I think Mrs Erdleigh was not used to being treated in such an ungracious manner. She did not show this in the smallest degree, but what she went on to say later could be attributed to a well controlled sense of pique. Perhaps that was why she insisted that Pamela’s hand should be read by her.
‘No human life is uninteresting.’
‘Have a look then—but there’s not much light here.’
‘I have my torch.’
Pamela held out her palm. She was perhaps, in fact, more satisfied than the reverse at finding opposition to her objections overruled. It was likely she would derive at least some gratification in the anodyne process. However farouche, she could scarcely be so entirely different from the rest of the world. On the other hand, some instinct may have warned her against Mrs Erdleigh, capable of operating at as disturbing a level as herself. Mrs Erdleigh examined the lines.
‘I would prefer the cards,’ she said. ‘I have them with me in my box, of course, but this place is really too inconvenient . . . As I guessed, the Mount of Venus highly developed . . . and her Girdle . . . You must be careful, my dear . . . There are things here that surprise even me . . . les tentations lubriques sont bien prononcées . . . You have found plenty of people to love you . . . but no marriage at present . . . no . . . but perhaps in about a year . . .’
‘Who’s it going to be?’ asked Stevens. ‘What sort of chap?’
‘Mind your own business,’ said Pamela.
‘Perhaps it is my business.’
‘Why should it be?’
‘A man a little older than yourself,’ said Mrs Erdleigh. ‘A man in a good position.’
‘Pamela’s mad about the aged,’ said Stevens. ‘The balder the better.’
‘I see this man as a jealous husband,’ said Mrs Erdleigh. ‘This older man I spoke of . . . but . . . as I said before, my dear, you must take good care . . . You are not always well governed in yourself . . . your palm makes me think of that passage in Desbarrolles, the terrible words of which always haunt my mind when I see their marks in a hand shown to me . . . la débauche, l’effronterie, la licence, le dévergondage, la coquetterie, la vanité, l’esprit léger, l’inconstance, la paresse . . . those are some of the things in your nature you must guard against, my dear.’
Whether or not this catalogue of human frailties was produced mainly in revenge for Pamela’s earlier petulance was hard to know. Perhaps not at all. Mrs Erdleigh was probably speaking no more than the truth, voicing an analysis that did not require much occult skill to arrive at. In any case, she never minded what she said to anyone. Whatever her intention, the words had an immediate effect on Pamela herself, who snatched her hand away with a burst of furious laughter. It was the first time I had heard her laugh.
‘That’s enough to get on with,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going for my walk.’
She made a move towards the door. Stevens caught her arm.
‘I say you’re not going.’
She pulled herself away. There was an instant’s pause while they faced each other. Then she brought up her arm and gave him a backhand slap in the face, quite a hard one, using the knuckles.
‘You don’t think I’m going to take orders from a heel like you, do you?’ she said. ‘You’re pathetic as a lover. No good at all. You ought to see a doctor.’
She walked quickly through the glass door of the entrance hall, and, making the concession of putting on her helmet once more, disappeared into the street. Stevens, knocked out for a second or two by the strength of the blow, made no effort to follow. He rubbed his face, but did not seem particularly surprised nor put out by this violence of treatment. Probably he was used to assaults from Pamela. Possibly such incidents were even fairly normal in his relationships with women. There was, indeed, some slight parallel to the moment when Priscilla had suddenly left him in the Café Royal, though events of that night, in some manner telepathically connecting those concerned, had been enough to upset the nerves of everyone present. We might be in the middle of a raid that never seemed to end, but at least personal contacts were less uncomfortable than on the earlier occasion. Mrs Erdleigh, too, accepted with remarkable composure the scene that had just taken place.
‘Little bitch,’ said Stevens. ‘Not the first time she has done that. Nothing I like less than being socked on the jaw. I thought she’d like to have her fortune told.’
He rubbed his face. Mrs Erdleigh smiled one of her slow, sweet, mysterious smiles.
