by John Wilcox
‘Do take a chair, Fonthill,’ and he gestured to the large leather button-back to the side of the desk.
‘Thank you, sir. With respect, I prefer to stand. I am still on duty as Orderly Officer.’
‘As you wish.’ The Colonel smiled again, so that his eyes seemed almost to disappear between the bushy brows and the luxuriant moustaches. ‘There’s been no recurrence of your, ah, medical problem in the last year or so, eh?’
‘No, sir. Not at all.’
‘Capital. Capital. Just as well, then, because . . . Are you sure you wouldn’t rather sit down?’
‘No thank you, Colonel.’
The smile now was even more expansive. In fact, Covington’s hirsute face positively beamed. ‘Well, I’ve got a little job for you.’ He stood up. Suddenly his manner changed completely. All affability gone, he rapped out the next sentence. ‘You are being posted abroad to South Africa immediately on active service.’
Simon immediately felt the blood rise to his face and experienced a sudden shortage of breath. From childhood came that sudden lurch of the heart and, just for one second, a moment of dizziness. From aeons away came the Colonel’s voice in mock solicitousness: ‘Feel all right? Sure you don’t want to sit down?’
Inconsequentially, Simon thought of Alice. Brave, stocky Alice, in her best dress, showing her wonderfully white skin, leaning forward and defiantly attacking the forward policy for Afghanistan. He recalled his father’s description of Covington, ‘Not exactly subtle, I fear.’ Alice would have this bully for breakfast. And he smiled and felt better.
‘No thank you, sir. Sounds good news. When can I go?’
Covington sat down again, a slightly puzzled look on his face. ‘Not so fast. I have to tell you more about the job. Oh, sit down, dammit!’
Awkwardly, Simon gathered up his sword and perched on the edge of the armchair, while Covington picked up a document from his desk, which Simon could see carried the blue seal of the Horse Guards at its head. The Colonel arranged a rather incongruous pair of spectacles on his nose and silently re-read the letter.
Eventually he regarded Simon from over the spectacles. ‘It seems you were quite a language scholar at Sandhurst, what?’
‘Not quite a scholar, sir, but I did fairly well in the French and German examinations.’
‘Hmm. Well, you did well enough to impress someone at the Horse Guards. Though what French and German has to do with the language of obscure African tribes I am dashed if I know.’
‘Sir?’
‘Look. The background is this. You will remember - yes, you will remember - that the 1st Battalion was posted to the Cape just under two years ago. Well, the brush with the Kaffirs did not quite materialise but it jolly well has now. In fact,’ the Colonel’s face took on an attitude of satisfied determination, ‘I have reason to believe that the 2nd will soon be leaving to help out our brothers. But that doesn’t concern you.’
He leaned across the desk. ‘Ever heard of the Zulus?’
Simon frowned in concentration. ‘Yes, I think so. Very warlike, aren’t they? Strong chief called Sheeka, or something.’
‘No. No. Shaka. Shaka. And he’s bin dead for years. But you are correct in that the tribe is warlike, and Shaka did a fine job for a heathen in knockin’ ’em into shape. They’re up in the north somewhere and they’ve bin giving the Boers trouble for years. The Horse Guards think it won’t be long before we have to be involved and they want a bit of, well, spadework done in the intelligence field up there.’
The Colonel removed his spectacles and leaned back. ‘They seem to think that, because of your ability to pick up foreign lingos, you could be useful.’ He smiled, the sarcasm coming back into his voice. ‘They have asked me to reassure them that your horsemanship is good enough, because the work will mean long hours in the saddle. I am quite prepared to do so, if you feel . . . ah . . . strong enough to undertake the posting.’
Simon gulped. ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, of course. I would like to go.’
‘Very well. You will have four days’ leave before embarking on the second of February. You may take your servant with you, if you believe he can serve well in the field, for there will be no boot cleaning to do out there by the look of it. Here are your immediate orders. You will be more fully informed of your task once you have landed in Cape Town.’ He proffered the Horse Guards’ documents.
‘Oh, and Fonthill.’
