by John Masters
Guy sat in the back of the pit stalls, wearing an imperfectly fitting tweed suit of Uncle Tom’s. Outside the theatre, as he was queueing up to buy his ticket, gorgeous young women in silks and furs had sniffed as they passed, because he wasn’t in evening dress; and beautiful young men in khaki or navy blue had glowered, because he wasn’t in uniform. Some girls were still giving out white feathers and he half hoped one such would pick on him tonight … but nothing happened. A sort of pariah, he imagined himself surrounded by an invisible aura of disapproval and scorn. It was better than the fawn and gloat. He determined to enjoy the show. He glanced at his neighbours – both men, both tall and thin: the one on his right was a civilian, of about twenty-five, very pale, with spots of high colour on his cheeks: he looked ill. The one on his left was a captain of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the black flash of his regiment conspicuous on the back of his tunic, below the collar: he was about thirty, and he had an M.C.
Stand Up and Sing began. It was not very good, its moronic scenario interrupted at frequent intervals by songs, dances, and performances by the whole chorus. But it was pleasant enough except when they became patriotic, and sang about the beastly Huns, the Kaiser they were going to hang, their boys in the trenches, and such; then Guy’s throat constricted, for the difference between this – this scent of perfume and cigar smoke, these petty lusts, over-drinking, over-eating – and what he had seen on the uplands of the Somme, brought him near to vomiting.
The Welch Fusilier captain muttered angrily, ‘Blighters!’
Guy said, ‘I beg your pardon?’
The captain glanced at him and whispered, ‘Look at them! The house is crammed, tier upon tier … grinning and cackling at the show … while those prancing harlots shrill the chorus … listen!’
We’re sure the Kaiser loves our dear old tanks!
‘I’d like to see a tank come down the stalls,’ the captain said viciously, ‘lurching to Home Sweet Home, perhaps … then there’d be no more jokes in music halls to mock the riddled corpses round Mametz, Fricourt, Bapaume.’
Guy’s other neighbour, who could not have helped overhearing, leaned across and muttered, ‘Great! I wish I could express what I feel half as well.’
The Fusilier said, ‘I thought you must have been out there. Gassed?’
The other whispered, ‘Yes. Ypres. January. 60th … invalid out, in October. Left lung napoo, t’other not so good.’
‘Lucky you,’ the Fusilier said; then the man behind them made a ssshing noise and the lady beyond the gassed man rattled her programme angrily, and the three were silent.
At the interval they went out together and found the bar. They ordered drinks and introduced themselves – ‘Sassoon,’ the captain said. ‘Came up to town from Clitherland to see a show. Can’t imagine what led me to pick this one.’
‘Bentley,’ the gassed man said.
‘Rowland,’ Guy said, ‘R.F.C.’
Sassoon said, ‘Wise man, not to wear uniform.’ He turned to Bentley – ‘Damn good regiment, the 60th.’
Bentley laughed and said, ‘Yes, but I’m not in good odour with them, I fear.’
Sassoon raised an eyebrow. Bentley said, ‘I think the war ought to be stopped. I think it’s being continued for personal, petty, and political reasons that are no longer valid, when you consider the appalling slaughter over there. They can’t accuse me of cowardice – I got an M.C. at Loos … so they say my mind has been affected. I don’t mean just the chaps I used to know in the 60th – I mean my father, family, everyone …’
‘I have an uncle who agrees with you,’ Guy said.
Sassoon said, ‘And I’m not sure I don’t agree with you myself … but the war will go on …’
The bells rang for the end of the interval; and they returned to their seats.
Guy felt depressed. Everyone in the theatre except him, and perhaps Sassoon, seemed to be having a good time, but he was not. Why stay? At the second interval he muttered goodbyes to Bentley and Sassoon, and went up the aisle, heading for the cloakroom, to get his overcoat – Uncle Tom’s. The rain had stopped while he was in the train up from Hedlington, and it wasn’t a bad night. One of the women who ushered patrons into their seats caught up with him at the top of the aisle, and said breathlessly, ‘Are you Guy Rowland?’
He said yes, and she handed him a note she’d kept tucked into the deep cleavage of her abbreviated dress. ‘From Florinda, sir,’ she said.