‘You do not understand enough her type’s love of secrecy, her own unwillingness to give herself.’
‘I understand her unwillingness to give herself,’ said Stevens. ‘I’ve got hold of that one OK. In fact I’m quite an expert on the subject.’
‘To allow me to look longer at her palm would have been to betray too much,’ said Mrs Erdleigh. ‘I offered to make a reading only because you pressed me. I was not surprised by this result. All the same, you are right not to be unduly disturbed by her behaviour. In that way you show your own candour and courage. She will come to no harm. In any case, I do not see the two of you much longer together.’
‘Neither do I, if there are many more of these straight lefts.’
‘Besides, you are going overseas.’
‘Soon?’
‘Very soon.’
‘Shall I see things through?’
‘There will be danger, but you will survive.’
‘What about her. Will she start up with any more Royalties? Perhaps a king this time.’
He said this so seriously that I laughed. Mrs Erdleigh, on the other hand, accepted the question gravely.
‘I saw a crown not far away,’ she said. ‘Her fate lies along a strange road but not a royal one—whatever incident the crown revealed was very brief—but still it is the road of power.’
She picked up her black box again.
‘You’re going back to your room?’
‘As I said before, no danger threatens tonight, but I thoughtlessly allowed myself to run out of a little remedy I have long used against sleeplessness.’
She held out her hand. I took it. Mention of ‘little remedies’ called to mind Dr Trelawney. I asked if she ever saw him. She made a mysterious sign with her hand.
‘He passed over not long after your uncle. Being well instructed in such enlightenments, he knew his own time was appointed—in war conditions some of his innermost needs had become hard to satisfy—so he was ready. Quite ready.’
‘Where did he die?’
‘There is no death in Nature’—she looked at me with her great misty eyes and I remembered Dr Trelawney himself using much the same words—‘only transition, blending, synthesis, mutation. He has re-entered the Vortex of Becoming.’
‘I see.’
‘But to answer your question in merely terrestrial terms, he re-embarked on his new journey from the little hotel where we last met.’
‘And Albert—does he still manage the Bellevue?’
‘He too has gone forth in his cerements. His wife, so I hear, married again—a Pole invalided from the army. They keep a boarding-house together in Weston-super-Mare.’
‘Any last words of advice, Mrs Erdleigh?’ asked Stevens.
He treated her as if he were consulting the Oracle at Delphi.
‘Let the palimpsest of your mind absorb the words of Eliphas Lévi—to know, to will, to dare, to be silent.’
‘Me, too?’ I asked.
‘Everyone.’
‘The last most of all?’
‘Some think so.’
She glided away towards the lift, which seemed hardly needed, with its earthly and mechanical paraphernalia, to bear her up to the higher levels.
‘I’m going to kip too,’ said Stevens. ‘No good wandering all over London on a night like this looking for Pam. She might be anywhere. She usually comes back all right after a tiff like this. Cheers her up. Well, I may or may not see you again, Nicholas. Never know when one may croak at this game.’
‘Good luck
—and to Szymanski too, if you see him.’
The raid went on, but I managed to get some sleep before morning. When I woke up, it still continued, though in a more desultory manner. This was, indeed, the advent of the Secret Weapon, the inauguration of the V.1’s—the so-called ‘flying bombs’. They came over at intervals of about twenty minutes or half an hour, all that day and the following night. This attack continued until Monday, a weekend that happened to be my fortnightly leave; spent, as it turned out, on their direct line of route across the Channel on the way to London.
‘You see, my friend, I was right,’ said Clanwaert.
One of the consequences of the Normandy landings was that the Free French forces became, in due course, merged into their nation’s regular army. The British mission formerly in liaison with them was disbanded, a French military attaché in direct contact with Finn’s Section coming into being. Accordingly, an additional major was allotted to our establishment, a rank to which I was now promoted, sustaining (with a couple of captains to help) French, Belgians, Czechs and Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. As the course of the war improved, work on the whole increased rather than diminished, so much so that I was unwillingly forced to refuse the offer of two Italian officers, sent over to make certain arrangements, whose problems, among others, included one set of regulations that forbade them in Great Britain to wear uniform; another that forbade them to wear civilian clothes. All routine work with the French was transacted with Kernével, first seen laughing with Masham about les voies hiérarchiques, just before my first interview with Finn.