‘Sir?’
The Colonel smiled in his familiar languid fashion. ‘Don’t think we are parting company for ever. You remain gazetted to the 2nd Battalion. You are only seconded to the general staff in Cape Town for the time being, as a matter of convenience. And, as I say, I have every hope that I shall be seeing you very soon in the Cape myself.’ He waved his dismissal.
Simon’s main feeling as he left the Colonel’s office was one of exhilaration that he had survived the shock of the confrontation. He had endured the last of Covington’s tricks and he would now be free of him! There was no fear in his heart as he considered the task ahead - only puzzlement at his selection and at the vagueness of the commission. The question of how to stay in the saddle when pursued by spear-wielding savages would have to wait until he reached South Africa. Good horsemanship, eh? He would have to put glue on his breeches. His step lightened as he went to find Jenkins.
The little man took the news and the offer of accompanying his officer to South Africa with equanimity. ‘Aye, sir,’ he said, his smile stretching his moustache almost to his ears. ‘I’ll come. I’m thinkin’ that you’ll still be needin’ me.’
‘Certainly not. I can look after myself very well. But you should get out of this place.’
‘That’s true.’ Jenkins rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘An’ you know what, sir. Colour Sergeant Cole is out there somewhere with the 1st Battalion. It would be perfect, look, to see him again.’
Simon sighed. ‘Look, Jenkins. If you start drinking and hitting NCOs again, they’ll put you away for life.’
Jenkins looked shocked. ‘I wouldn’t ’it ’im again. But I might ’ave a word or two, see.’
Simon hurriedly sent a telegram to his parents informing them of his imminent arrival, settled his mess bills and gathered together his kit. There was no tropical issue: his scarlet and blue serge was considered quite suitable for the sun and plains of South Africa, and the only concession to the change in climate was a cork sun helmet, a ‘Wolseley topi’, to complement his head gear. He set off home.
His welcome there was characteristically unemotional, but for all that, it was clear that Major and Mrs Fonthill were delighted, if just a little puzzled, at Simon’s preferment. On his arrival, the Major hung on to his hand for a second or two longer than usual, and after the early questions, they accepted the imprecise nature of his orders with an equanimity born of many years of army service.
At luncheon his mother produced a gold-engraved invitation card. ‘This is for us all,’ she said, ‘but as it will take place on the eve of your departure, it will be quite understood, my dear, if you choose not to go.’
‘It’s Griffith,’ said his father, half apologetically. ‘His daughter is out, so to speak, and he’s so proud of her that he is throwing a ball for her at his house. Actually, she’s a little old for it and it’s short notice for everyone, but they are taking her to London and they want to launch her here first.’
‘So Alice is being launched,’ mused Simon. ‘I’m not at all sure that she will like that.’
His mother smiled. ‘Such a strange girl. At one time I rather approved of her, you know, but I can’t help feeling that she’s become rather too forward. It doesn’t suit her even though she is twenty-two or so. However, we must go to support the Brigadier. Whether you come, Simon, is for you to decide.’
Simon was intrigued. Alice coming out! How would she handle it? ‘Of course I shall go,’ he said. ‘I shall have to send my trunks on earlier, anyway, so there will be no problems with packing.’
The drive
to Chilwood Manor was very different from that of two years before. Now the snow beat in blustering eddies against the hood of the coach and the wheels crunched along ruts in the frozen mud. Despite the rugs tucked tightly around them, the cold penetrated their limbs and made them shuffle and stamp their feet. The Major was concerned about Owen, their coachman, and every few minutes would lean out of the window, letting in flurries of snow, to enquire of the man’s well-being.
The Manor, when they reached it, looked a picture. The Brigadier had installed great copper torches, topped with flaming twists of tar-treated rushes, at intervals along the front of the house, so that it was dramatically lit with a flickering glow that turned the snow to pink. Carriages thronged the drive and the auxiliary footmen, who Mrs Griffith had recruited from the nearby village, were hard put to handle the traffic and the mountains of cloaks deposited with them in the entrance hall.
