it all came. Along of his other little failings, Sweenie likes dressing up of an evening. But after I caught him chatting up that band-boy the other day, he’d realised that he was getting a bit too obvious, all ways round, and that others might take a less tolerant view than I did; so he decided to play it safe for a while, and among other precautions he hid all his dresses away in that trunk.

  “‘You degenerate little man,’ I told him: ‘Queen of the Amazons, indeed.’

  “‘But Your Honour minds,’ he said, ‘that had it not been for ma clobber, the Colonel’s wifey would have got her eyes full with braw sweaty pubics and the rest; and for all she may dress a bit wild for that Ball, she’d have raised a great nasty blither about books full of red-hot naked lewdery.’

  “And of course,” said Fingel, “Sergeant Mack was quite right. His drag had saved the game. He’s a bit worried,” said Fingel as we drew up outside the Urania, “about getting that Can-Can outfit back safely. Though none of the band-boys go for it much, he says it works wonders with that straw-haired corporal in the Regimental Police.”

  Fingel on Tour

  “Well,” said fingel, as we embarked on the vaporetto from the Casino Municipale, “that leaves us rather short of money.”

  “It leaves you rather short of money,” I emended.

  Fingel and I were driving back to England from Cyprus. Throughout the trip Fingel had been not only at his most outrageous but also at his most inept. On the Turkish boat from Famagusta to Mersin he had decorated a bust of Ataturk with a pair of horns crudely contrived from bananas. Amid the ruins at Ephesus he had pretended to be my attendant eunuch and pimp, mincing, leering and nudging whenever anyone of either sex and under seventy came past us.

  Although his behaviour had improved a little in Greece, there had been an ugly scene at Delphi, where he tried to sell an American lady “her own personalised oracle” for 1000 drachmae. And now, as we were pausing in Venice, he had gone and lost every penny he possessed in the casino. It was really too much. By 1962, when all this was happening, Fingel had been promoted a substantive Major (by grace of Beelzebub) and was too old, I considered, to continue as enfant terrible of the regiment. Fingel must be brought to book.

  “You are rather short of money,” I repeated now. “In fact you have none whatever. Whereas I have enough to get home in comfort.”

  “No you haven’t. It’s my car.”

  “There are trains.”

  “You couldn’t desert me,” Fingel wheedled.

  “With equanimity. But I shan’t…yet. Now then. I shall have to pay your hotel bill here in Venice,” I said, “and I shall have to pay for all the petrol for the rest of our journey. That means there must be very strict economies in other matters – all of which will be borne by you.”

  I then outlined my scheme. I would graciously condescend to rescue Fingel and continue with him in his car, but he must understand that thenceforth he was on a subsistence allowance of thirty shillings a day. How he spent it – on food, on board, or on bawdry if he could get it – was his affair, but thirty bob per diem was his lot.

  “Right,” said Fingel. “A week to go between here and Dover; that’s ten guineas, I make it. Hand it over.”

  “No,” I said. “I shall hold the purse. Your allowance will be payable daily at noon.”

  The next day I paid the sums required to get ourselves and the car quit of Venice. These were substantial, as Fingel had had four bottles of whisky put on his hotel bill and the garage in the Piazzale Roma charged double the advertised rate for parking, apparently on the ground that we were leaving on the eve of a saint’s day. We then set off for the Brenner Pass, and at noon I gave Fingel his thirty shillings (2400 lire in those days) almost all of which he immediately spent on lunch. Towards evening, pondering spitefully on what Fingel was going to do about dinner and a bed, I fell asleep in the car, and woke to find that we had left t
he main road and were circling up a side road into the hills above.

  “Where the hell are we going?” I said.

  “Quarters for the night, old bean. There should be a clearing in this wood somewhere…yes, this will do nicely. Most economic. To bed with the sun and up with the lark. We shall sleep in Nature’s bedchamber. ‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind, thou art not so…’ ”

  “Shut up,” I said. “How are we to sleep up here without freezing to death?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I have an operational sleeping bag in the boot which the QM passed on to me cheap.”

  “Food and drink?”

