Household Ghosts

by James Kennaway

  Jock was sitting by the fire, eating a huge jam sandwich. He was alone in the room and he just gave a little flick of his head. He spoke quietly.

  ‘Come away in, Jimmy lad, and I’ll give you a jammy piece.’ And he gave a great wide smile.

  Jimmy suddenly could not stand it any more, as Jock recalled those days.

  ‘Jock man, I’ve got to speak to you,’ he interrupted, and the others looked round at him. Jock was in the middle of a description of one of the female cooks. His hands paused, and he looked up.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Charlie frowned, but nothing could stop Jimmy now.

  ‘Look, Jock … I’ve got to have a word with you.’

  ‘A-huh. Well, what is it?’

  ‘Not here,’ Jimmy looked embarrassed.

  ‘Is it shop?’

  ‘Sort of. It’s dead important, Jock.’

  Jock looked slowly round the group; then he nodded towards Charlie, and stroking his upper lip as if he wore a moustache, just as Charlie had done in that ridiculous news film, he said, ‘“Then tell Mr McLaren from me, that he’ll have to bide his time.”’

  Jock always laughed at his own jokes; but a catch phrase is irresistible. Jimmy was the only one who did not laugh. Even Charlie gave a funny, vain little twitch of his moustache.

  ‘It’s dead important, Jock,’ Jimmy said again, but Jock shook his head: more than his head, his whole shoulders moved from side to side as if he had to roll to articulate.

  ‘Jimmy, Jimmy lad: nothing’s that important, nothing at all.’ Jimmy looked at the others. Charlie was leaning back, looking at his tumbler. Macmillan with a gesture of the long brown fingers said, ‘It might be important; really quite.’ Macmillan’s nails were perfect.

  ‘Christ knows what you boys think I am,’ Jock said, smiling again; twinkling as he raised his glass to his lips. He held his glass between finger and thumb with the other fingers out in the air. ‘Christ, you must think I’m deaf, dumb and blind.’ He grinned. ‘You’re all bloody cheeldron. Now I was telling you about Lily …’

  ‘Who’s Lily?’

  ‘Christ man, this cook I was going on about.’

  ‘She was called Bella.’

  ‘Dusty boy, you’re losing grip of yourself. It was Lily.’ Dusty shrugged. Jock very nearly insisted, then he too shrugged and he said, ‘Well whatever she was called, she …’ And away he went. There were more drinks, and everybody started talking louder. After a while even Jimmy seemed to have forgotten his frown in the flood of pleasant recollections. They were talking about the regimental orders then: the kit they used to walk about in – the jerkins, corduroys, peak caps, striped scarves. It would not have suited Douglas Jackson, so they had a laugh at his expense. Jock was speaking louder, but he still seemed mellow. But when the swing door squeaked and Barrow walked in from the dining room, the conversation died away. Barrow looked up nervously and he seemed to be about to make one of his famous ‘Good-night all’ remarks but Jock saved him. His voice had none of the usual challenge. It was perfectly sincere.

  ‘Come and join us, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But the Colonel was not flexible enough, nor his ear true enough; so he mistook the tone. ‘Thank you; I’ve had lunch.’

  ‘Well, have a cognac.’

  He looked at Jock, then from one face to another. He seemed to want to join them but suddenly he decided to leave. ‘I’ve got to shoot this afternoon. I won’t, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘A-huh,’ Jock said, disappointed, and he turned back to the others. Barrow paused, his weight on one foot. Again he looked as if he were going to say something: then very suddenly he turned away and left the room. In the hall, just outside the door, he paused, trying to listen. Then with a frown of self-condemnation he moved away. He was not going shooting. That was another unnecessary lie. He seemed incapable of speaking the truth to Jock. He was almost like a son with a father too fierce: in order not to offend he told a half-truth, until the time came when he found it more natural to lie. It was perfectly obvious to him why he did this. Everything about Jock frightened him. His authority, his unpredictability, his bluntness. It was more than that. The very depth of his voice and the thickness of his forearm made Barrow afraid.