Alice was standing at the foot of the stairs with her parents to receive their guests. To Simon, she seemed taller somehow, until he realised that she had lost that illusion of sturdiness which had probably only been puppy fat. In other ways she had not changed. Her white skin was made to seem even more translucent by the contrast with the dark blue gown and the two rows of pearls she wore, and although her face still seemed devoid of obvious cosmetics, her long hair had been taken up and elegantly arranged. To his amazement, she kissed Simon warmly on both cheeks when she received him.
‘Sorry,’ she said, her grey eyes twinkling at his discomfort, ‘but I haven’t yet shed these terrible Continental habits. But it is good to see you and I am so glad that you came.’
Her warmth and ingenuous charm embraced Major and Mrs Fonthill too and the evening was launched most felicitously, with the Brigadier almost bursting with pride at the confident bearing of his only child and Mrs Griffith clearly delighted that her arrangements - made at the last moment, as she told everyone - seemed to be ‘coping’.
Later, Simon and Alice danced together, when his turn came on her card. It was a Viennese waltz, still considered rather daring, and Simon danced it none too well, his concentration not helped by the constant flow of questions from Alice about his career and future plans. It was the last dance before the interval - he had been shy about getting on to her card - and he led his companion to the punch bowl. As they sipped the wine cup, he realised that Alice was looking very, very pretty. It was not just the pleasing regularity of her features and the new slimness; it was the fact that tonight she seemed, well, virtually to be glowing. He made a sudden decision.
‘Do you know what I would like to see now more than anything in the world?’ he demanded.
‘No, what?’
‘The topiary.’
‘Oh no! We would freeze out there.’
‘Nonsense. We will borrow cloaks. I want to see what it looks like in the snow.’
She looked at him, only half smiling now, her head slightly to one side. Then, quickly, she nodded.
They slipped through a corridor into the servants’ hall and picked up the first pair of cloaks they saw and, so muffled, opened a door into the garden. The peacocks, lions and pyramids were looking incongruous, carapaced with two inches of now rather soggy snow. It was slushy underfoot and not at all suitable for Alice’s silver dancing sandals.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Simon. ‘Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Alice. ‘You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you? Well, please do so.’ And she put her arms around Simon’s neck and nuzzled her icy-cold nose under his ear.
Simon kissed her. Deciding he liked it, he did so again and Alice responded with if not passion, at least enthusiasm. Simon felt unaccustomed desire rise within him.
Eventually, Alice pulled away and looked up at him with an impish grin. ‘Look,’ said Simon, ‘I think I love you.’
‘No you don’t,’ she responded, without relaxing either the grip around his neck or the smile on her lips. ‘Don’t fall into the trap, Simon. Not long ago, in this very garden, you told me that you did not love me. We’ve only met once since then and nothing can possibly have happened to change your mind. It’s just the atmosphere.’
Seeing the crestfallen look on Simon’s face, she relented. ‘But I have to tell you that I am unhappy that you are going away. I was so looking forward to getting to know you better.’ She threw back her head and laughed. ‘Your letters were very welcome but they weren’t too revealing, you know.’
Alice unwound her arms. ‘No, Simon. We are what we said we would be: good, very good friends. Maybe one day we shall mean more to each other. But I want you to know that what you said a moment ago does not mean that you are under a commitment to me. Nor does my kissing you mean that I am under a commitment to you.’ She gave another quick smile. ‘Though I did enjoy it.’
‘How very kind of you to say so,’ said Simon sulkily.
‘Oh, don’t be such a grouch. Here, let’s do it again.’ This time Alice kissed him, so warmly that he felt his ears tingle. He held her tighter and kissed her neck and shoulders. ‘But I do love you,’ he said desperately.
She gently thrust him away. ‘You see,’ she said. ‘They’ve done it.’
‘Who’s done what?’
‘Our parents. They’ve schemed all this.’
‘I don’t think so. I am not even sure that my mother approves of you these days.’