Guy opened the note – ‘Saw you coming back from the bar after the first interval, from the wings. Come and see me after the show – F.’
He stood a moment, thinking, while people pushed past him, none too politely. Then he gave the usher a half crown and went back to his seat.
They sat in the Savoy Grill, facing each other across a small table half hidden from most of the diners by a potted palm. Schneider himself had taken them to the table, and had assured Lady Jarrow that they would not be bothered. The menus lay between them on the white table cloth. The table waiter was opening a bottle of Roederer Cristal. He poured a little; Guy tasted and nodded – ‘Fine, thank you.’ The waiter three-quarters filled both glasses and withdrew. Guy raised his glass – ‘To your success, Florinda.’
She drank, and looking him in the eye, said, ‘Are you sure you can afford all this, Guy?’
He said, ‘Not every night, but we don’t get badly paid, and there’s nothing over there to spend it on. Don’t worry.’
She drank again, then said, ‘How good am I?’
He looked at her. The eyes were deep and green, the hair stunning auburn, with gold highlights. She wore one huge emerald ring, an emerald necklace and a very severe black dress. He said, ‘You have a good voice, but it doesn’t come out quite naturally … I know you’re full of beans … lots of energy, very lively … but all of that doesn’t reach the audience.’
‘Wooden? Stilted?’
‘ A bit. Not badly. They applauded.’
She nodded – ‘I heard … Sometimes I think that all I need is more training, more practice, more experience. Then I watch some girl step in off the street for a tryout and the moment she opens her mouth or dances five steps, we all know she’s got it. I haven’t. All I’ve got is money – millions of it.’
‘How nice!’ Guy said, smiling. ‘And you’ve got your health. I wish we could walk the Down again, from Hedlington to near Canterbury, as we did birds’ nesting one day, remember?’
‘’Course I remember! Wouldn’t go in for any more of those peeing competitions with you, though. I’ve learned we women can’t win – unless it’s “no hands,” perhaps.’
He laughed heartily, causing nearby diners to turn round, frowning when they saw the young ruffian in the tweed suit. ‘The same Florinda as ever,’ he said, instinctively putting out his hand to cover hers. She turned hers over, and gripped his.
When at last the table was cleared, and each held a balloon glass of Remy Martin brandy in hand, Florinda said, ‘I want you to come home with me, Guy … but not as a trophy. A lot of women just want that.’
He felt warm from the champagne and brandy. Time had not passed, nor the war come, nor the nightmares. He was with Florinda, the girl, a year and a half older than himself, who had showed him just how girls were different from boys, in their bodies, their actions, their feelings, their logic. And he had protected her from an angry dog, and carried her across a river before she could swim – it was barely two and a half feet deep but she was frightened then, or had pretended to be. They had been intimate friends and, in the way of extreme youth, lovers.
He said, ‘Why, then?’
She said, ‘I don’t know. It’s like old times, except that we’re grown up. Then, we used to hold hands, and kiss a little, didn’t we? Why?’
‘We wanted to. It was the best we could do to show what we felt.’
She nodded – ‘Now we can do more.’
She awoke in the middle of the dark night. There was a clock on her dressing table but she could not read
it without switching on the light. He was moaning beside her, and she felt him wet with sweat. His cries became more frequent, uttered between clenched teeth, with grunts and fierce gasps. ‘Fire!’ he said suddenly, loud and clear – ‘Left deflection, two … no, you don’t, you bugger … Got you!’
He sat up in bed, eyes wide, the brown one nearest to her, staring at the ceiling. She switched on the light then. He blinked, covered his eyes. His chest and belly heaved, and he suddenly leaped out of bed and ran stumbling into her bathroom. She heard the hard sound of him retching and vomiting, and swung her legs out of the bed to go and help. She swung them back again. He’d want to be alone.
She heard running water and fifteen minutes later he came back, pale, smiling the slight sardonic smile she had known so well. He slipped back between the sheets and said, ‘Sorry.’
She said, ‘Poor Guy.’