  Jock never got into lunch at all, and that was a mistake. The others ate in ones and twos and returned to the anteroom to take their coffee with him, and he must have had more than half a bottle by then. But even Jock knew very well that he had drunk the charm away. He was much louder now, and bantering, and sarcastic. Every time he made a sarcastic remark he tried to withdraw it, laughing, shrugging, throwing his arms about and roaring, ‘And away we go.’

  When the telephone rang, MacKinnon, as Orderly Officer, went to the hall to answer it, and he returned to say that it was the exchange asking for the c.o. who was being called by Command at Edinburgh.

  Jock insisted that he should answer it.

  ‘Away we go then. Big Jock Sinclair’ll have a word with the gentlemen in Edinburgh. For Christ’s sake tuck your feet in or I’ll fall on my neb.’

  He pushed his way through chairs and tables, like a tank, and he opened the swing door by striking it with the palms of both hands at a level above his head.

  His mood when he returned was one they all knew. As he addressed them, and they all kept very quiet, he fumbled with the coffee urn, the milk and the sugar. He rattled about the tray, looking for a spoon. He said nothing about the call for a moment, then he began:

  ‘A-huh, Charlie. You’re the lad for a crisis,’ and Charlie’s cheek muscle moved. He pushed his legs stiffly in front of him. Jock’s head was turning and his eyes rolling as he brought them all into the act. ‘Aye, aye. And you’re the hell of a one for the women. Bloody good! Aye. I’ve always said it. The rest of us is just envious.’

  ‘Jock, Jock, Jock.’

  ‘Who’s there? Eh?’ Jock laughed at that. Silly little musical puns always amused him. ‘You’ll have a coffee, Major Scott, Scott, Scott.’ He rushed forward. ‘No, no, no, no: don’t move. I’ll get it for you. Aye. Sugar, is it? And a dash of angostura? D’you take cream in your coffee? Do you not? Yon’s very sophisticated. Isn’t it, Major Macmillan?’

  ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know.’

  Jock reproved him. ‘Oh don’t say that: if you don’t know then there’s nobody as does know and we must have one or two to keep the tone up.’

  It was all an agony to Jimmy Cairns. Meantime the subalterns were trying to hide themselves in their chairs, dreading the moment when their name should be called.

  ‘Mr Simpson?’

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Yep. Is it not sophisticated to take your coffee black?’

  ‘Not specially, I shouldn’t have thought.’

  ‘Not specially he shouldn’t have thought. Which means no, I think: but he’s not just sure.’ He ran on with hardly a pause. ‘Yon was Command at Edinburgh on the ’phone. The C.O., I says, is away out flying a kite, but I’ll take a message. The mannie was very anxious. A lot of look heres, and shouldn’t-have-thoughts and all that caper. D’you think he takes his coffee black?’

  Jock turned. He paused, and saw them all about him.

  ‘Oh, my babies!’ he said with a sudden indulgent smile. Then sadly he repeated it, ‘Oh, my babies!’

  They all sat quiet.

  ‘It seems there’s got to be a contingent from Campbell Barracks at this tattoo they have for the Festival, and they’re having a meeting about it. When d’you think? Was it sugar you said, Major Scott?’

  ‘Three lumps.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not sophisticated at all.’

  Jimmy tried to interrupt here. ‘It’s time we got on with the work,’ he said, moving; but Jock kept him in his place with a flat movement of his hand.

  ‘Tonight. All the councillors and patrons and so forth are busy civilians you see: they can only manage tonight: they’re sorry and that, so the mannie said. The mannie was a brigadier, so he said. And with the v
oice of a captain! Well, well, Charlie here’s your coffee. Here it is. And now I’ll cater for myself.’

  ‘Has someone to go across to Edinburgh now?’

  ‘A-huh. That’s the way of it. An officer. Have we any volunteers?’ Nobody moved. ‘Good for you laddies: I’ve never liked volunteers … This coffee’s awful unwilling. It comes in wee drips.’ He looked tired again.

