For a moment, nobody observed him, and the dance continued. He was wearing a tweed suit and his jacket hung open. He had a moustache and his hair was growing grey, not at the temples where men like their hair to grow grey, but all over. Round his large eyes there was a yellowish shadow of tiredness, and his brow was lined. If you saw this man on a platform at a railway station you would at once be certain that there was a gun-case with his luggage; and you would be right. There must be fifty colonels who look very much like this one. He now stood quite still, as only an actor or a soldier can. His hands rested by his sides.
Mr Simpson followed Piper Adam’s eye, and he was the first to recognise the stranger. He immediately moved up the line to talk to Jock, who was absorbed with the dancing. He tugged at his elbow. His voice had the delighted urgency of the first man with bad news.
‘Colonel!’
‘What is it, laddie? Get down to your proper place.’
‘The Colonel’s here.’
‘You’re drunk, laddie.’
‘Colonel Barrow. He’s at the door.’
Jock looked round and stared, first at Simpson and then at the newcomer. Only a moment before he had been beaming with joy. He had joked with Charlie Scott as they gradually worked their way up the set to start their second turn. He had given a little imitation of some of Major Macmillan’s worse affectations on the dance-floor. Macmillan was a very smooth performer, and had Jock not been there he would hardly have bothered to move his feet at all. Jock meant no harm by his little demonstration. He was in good spirits. He had forgotten everything but the dancing and the drinking, and the music tingled in his veins. He liked to feel the floor bouncing. But suddenly the dancers and the pipers seemed to fade away from him, and he forgot them. He stopped clapping his hands and they hung in mid-air. A look of real pain crossed his face and he said in a whisper, ‘But dammit, he’s no due till the morn!’
Then his hands fell to his tunic and he began to button it up. He pulled in his stomach and bit his lip. He shouted at the top of his voice for the dancing to stop. The dancers heard but the pipers continued to play. When he shouted again they too understood and with a drone they ceased. Everybody now turned towards the figure at the door. Colonel Barrow did not sound nervous, but a little tired.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ His voice was very light. ‘My name is Barrow.’
Nobody replied. They looked at him, stunned. Then Jock strode down the middle of the room, his heels clicking on the boards. The two sets of dancers at each side of the room still stood in loose formation and they watched him come to a formal halt two paces away from the Colonel.
‘Jock Sinclair. Acting Colonel.’
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you.’ The Colonel spoke in the same light voice; he spoke pleasantly but seriously and as the two shook hands the officers readjusted their dress. They shifted about, and looked nervously at each other. Somehow, they felt guilty. Major Scott and the company commanders were duly introduced but Jock said there were too many bloody subalterns – all subalterns were bloody, all subalterns were damned – to attempt an introduction there and then. Jock behaved as if it were a parade. He was like one of those commanders you see photographed looking down and talking earnestly to his Queen.
‘And now, Colonel,’ his voice was very serious. ‘May we have permission to resume the dance that was interrupted?’ The Colonel looked surprised. ‘For heaven’s sake … I’m not here officially until tomorrow. You’re in command.’
‘Very well.’ Jock instructed Corporal Fraser and the others to carry on. ‘Charlie, we best break off.’ He turned to the Colonel again. ‘You’ll join us in a drink?’
‘Thank you. Brandy and soda.’
Jock blinked, and he looked down at his successor. ‘Not a whisky?’
‘Not a whisky.’
‘We all drink whisky in this Battalion,’ Jock said, heavily.
‘Oh, yes,’ Barrow smiled pleasantly. ‘I remember that. Whisky doesn’t really agree with me. D’you think we could adjourn to the far end of the room? I find it rather noisy here.’
Jock looked over his shoulder at the pipers playing behind them.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said and he never smiled once. As they walked the length of the room he glanced slantwise at the Colonel, but the Colonel was intent on the dancing.
Barrow put his hands in his coat pockets as he walked up the room, and once or twice he moved them with a nervous little jerk. He twitched his moustache. The officers stared at him and they noticed the rather sprightly step. He sprang on the balls of his feet, again with a sort of nervousness. His tread was as light as his voice.