‘They’re sending a général de brigade from North Africa to take charge,’ said Finn. ‘A cavalryman called Philidor.’
Since time immemorial, Kernével, a Breton, like so many of the Free French, had worked at the military attaché’s office in London as chief clerk. By now he was a captain. At the moment of the fall of France, faced with the alternative of returning to his country or joining the Free French, he had at once decided to remain, his serial number in that organization—if not, like Abou Ben Adhem’s, leading all the rest—being very respectably high in order of acceptance. It was tempting to look for characteristics of my old Regiment in these specimens of Romano-Celtic stock emigrated to Gaul under pressure from Teutons, Scandinavians and non-Roman Celts.
‘I don’t think my mother could speak a word of French,’ said Kernével. ‘My father could—he spoke very good French—but I myself learnt the language as I learnt English.’
Under a severe, even priestly exterior, Kernével concealed a persuasive taste for conviviality—on the rare occasions when anything of the sort was to be enjoyed. From their earliest beginnings, the Free French possessed an advantage over the other Allies—and ourselves—of an issue of Algerian wine retailed at their canteens at a shilling a bottle. Everyone else, if lucky enough to find a bottle of Algerian, or any other wine, in a shop, had to pay nearly ten times that amount. So rare was wine, they were glad to give that, when available. This benefaction to the Free French, most acceptable to those in liaison with them, who sometimes lunched or dined at their messes, was no doubt owed to some figure in the higher echelons of our own army administration—almost certainly learned in an adventure story about the Foreign Legion—that French troops could only function on wine. In point of fact, so far as alcohol went, the Free French did not at all mind functioning on spirits, or drinks like Cap Corse, relatively exotic in England, of which they consumed a good deal. Their Headquarter mess in Pimlico was decorated with an enormous fresco, the subject of which I always forgot to enquire. Perhaps it was a Free French version of Géricault’s Raft of the Medusa, brought up to date and depicting themselves as survivors from the wreck of German invasion.
They did not reject, as we sometimes did ourselves, Marshal Lyautey’s doctrine, quoted by Dicky Umfraville, that gaiety was the first essential in an officer, that some sort of light relief was required to get an army through a war. Perhaps, indeed, they too liberally interpreted that doctrine. If so, the red-tape they had to endure must have driven them to it; those terrible bordereaux—the very name recalling the Dreyfus case whenever they arrived—labyrinthine and ambiguous enough to extort admiration from a Diplock or even a Blackhead.
‘All is fixed for General Philidor’s interview?’ asked Kernével.
‘I shall be on duty myself.’
General Philidor, soon after his arrival in London, had to see a personage of very considerable importance, only a degree or so below the CIGS himself. It had taken a lot of arranging. Philidor was a lively little man with a permanently extinguished cigarette-end attached to his lower lip, which, under the peak of his general’s khaki képi, gave his face the fierce intensity of a Paris taxi-driver. His rank was that, in practice, held by the commander of a Division. As a former Giraud officer, he was not necessarily an enthusiastic ‘Gaullist’. At our first meeting he had asked me how I liked being in liaison with the French, and, after speaking of the purely military aspects of the work, I had mentioned Algerian wine.
‘Believe me, mon commandant, before the ’14–’18 war many Frenchmen had never tasted wine.’
‘You surprise me, sir.’
‘It was conscription, serving in the army, that gave them the habit.’
‘It is a good one, sir.’
‘My father was a vigneron.’
‘Burgundy or Bordeaux, sir?’
‘At Chinon. You have heard of Rabelais, mon commandant?’
‘And drunk Chinon, sir—a faint taste of raspberries and to be served cold.’