  ‘Not just any officer. Field rank. And away out of here at four o’clock. Well I’d go myself but … well it mightn’t be the best thing, if Jimmy’s got to have a serious word with me, whatever that might be about. Two of you have got your wives to go home to, and Macmillan’s got his Bentley motor car to keep him warm. It’s an independent sort of person … mind you he’ll probably get a good dinner.’

  Charlie crashed his coffee on the table.

  ‘All right, all right, all right. I take it this is an order.’

  Jock feigned surprise. His eyebrows shot up. He dropped a teaspoon.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Major Scott.’

  ‘Righto, let’s get it straight. Four o’clock train. Will I be met?’

  ‘In a bloody Daimler I’d say. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had the red carpets down. Now, Charlie, you’re sure you had no plans for this evening? I mean if there’s anything …’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ Charlie looked extremely angry. Glancing at his watch, he stood up and adjusted the belt of his battledress so his kilt lay smoothly. Then he looked at Jock.

  ‘You ought to go to bed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m studying hard just now for this Staff College. Didn’t you hear? I’m keen to be a brigadier. And with the manners of a corporal. Aye.’

  ‘You can have my room. I’ll be clear in five minutes.’

  ‘You’ve plenty of time …’

  Charlie paid no attention to him now and Jock just sat grinning and stirring his coffee. Charlie turned to the Orderly Officer, the only one wearing tunic and Sam Browne, and a very new Sam Browne at that.

  ‘MacKinnon. Fix a jeep would you? Ten minutes.’

  ‘Righto, sir.’

  In spite of all the rules nobody had ever got used to calling MacKinnon by his Christian name.

  When the others, except for Dusty Millar, who was sound asleep in the corner, had drifted away, Jimmy came across to Jock who was still stirring his cold coffee. He hesitated, and leaving the spoon in the cup, Jock looked up, and he laid a hand on Jimmy’s arm.

  ‘Dinny fash yoursel’, laddie. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘But, Jock, I ought to tell you the whole thing.’

  ‘No, no. Let’s leave it, laddie.’ A look of real pain crossed his face and made him blink his eyes. ‘There’s nothing we can do. Away you go.’

  A moment later, Jock laid down the coffee, undrunk, and he wandered out of the room, touching things as he went, with a sort of idleness.

  He met Charlie on the upstairs landing. The wood in the corridor had newly been scrubbed and it smelt like a schoolroom at the beginning of term, part clean, part damp, part musty. Charlie was carrying a little canvas case, and he looked up at Jock. His eyes were large and resentful.

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Look, laddie, I was joking really. If you’ve fixed to see Mary, I’ll go mysel’ or I’ll get one of the others.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’

  ‘Charlie, are you mad at me? Are you?’ Jock was very serious and he was speaking quickly now.

  ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ Charlie said with a crooked smile.

  Jock’s hands reached out. ‘Man, there’s no question of love. I don’t care about Mary … It was a joke. You were mad at me.’

  Charlie shrugged. ‘You took such a bloody long time about it.’

  ‘Aye, I was a bore. I was trying to be funny, mind. But it seems I’m no so amusing any more. Not any more. Just a wee bit boring.’ He gave a little smile.

  ‘It’s not important,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Aye and it is. Mary was saying that the other day: saying I was a bore.’

  ‘Chum, you’re shagged out. Go sleep. You look all in.’

  ‘No hard feelings, Charlie?’

  Charlie was just about to go downstairs and he turned.

  ‘Old boy, you’re going to need that sleep.’

  Jock understood. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

  Charlie opened his mouth, then closed it again. ‘ ’Fraid so.’

  ‘Och, it’ll be all right in the end.’

  ‘Good boy.’ And as if he were frightened to say more he ran downstairs, like a much younger man. Jock watched him go, and he was thoughtful and he was sad. Then he snapped his fingers and marched along to the bedroom, where he lay down, covering himself with rough blankets. He gave a long sigh, with a waist to it, and clasping his hands behind his head, he closed his eyes.