He said, after a while, ‘It’s the killing. While I’m doing it, I like it … more than that, it’s like sex – coming – a compulsion … When it’s over, I can’t stand it, or myself … They call me The Butcher, behind my back, some of them. It’s supposed to be because I killed five German student pilots my first day in action. If that was really why they do it, it’d be damned unfair … but it isn’t. It’s because they know, somehow, that I like it. I’m dangerous, I’ve got a disease, that’ll kill …’
She waited, but he did not say any more. He didn’t want to. When he did, he would.
She leaned her breasts against him and said, ‘Was that your first time ever, with a woman?’
He said, ‘I’ve been to bed with the farmer’s daughter, where our squadron is, half a dozen times. Her name’s Pauline, but we all call her Poitrine for two obvious reasons.’
‘’Sno’ fu’in’ obvious t’me, mite,’ she said, in cockney with strong glottal stops.
‘Sorry.’ He kissed her cheek – ‘Poitrine means “bosom” or “breast” in French … I think several other chaps have been with her, too. She’s not a tart, but she can’t say no, and I think she wants a baby … plus a rich English husband to go with it. I feel like a cad when I go to her, because I don’t love her, but I think of this–’ he caressed Florinda’s wet and swollen sex with two gentle fingers – ‘and I can’t resist it.’
She said, ‘There’s a name for that condition – cuntstruck. Thank God men get it! … But remember, darling, that every woman in the world has one … and we aren’t all nice … That farm girl will get pregnant soon enough.’
‘Not from me. I take it out. I should have with you, except that you wouldn’t let me. And I’d marry you, only you’re so rich.’
‘Garn, I’m not good enough for you, Guy Rowland! You’re going to marry the Honourable Lady Ermyntrude Cuntworthy-Prickforth … face like a horse and t’other end about the same, only so well bred, doncha know? And don’t worry about putting a bun in my oven. I’m wearing a rubber thing over the mouth of my womb – it’s called a pessary. You must’ve felt it when you went deep … And you did, ’cos you’ve got a lovely, big, stiff cock – luvverly!’ She kissed his ear. He slid his fingers slowly up and down the silken petals between her lips.
She said, ‘I wonder if this is what I’m meant to do, the rest of my life. Look after hungry men… tired men … frightened men … I think I’ll leave the stage and work in the military hospitals, the convalescent depots … when I’m among men, I can feel them wanting me, Guy. I don’t mean just wanting to fuck, but yearning, what Adam must have felt when he first saw Eve…’
‘Will you write to me?’
‘Course I will! Once a month. And you write to me, see?’
‘I will… probably more than once a month. I feel things, remember, imagine … well, you saw what effect it had on me … and there’s no one out there I can talk to about it.’
‘You try to tell me that and they’ll put blue pencils through most of it. They don’t want us to know what it’s really like, and that’s a fact.’ She had slipped slightly out of her upper class accent, deliberately, he thought, to emphasize the close, undemanding love of their childhood. She didn’t want to lose that, he thought, in the present fibres of lust and passion.
She slowly lifted her knees, and spread them, her eyes on him. He raised himself, growing frantic for her, and slid into her as she buried her teeth in his shoulder and, muffled against his bleeding skin, gasped rhythmically, ‘Guy, Guy, Guy, love me!’
Daily Telegraph, Thursday, December 14, 1916
HEADQUARTERS (France) Wednesday (9:30 p.m.) Hostile patrols which endeavoured to enter our trenches last night east of Armentières were driven off.
There has been the usual artillery activity throughout the day at different points along the front.
We carried out bombardments of the enemy’s trenches in the neighbourhood of Festubert, Neuve Chapelie, and Ypres.
EFFECT IN WALL STREET
From our Financial Correspondent,
New York, Tuesday Afternoon.
The very mention of the peace proposals from Berlin excited a bearish element in the stock market, and traders’ fears were further fostered by a Washington despatch intimating that a forecast of such proposals had been cabled yesterday. In the absence of definite information, the stock market sold off rapidly, declines in war stocks ranging from 1 to 30 points, but the entire list, rails included, was affected. To see prices trembling in just two hours, one might have thought that peace was already here, and that the American prosperity of the last two years, based on the war, had finally disappeared.