  “I have some prawns, some salami sausage and some Parma ham, which I thoughtfully purchased while you were having a pee after lunch. Just enough for one, I’m afraid: I couldn’t afford more on my allowance. I also have an individual tin of self-heating soup, which I scrounged from my Colour-Sergeant, and half a bottle left of that whisky from the hotel.”

  “I paid for that whisky,” I said.

  “You shall have some, old bean, if you make yourself agreeable. But more than that I fear I cannot do for you, and as for a bed…”

  “All right, Fingel,” I said. “I’ll stand you dinner and a hotel room.”

  “That’s my bean,” Fingel said. And later as we drove on through the evening, “I didn’t really have any of those things, you know – except the whisky.” And later still: “Hotels are rather scarce in these mountains. But I think this one looks quite suitable.” With which observation, he stopped before the entrance of a five-star Spa hotel called the Excelsior e Balmoral.

  “Very cosy, these Spa hotels,” Fingel said. “The staff are always trained to be especially considerate.”

  By the next morning we had had nearly £30 worth of consideration. “Look here,” I said to Fingel as we drove on our way, “this cannot go on. I cannot pay out at this rate for both of us. You agreed to accept thirty bob a day in return for…”

  “Yes, yes,” said Fingel. “I’ll be good from now on. Now cheer up, and try to spot somewhere decent for lunch.”

  “Lunch can wait till after the Brenner.”

  Fingel digested this remark. A few miles further on: “I’ve been thinking,” he said: “those gold cuff-links of yours…”

  “No. They were a twenty-first birthday present from my grandmother.”

  “I understand, old bean,” Fingel said. “I had a granny too.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “She gave me a gold cross, which I always wear round my neck.” He unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, flicked out a cross on a chain, fondled it for a moment, then returned it to his bosom. “I couldn’t bear to part with it. So I understand about your cuff-links. Just give me thirty bob a day, and I’ll be good. Dear old Granny, how I wish she’d lived to see me a Major.”

  Fingel sniffed, in memoriam. There was a wailing noise from the engine and the car stopped, luckily in a village where there was a garage thirty yards away. Fingel looked under the bonnet.

  “The cranker-blippet,” I understood Fingel to say.

  “The what?”

  “Serious, I’m afraid. I’ll get a man from that garage. You have a drink in that café, and I’ll fetch you when she’s mended.”

  Touched by such consideration but apprehensive about what the repairs would cost and whether they would even be possible, I went into the café. An hour later Fingel appeared, looking very glum. God, I thought, the car’s kaput. However, “All fixed,” said Fingel morosely; “en voiture”.

  Such was my relief that I did not think to inquire how Fingel had paid the garage. After a while: “Small things, crankerblippits,” said Fingel miserably, “but very expensive to replace.” He sighed quietly. “I got them to take Granny’s cross in exchange. I hope she understands, wherever she is. With only thirty bob a day I had no choice…”

  So of course I had to match Fingel’s sacrifice and sell my cufflinks. We passed some pleasant days on the proceeds between Munich and Dover, with Fingel more charming than I had ever known him. Just outside Dover the car made a wailing noise and stopped. Fingel switched off, switched on, and drove on, shaking with laughter, and then repeated the performance.

  “It’s a little trick with the accelerator and the clutch,” he explained; “a Fingel seduction speciality, much more convincing with girls than that old gag of running out of petrol.”

  “There was nothing the matter with the car…you never parted with your gold cross.”

  “Gold my arse,” said Fingel; “it was something Granny picked up at a church bazaar – quite literally, I wouldn’t wonder. But never mind, old bean. I’ll pay you back what you spent on me. Cheque post-dated to next September, how about that?” Fingel laughed and laughed. “Cranker-blippit, indeed. Did you ever do an MT course? Just a little trick with the clutch. Watch.”

  He pressed the clutch in about half-way and stamped hard on the accelerator. There was the well-known wailing, then a keening, then a horrible squeal. The car stopped, this time in earnest, and luckily near the bus stop by the entrance to the Castle. I got out and took my case from the boot. Fingel followed me to the bus stop.