  FOUR

  BARROW WENT TO Charlie’s room obliquely. He was determined to collect himself. First, when he heard voices in the bathroom he walked as far as that door and paused, listening. Then he opened it softly, and entered, sideways. Simpson and Douglas Jackson were in there and Barrow nodded, shyly. Jackson was in the shower, proudly watching the water trickle down his white body. Simpson, looking rather pink and exhausted was sitting across the bath, watching the brown water swirl in. The room was warm with steam. Simpson jumped up and said ‘Hello, sir!’ with a friendly nod, which Barrow returned, then he continued to mix the water in his bath. Jackson, unaware of the Colonel’s arrival was singing a marching song, loudly and flatly.

  Barrow smiled uncertainly and walked a few steps into the narrow room, his shoulder brushing the wall. He was still wearing his kilt, but he had taken off his battledress top, and put on a cardigan. He was wearing bedroom slippers, and he pretended he had been asleep.

  He smiled a little more firmly, as Simpson stood up and pushed back the hair on his forehead.

  ‘You chaps been playing squash or something?’

  ‘Wish we had, sir.’ Fraid there’s no squash court in barracks.’

  ‘No?’ The Colonel looked concerned. ‘I’d forgotten. None nearby?’

  Simpson shook his head. ‘I haven’t found one.’

  ‘Pity. You’re a bit of a hand at squash, aren’t you, Simpson? I seem to remember you won some cup.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t be modest. Never be too modest. If you’re good at something, say so.’

  Simpson looked at him curiously and Barrow halted. Jackson stopped singing and then suddenly Barrow started talking again. He had to talk loudly against the noise of the running water.

  ‘Never any good at any ball game myself really, except golf. I used to play a round occasionally. I suppose it’s a question of what you’re brought up to. I never played much when I was young.’

  Simpson said, ‘I had two brothers. They were always playing games. Then I can’t shoot for toffee.’

  ‘Oh, that’s only practice.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course it is. You must come out with me one of these days. We’ll soon teach you to hit. You just follow round till the barrel covers the bird, then swing through. It’s not very difficult, but one needs practice. I used to be all right. I find it amusing, you know.’

  Simpson turned off the taps, and now that he had finished his shower, Jackson walked forward drying his muscles and puffing out his chest. He greeted Barrow solemnly, and Barrow raised his eyebrows, as if he were surprised by the meeting.

  ‘Hullo! Just enquiring what you two have been up to.’

  Jackson looked at Simpson, and answered as if he were in a witness box.

  ‘Eric and I have been for a run, Colonel. I hope there’s nothing wrong in that.’

  ‘Hard going in the snow?’

  Jackson grunted. He would never have gone had the conditions been good. Jackson was always proving himself, lifting chairs with outstretched arms, approaching women direct in hotel lounges, climbing every mountain that prese
nted itself.

  ‘You been out yourself, Colonel?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Light’s failing.’

  ‘Mm. I thought I might take a shot at a duck. Drive out you know. Fields are flooded by the river. Duck are best at this time.’

  ‘Mm,’ Jackson said, studying the few hairs on his chest and Simpson said secretively and importantly, ‘You’re remembering sir? You have something on at five-thirty.’ He gave a knowing nod, keeping Jackson out of the secret, and the latter turned away as if he were not interested.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten, Simpson.’

  Simpson climbed into his bath. But when he had immersed himself in the water, and twisted round to pursue the conversation, Barrow had vanished. He went as quickly as he had appeared. Simpson was a little bewildered, then he lay back and soaped his arms. Now that Jackson and he had gone a couple of runs together, discussing hard training and the need for firmer discipline in the Battalion, they were on much more friendly terms.

  ‘He’s a bit eccentric.’ Jackson nodded and Simpson went on, ‘But he’s a damned good man, you know. Really he is.’ Jackson did not seem to have the same interest in the Colonel’s sudden call. He was bending and stretching his knees.

  ‘If I were C.O.,’ he said, ‘I’d make the whole Mess go for a run. Think what good it would do that fat bastard Millar.’

  When the knock came the second time, Jock gave an unwilling little grunt. Barrow was pale, but he walked into the room quite swiftly, closing the door quietly but firmly behind him. Jock moved a little so that the mattress squeaked, but he did not move far enough to observe his visitor. With his eyes closed, and his face against the wall he said that Charlie was in Edinburgh.