Cate thought, those two items of news are really obscene, read together like that. ‘The usual artillery activity’ meant so many soldiers killed, so many maimed. ‘Bombardment of the enemy’s trenches’ meant the same, only the soldiers would be Germans. And the first hint that someone in a position of authority was suggesting that the artillery activity and bombardment, not to mention the patrolling and attacking, might be made to cease, by negotiation, had caused a near panic in financial circles. Of course that was in America, not here. What would actually happen to American prosperity if they entered the war? It could not fail to increase, with the tremendous home orders for war materials that there would be, in addition to the present ones from the Allies. So what worried the financiers over there was the chance that the war might end before they got into it, thus instantly cutting off the huge war commerce.
He looked out of the window – slight rain, chilly wind, low clouds, bare earth, the wind blowing the smoke eastward from the chimney pots of Walstone below. He’d been sitting indoors, looking at accounts and statements and feed and fertilizer prices for too many days. He’d put on his raincoat, have Marquis of Willow saddled, and go out visiting – go and see the Garths and their new baby; of course the first one had been Fletcher Gorse’s – you could see the resemblance with startling clarity now that the little boy was nearly two … then perhaps call on old Commander Quigley and see if he could tell him what could be done about these beastly submarines. He probably wouldn’t learn much: last time he’d mentioned the subject the commander had croaked, ‘Why, hang the crews from their own yardarms, Cate! They’re pirates! … Magistrates’ court this afternoon, so before he went out he’d better spend an hour studying the docket, and thinking about each person involved, what he knew of him, what might have made him do what he was accused of – if he had … Oh, and on his way home a glass of ginger wine at the Beaulieu Arms, and inquire after Miss Parsley’s rheumatism, and the Haversham boy’s existence: he was in France, with the Grenadier Guards.
20
Walstone, Kent:
Thursday, December 14, 1916
Bill Hoggin leaned forward, pulling earnestly on a fat Havana cigar in his mouth, being careful not to blow the smoke in the Earl of Swanwick’s face. Books lined the room, the library of Walstone Park, from floor to ceiling, except where here and there space had been left for oil paintings of previous earls as Master of Foxhounds, the horn of office tucked between the second and third
buttons of the pink coats.
It was not warm in there – no part of the great pile was warm, in winter; but beads of sweat formed continuously on Hoggin’s heavy jowls and trickled down between the rolls of fat at his neck and the stiffly starched white collar. He said, ‘We’re nearly ready, my lord … the Articles of Association are ready for signing – drawn up by the best solicitors in London. Lloyds and Midland are each putting up one third of the capital and I’m doing the third. We’ll be going public inside six months.’
‘I like the name,’ his lordship said. ‘Hustle … American, I suppose?’
‘No, my lord, it’s the initials of Hoggin’s Universal Stores Limited – H U S L, pronounced HUSTLE. But we do ’ope, hope people will think it’s American. American things is very fashionable these days.’
‘Can’t understand why,’ the earl muttered. ‘Cowardly cads … and now some of our people are becoming too proud to fight. Look at John Rowland! But you don’t know him, do you?’
‘I’ve met him, milord. You see, my Ruthie’s the daughter of Bob Stratton, who worked for old Mr Harry Rowland all his life, till Rowland’s had to convert to shell filling. I know them all, a bit – the Colonel, Mr Richard, who’s making the American lorries now, at J.M.C., Mr …’
‘Bloody Americans, getting rich, while we bleed to death to make the world safe for them and their damned democracy!’
‘Quite right, my lord, that’s what I always says, too … but people don’t seem to think about that when they choose gramophone records, or go to the cinema, or buy tinned food …. We’ve got store sites in half a dozen places already – Birmingham, Bristol, Newcastle-on-Tyne, Sheffield, Portsmouth, Reading, mostly grocer’s shops which I bought out … You see, till now it’s been all my money, ’cos I wanted to show the bank people that it was a good idea and it would work. I’ve done it, and we’re getting the money much cheaper, and much more of it, than if I’d gone to them six months ago with just the idea. And when we let the public in, we’ll really start to expand … I’ve got options on sites in Leeds, Manchester, Norwich, ’Ampstead, Kensington, Paddington … ’ad a bit of luck in Hull, too – big warehouse blown up by Gothas last week, bought the site dirt cheap yesterday.’