‘This is my farewell party, you understand,’ Jock said when they sat down. ‘There’s not a carry-on like this every night. Four and a half years is a long time to command a battalion, and then …’ He did not finish the sentence, and Barrow did not finish it for him. He waited, and Jock felt clumsy. His hands clasped and unclasped: they lost their way.
‘Where the hell’s that bloody steward got to?’ he asked, and Charlie Scott, for something to do, went to find him.
Jock tried to settle in his seat and he undid the buttons of his tunic and trews.
‘Charlie’s a good lad … Aye. They’re all good men, except for some of the babies, and they’ll be good men in their time; some of them, anyway.’
Again Barrow kept silent.
‘Ah, well; you found your way here all right?’
‘I have actually been here before.’
Jock raised his eyebrows; he was heavily polite.
‘Aye? When was that?’
‘I came as a subaltern.’
‘From Sandhurst?’ The question was asked with an air of innocent curiosity.
‘From Oxford, as a matter of fact.’
Charlie had now rejoined them and the steward brought the tray of drinks.
‘From Oxford? Fancy that … Aye. And where were you before that?’
‘I was at school.’
Jock nodded. They were sitting on the leather settee by the dining-room door, and the dancing seemed far away.
‘Harrow, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh … I see, I see.’ Charlie Scott did not approve of Jock’s questions but every time he tried to interrupt Jock just raised his voice. Otherwise his voice was pitched at an unnatural low.
‘A-huh … You came in that way; with an Oxford degree.’
The Colonel smiled. He was leaning right back in the seat, with his head tipped back.
‘For what it was worth.’
Jock eyed him for a moment and he ran his tongue along his lower lip. Then he gave a little flick of his head: ‘Well I came in the other way. By way of Sauchiehall Street, Barlinnie gaol, and the band. I was a boy piper.’
‘It sounds a much better training,’ the Colonel answered pleasantly, and Jock breathed heavily. Charlie took his first opportunity.
‘You’ll have another drink, Colonel?’
‘Forgive me. I’m rather tired. I think I’ll turn in after this one.’
‘Are you no going to have a dance?’ The flat eyes rested on him.
‘If you’ll forgive me,’ the Colonel said again. ‘I’ve had a long day.’
‘You drove up?’ Charlie asked.
‘Hell of a journey.’
Charlie was sympathetic. ‘Family and all?’
The Colonel looked down at his brandy. ‘I have no family. I’m by myself.’
Charlie smiled. He felt required to say something. ‘Then we won’t have to cope with the Colonel’s wife.’
But the Colonel did not smile. He paused and sipped his drink. He replied suddenly, ‘I suppose there’s that to it.’
Then, the dance over, Macmillan came to pay his re-spects. Macmillan very quickly pitched the conversation on to a higher social level: the shooting and the shooting set. He mentioned some names; some names of titled people; but he did not, of course, mention the title. The Colonel was very pleasan
t. He did not seem to remember any of these people very clearly. He did not have any names to give in exchange.
Jock’s head was cocked on one side. He had had enough whisky to make him persistent. ‘It’ll be some time since you were with the Battalion, I’m thinking.’
‘Yes, I feel quite a new boy. It’s some time since I’ve been with any battalion. I’ve been sitting behind a desk for a year.’
Charlie screwed up his face with horror. ‘Ghastly …’
Macmillan said, ‘Too boring.’ Then he went on: ‘One of the boys said you were at Sandhurst.’
The Colonel looked him in the eye.
‘That would be Simpson,’ he said, and Jock was surprised.
‘Aye. You’re right, now. He’s over there. And what was it you said you did before Sandhurst?’
‘I don’t think I did say.’ The Colonel was still very patient.
‘You didn’t?’
Charlie Scott and Sandy Macmillan glanced at each other. The Colonel ran the tip of his finger round the rim of his glass.
‘Like you, Sinclair, I was in gaol.’
‘A P.O.W.?’ Jock gave a little snigger. ‘That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘I think I would have preferred Barlinnie gaol.’