Alice threw back her head and laughed heartily, so that her breath rose in the air like a cloud of steam. ‘I am not surprised to hear it and I think it’s good news anyway.’ Companionably, she sought Simon’s arm under his cloak and began to steer him back to the house. ‘We must get back,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I don’t like being here with you, nor am I worried about gossip. I don’t care a fig about what people say, you know.’ The old earnest look came back for a moment. ‘But it is my party and I must put myself about a little. I know you will understand.’
Glumly, Simon nodded and they stepped carefully through the slushy snow back to the house.
The rest of the evening passed miserably for him as his new-found desire twisted into jealousy as Alice carried out her dance commitments with a succession of eligible and, it seemed to Simon, ever taller young men. His mother, too, fulfilled a full dance programme, elegantly sweeping around the floor with a mixture of old and young partners. Major Fonthill spent most of the evening sitting talking to old friends and comrades from the regiment, increasingly content with his cigars and brandies. Only once did he pass a comment to Simon, as the latter smiled gloomily on his way to replenish his glass: ‘Don’t worry, my boy,’ he said kindly, ‘you won’t be away all that long.’
Simon was allowed one more dance with Alice, which he managed to ruin by holding her too tightly and, twice, stepping on her foot. They exchanged hardly a word this time and Simon thought that Alice smiled too often at every couple as they swirled by. When the time came to say goodbye in the early hours, she did not kiss him, merely letting her hand rest in his perhaps a moment too long for propriety as he bowed over it.
‘Will you write?’ he hissed.
‘Of course. I always have. Don’t worry. Good night, Simon.’
The Major and his wife were noticeably mellow as they sat back in the coach, much warmer now as the indulgences of the evening combined with the milder air of the thaw. The Major’s eyes positively twinkled as, his arm entwined with that of his wife, he addressed his son opposite. ‘Jolly good evening I think, my boy. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, Father. Quite pleasant.’
‘You didn’t dance much, dear,’ said Mrs Fonthill. ‘And you are not very good at it. Honestly, Simon, sometimes I despair of you. You can’t ride and you can’t dance. What can you do?’
‘Ah, Mother,’ sighed Simon. ‘I wish I knew.’
The next morning Simon had just time to pen a quick message to Alice before Owen came to take him to the railway station.
My dear Alice,
You may t
hink me no end of a fool but I do love you, whether or not our parents have manoeuvred me (at least) into this position - and I am convinced that they have not. However, I quite understand your feelings and I do not consider either of us, of course, to be engaged.
Nevertheless, I see no reason why we cannot remain good friends, as you wish, with me continuing to love you.
The thought of you will sustain me in Africa.
Yours most sincerely.
He read it through anxiously, decided that it sounded far too stilted, but sealed and dispatched it anyway. Time was running out and there were the goodbyes to be said.
Chapter 3
The cab rattled over the cobblestones of Southampton through dismal rain to the deep-water dockside, where Simon caught his first glimpse of the vessel that was to be his universe for the next few weeks. The SS Devonia seemed large enough, at least, for such a long voyage. She displaced some 8,000 tons and had been commissioned by the Horse Guards from the Anchor Line in Glasgow to transport a hotch-potch of military replacements to the Cape. She normally plied the North Atlantic route, carrying emigrants from Europe, mainly from Scotland and Ireland, to the New World, and she looked what she was: a workhorse. A succession of white deckhouses broke up and spoiled the clean lines of her iron hull. A surprisingly elegant clipper stern contrasted oddly with the bluff vertical bow and the single black funnel sat incongruously with three tall masts, square-rigged to take sail as both auxiliary power and stabilising influence.
Jenkins was already at work in the tiny cabin allocated to Simon, unpacking gear from the two trunks, one of which folded back to act as ‘officer’s table and desk on campaign’.
‘Beg pardon, sir, but I’m not sure I’m goin’ to like any of this,’ said the little Welshman gloomily.
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘They’ve put me with the men right in the front of this thing, look you, an’ there’s no air an’ very little light down there. I’ve only been on a steamer once. That was round Colwyn Bay and then I was sick. I don’t mind fightin’ the savage Zulu, see, but this is different, isn’t it?’