  “I’ve got to be in London tonight, old bean. There’s this girl who’s putting me up. You will sock me my ticket? Or at least a bus fare into Dover? Old bean, I’ve spent my last ha’penny on duty-free booze for this girl.”

  As the bus drew up it began to rain. Since fares were taken by the driver at the door, fareless Fingel could not get on.

  “There’s a large garage at the bottom of the hill,” I called. “No doubt they understand cranker-blippits, but they may not understand post-dated cheques.”

  Fingerella

  “I am not going to produce a pantomime,” declared Fingel, “and that’s flat.”

  “But we’ve got to amuse the men over Christmas,” said the Second in Command of the battalion. “Nothing for them to do in this bloody desert except drink themselves silly.”

  “A perfectly satisfactory way of passing the time.”

  “But the new Brigadier says we mustn’t allow it. The new Brigadier says it’s bad for health and morale. The new Brigadier says that it is the duty of the Officers and Sergeants to provide constructive and wholesome entertainments.”

  “It’s the sort of thing Brigadiers are obliged to say for the record. They don’t really expect any sane man to take any notice.”

  “On Boxing Day,” said the Second in Command desperately, “the Brigadier is going to visit this battalion in this camp. Since he once served for a time with this Regiment, he will be doubly critical. After lunch, he says, he wishes to attend whatever entertainment we have arranged for the troops. For Boxing Day, the Colonel has decided, a pantomime will be the most appropriate; and he has therefore ordered me to get up a pantomime.”

  “Then get it up,” said Fingel, “and the best of Thespian luck to you.”

  “I am appointing you, Major Fingel, to produce and direct it. I call Raven here to witness. If you refuse,” said the Second in Command, “I shall have no choice but to inform the Colonel of the fact, hitherto charitably concealed from him, that the Mess now holds unpaid bills of yours which go back to July and also three cheques marked Refer To – ”

  “– All right,” said Fingel; “I yield to blackmail. But why pick on me for this pantomime?”

  “Because I am reliably informed that you have produced one before.”

  “But that was donkeys’ years ago. Right back in Korea.”

  “I’m told it was a great success.”

  “Are you indeed? Did anyone tell you,” said Fingel with a funny look in his eyes, “what that pantomime was about?”

  “It was a version of Cinderella. My informant had read a report of it in an old number of the Regimental Journal.”

  “I see. I take it,” said Fingel, “that since time is short you’d have no objection to my putting on the same show again?”

  “None at all. Very few men at present in
the battalion can possibly have seen it.”

  “Very well,” said Fingel, the look in his eye now hovering near madness, “you’re on.”

  “Of course,” Fingel said to me later in our quarters, “no one remembers that old show now. It was only a Company affair, scratched up when we were out on detachment, and the so-called report in the Regimental Journal was just a couple of lines in ‘B Coy Notes’; ‘On Christmas Eve Second Lieutenant Fingel put on an hilarious production of Cinderella which was much enjoyed by one and all’ – the usual hearty nonsense which the Company Commander thought suitable for official consumption. Well, ‘hilarious’ it certainly was…and a great deal else besides. Long before your time, of course.”

  “Please tell…”

  …I’d been with the battalion in Korea about three months [Fingel said] and I was still junior subaltern, commanding a rifle platoon in B Coy. That October, B Coy had been sent off nearly 100 miles from Battalion to guard a ruined temple in the middle of the forest – God knows why, it was well behind our lines and of no tactical value – and we were still there at Christmas. By which time we really needed some fun, I can tell you. And of course the men were so bored that they were ready to join in anything which anyone suggested.

  Well, our Company Commander – the chap responsible for that gushing note in the journal – was a sporty, gourmandising, gambly sort of a number called Geoffrey Ham. Easy-going and pear-shaped, the kind we don’t seem to have any more. One day about a fortnight before Christmas Geoffrey sent for me and said,

  ‘Look here, Fingel, we’re going to be stuck in this hole over bloody Christmas, and a lot longer from what I can make out, and we’re going to need something to live for. So we’ll have a Christmas Panto. Cinderella.’

  ‘Very nice too,’ I said, ‘as casual entertainment, but I don’t quite see that Cinderella makes something to live for.’