THREE
BUT IT WAS after Barrow had left them that the drinking really began. All the tunics were loose again. Jock sat on the leather guard in front of the log fire and the smoke from his cigarette crawled up his cheek, over his flat blue eyes. The junior subaltern caught his attention again.
‘Mackinnon? D’you know the words of the Lord’s Prayer?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’
‘You do?’ Jock’s eyes were very bloodshot now. It showed when he rolled them. ‘Then you’re not so bloody ignorant as I thought you were.’ He stared at the boy, who looked very pale and nervous. It was no secret that he had already retired once that evening to be sick.
‘Poor wee laddie. Can you smoke yet?’
‘I think so.’
‘Poor laddie … Och.’ Jock was restless. He moved now to an armchair and he dropped into it. ‘Och, to hell with all this,’ he said impatiently. ‘Och, to hell with all this.’ Major Charlie Scott was lying full length on the settee beside Jock’s chair and Jock now leaned over towards him.
‘Charlie boy, are you dead yet?’
‘Cold. As cold as Flora Macdonald.’
‘I can tell you, chum, there’s some is colder than her.’
Charlie made no reply further than to let his heavy eyelids drop again and Jock turned to the group still hanging around the ante-room. His voice was a sergeant’s again.
‘Get away with you, you bairns and cheeldron; away to your holes and your chariots. You’ve drunk more than you or I can afford and you’re the worst lot of bastards I’ve ever known. And Jimmy Cairns is the worst of the lot of you.’
‘I’m too tired,’ Cairns said. ‘I’m too tired even to insult you.’
‘Just try and I’ll have you drummed out of the Battalion.’ Jock’s energy was unlimited.
‘I’m whacked.’
‘Good night, Jimmy lad.’
‘Aye, Jock.’
The Corporal brought a full bottle and the others went to bed, leaving Charlie Scott on the couch, stretched out like a walrus on his back, and Jock sitting in his chair with his knees apart and his hands clasping the arms. They sat there, quiet for a long time. It was Charlie who spoke at last.
‘You know, Jock; I once had a woman under water.’
Jock hardly seemed to be listening. ‘Aye, man? Was it salt or fresh?’
Charlie sat up. He looked rather dazed.
‘Flesh,’ he said. ‘All flesh.’ But Jock did not smile.
‘Charlie, have I been such a bad colonel; have I, man?’
Charlie took a long time to reply. He seemed to have difficulty in finding the right words.
‘Never known a better,’ he said with a sharp shake of his head.
‘Och, man. Stop your fibbing. I asked a civil question.’
‘Honest to God, old boy. In the war …’
Jock shook his head and he said, ‘“Old boy, old boy, old boy.”’
‘You asked me and I tell you. For God’s sake, chum …’
‘D’you really think that, Charlie?’
Charlie seemed a little irritated by his questions. He touched his moustache. ‘Sure, sure.’ He gave an apostro-phied nod and a little belch. Then he lay down again and there was another pause. Jock drew a circle on the leather arm of the chair with his forefinger and he traced it again and again. Then he said in a whisper:
‘It’s no fair, Charlie. It’s no right after four years and another six months on top o’ that. It isn’t … Och, but he’s here now and what a spry wee gent he is. I fancy the wee man’s got tabs in place of tits.’
‘Beyond me, Jock. Give us the bottle will you? There’s a good chum.’
‘Aye, and you look as though you need a drink. That bloody growth must take it out of you. You look pale. But you’re a terror with the women, Charlie; there’s no denying it. You’re a great big bloody white-faced stoat with bushy eyebrows.’
Charlie did not hear him. He was having difficulty with his drink.
‘I say, old man. D’you think we could dispense with the glasses. Is that on?’
‘Aye. Never mind the glasses. If anyone has a right to get fu’ the night it’s big Jock Sinclair and his friend Charlie Scott. Did you hear him say that about the whisky? He doesn’t drink it, you know.’
‘Poor chap.’
‘Aye. That’s so; the poor wee laddie.’ Jock ran that one round his tongue with a mouthful of whisky. Then he chuckled. ‘The poor wee laddie … the new boy, he called himself; all in his mufti …’
Jock sat musing and sniggering for a moment or two, then his resolution seemed to strengthen and he picked himself to his feet.