‘The vineyard was not far from our cavalry school at Saumur, convenient when I was on, as you say, a course there.’
I told him about staying at La Grenadière, how the Leroys had a son instructing at Saumur in those days, but General Philidor did not remember him. It would have been a long shot had he done so. All the same, contacts had been satisfactory, so that by the time he turned up for his interview with the important officer already mentioned, there was no sense of undue formality.
Philidor started in Finn’s room, from where I conducted him to a general of highish status—to be regarded, for example, as distinctly pre-eminent to the one in charge of our own Directorate—who was to act as it were as mediator between Philidor and the all but supreme figure. This mediating general was a brusque officer, quickly mounting the rungs of a successful military career and rather given to snapping at his subordinates. After he and Philidor had exchanged conventional army courtesies, all three of us set off down the passage to the great man’s room. In the ante-chamber, the Personal Assistant indicated that his master was momentarily engaged. The British general, lacking small talk, drummed his heels awaiting the summons. I myself should remain in the ante-chamber during the interview. There was a few seconds delay. Then a most unfortunate thing happened. The general acting as midwife to the birth of the parley, misinterpreting a too welcoming gesture or change of facial expression on the part of the PA, guardian of the door, who had up to now been holding us in check, motioned General Philidor to follow him, and advanced boldly into the sanctuary. This reckless incursion produced a really alarming result. Somebody—if it were, indeed, a human being—let out a frightful roar. Whoever it was seemed to have lost all control of himself.
‘I thought I told you to wait outside—get out . . .’
From where our little group stood, it was not possible to peep within, but the volume of sound almost made one doubt human agency. Even the CIGS saying good-morning was nothing to it. This was the howl of an angry animal, consumed with rage or pain, probably a mixture of both. Considered merely as a rebuke, it would have struck an exceptionally peremptory note addressed to a lance-corporal.
‘Sorry, sir . . .’
Diminished greatness is always a painful spectacle. The humility expressed in those muttered words, uttered by so relatively exalted an officer, was disturbing to me. General Philidor, on the other hand, seemed to feel more detachment. Appreciative, like most Frenchmen, of s
ituations to be associated with light comedy—not to say farce—he fixed me with his sharp little eyes, allowing them to glint slightly, though neither of us prejudiced the frontiers of discipline and rank by the smallest modification of expression. However, entirely to avoid all danger of doing any such thing, I was forced to look away.
This incident provoked reflections later on the whole question of senior officers, their relations with each other and with those of subordinate rank. There could be no doubt, so I was finally forced to decide, that the longer one dealt with them, the more one developed the habit of treating generals like members of the opposite sex; specifically, like ladies no longer young, who therefore deserve extra courtesy and attention; indeed, whose every whim must be given thought. This was particularly applicable if one were out in the open with a general.
‘Come on, sir, you have the last sandwich,’ one would say, or ‘Sit on my mackintosh, sir, the grass is quite wet.’
Perhaps the cumulative effect of such treatment helped to account for the highly strung temperament so many generals developed. They needed constant looking after. I remembered despising Cocksidge, a horrible little captain at the Divisional Headquarters on which I had served, for behaving so obsequiously to his superiors in rank. In the end, it had to be admitted one was almost equally deferential, though one hoped less slavish.
‘They’re like a lot of ballerinas,’ agreed Pennistone. ‘Ballerinas in Borneo, because their behaviour, even as ballerinas, is quite remote from everyday life.’
Meanwhile the V.1’s continued to arrive sporadically, their launchers making a habit of sending three of them across Chelsea between seven and eight in the morning, usually a few minutes before one had decided to get up. They would roar towards the flats—so it always sounded—then switch off a second or two before you expected them to pass the window. One would roll over in bed and face the wall, in case the window came in at the explosion. In point of fact it never did. This would happen perhaps two or three times a week. Kucherman described himself as taking cover in just the same way.
‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I must insist that things are taking a very interesting turn from the news in this morning’s papers.’
Dance to the Music of Time, Volume 3 Page 57