‘He’d no bloody right blowing in here like that without warning me or Jimmy first. That wasn’t right at all. It was bad form. That’s what that was.’ Then he clenched his fists. ‘Whatever way you look at it,’ he said, ‘they’ve no right to put him in above me. And it makes me angry, Charlie. It makes me bloody angry.’ Charlie did not reply and Jock continued to walk up and down. Then at last he returned to his chair and he tapped the arm of it with his finger. His eyes were narrowed, and perfectly still. He did not even remember to smoke.
After a while, Charlie sat up and handed him the bottle. Then he rubbed his eyes with his long freckled fingers.
‘We’re not great talkers, Jock.’ Jock was tipping back the bottle, and more out of politeness than anything else Charlie went on, ‘Not great talkers at all.’
‘We’ll have the Corporal-Piper,’ Jock said.
‘That’s it, my boy.’
‘That’s just what we’ll do. And we’ll listen to the music.’
He rose clumsily to his feet and he shouted from the door leading into the dining-room. In a moment Corporal Fraser was with them, and Jock had to begin all over again.
‘Have you been asleep, Corporal Fraser?’
‘No, sir. I have not been asleep. I have been waiting, sir,’ the Corporal replied slowly.
‘And cursing and binding and swearing … Och, man, I’ve been a piper mysel’.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Jock looked up. ‘And I was a bloody sight better than you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Jock paused; then he cocked his eyebrow and put his head on one side. ‘Have you got a bint down town, Corporal? Have we kept you away from her, eh?’
The Corporal stood to attention. His cheeks had coloured a little.
‘You’ve got a lassie, have you, eh? Well, Corporal, have you got a tongue in your head?’
‘Aye, sir.’
‘You’ve got a lassie?’
‘Aye, sir.’
The Corporal looked more than uneasy; but Jock persisted.
‘What d’you think of that, Charlie? The Corporal�
��s got a lassie.’
‘Good for the Corporal.’
‘No, no, Major Scott, that’s no the thing to say at all.’ Jock looked at him very disapprovingly.
‘No?’
‘No. You should say “Good for the lassie!” Aye, and good for the lassie. It’s not every lassie that catches a Corporal-Piper. No it’s not. Is she bonny, Corporal?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘“I think so,” he says; d’you hear that? And, tell me Corporal,’ Jock’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper, ‘Are your intentions strictly honourable?’
‘Aye indeed, sir,’ the Corporal said stoutly.
Now Jock raised his voice: ‘Then you’re a bloody foo’, Corporal; that’s what you are. You’re far too young for that. A soldier shouldn’t marry young. You leave honourable intentions to fathers like me. It’s a father’s worry, anyway. I always say if I catch my lassie at it, I’ll welt the laddie, but I’ll probably never catch her, anyway. So there we are. He’s too young for honourable intentions, is he no, Charlie?’
Charlie nodded vigorously. ‘I’m too young,’ he said.
‘You’re a bloody rogue, Major Scott; that’s what you are. No mistake.’
‘Has the Corporal had a drink, Colonel?’
But the Corporal interrupted: ‘No, thank you, sir. Not if I’m going to play, sir.’
‘We didn’t bring you here to look at your dial, however bonny the lassie may think it is. I can tell you that, Corporal … We’ll have a tune now. We’ll have Morag’s Lament again.’ Jock looked solemnly at the Corporal. ‘Morag was the name of my lassie, once upon a time, and Morag’s the name of my wee girl.’
‘Sir.’
‘And then we’ll have The Big Spree. After that we’ll think and you’ll have something to wet your lips. Come away with you then. Come away with you.’
To the unpractised ear a pibroch has no form and no melody, and to the accustomed ear it has little more. But it is a mood and a pibroch was something Jock felt almost physically; damp, penetrating and sad like a mist. It envel-oped him and pulled at his heart. He was far too much the professional to be moved to tears, but the Corporal played well and it took a moment before Jock fully recovered himself. The pibroch very often comes to a sudden end; it is a finish that makes it a fragment, and the more sad for that. Jock nodded his head slowly, three times.
Household Ghosts Page 3
