by John Masters
‘Sir Alfred Mond and Sir Rufus Isaacs? I’ve heard of them, sir.’
‘We’ve been talking about forming a big British chemical group. I’d like Isaacs to manage it, but he ith too much of a politician … and a lawyer.’ He looked up – ‘You can work for me as soon as you get out of the air force. I will pay you 5000 pounds a year for one year. After that, we shall see.’
Guy said, ‘I’m afraid …’
Isaac held up his hand. ‘The war ithn’t over yet, young man. David ith not back. Who is to say some German bomb may not drop on you here in London, even after all you have escaped in France? … Come, it ith teatime.’
He stood up with some difficulty and led the way out of the door and up a flight of stairs. A door at the head of the stairs blocked access to the second storey. The old man produced a key from his coat pocket, opened the door, and waved Guy through. As the door closed behind him Guy felt that he had been transported into some new Aladdin’s Cave. The light was soft, and coloured. Persian and Turkish rugs covered the floor and hung on the walls. There was a faint smell of incense, and gold gleamed everywhere, in the decorations, the menorah, the candlesticks on the inlaid walnut table. The old man led through an opening barred by hanging silk curtains into a room of pure luxury, and as purely oriental … low divans, silk cushions, the same subdued coloured light, a small reflecting pool, curved gold pipes, gold statues, one, in a corner, five feet high, of a naked girl.
A dark-haired young woman rose from the cushions and came forward. She bowed deeply to the old man, and said, ‘Tea is ready, Father. Shall I bring it in?’
He gestured and she went out. ‘Sit down,’ he said, ‘anywhere … that chair has a hard back, I believe.’ He himself lay back carefully on the cushions. The young woman returned and served them tea. Isaac said, ‘This is my daughter, Rebecca. Rebecca, this is Major Rowland.’
She was nineteen or twenty, resembling more the typically Semitic features of her father than the heavy bluffness of her elder brother David. She said, with eyes lowered, ‘I have seen pictures of you in the papers, sir. David talked of you when he was at Wellington, so I have been cutting out everything about you.’
‘There has been much,’ the old man said.
The girl remained standing as the two men ate and drank. She served sweet biscuits in a silver tray and thin spread sandwiches. Then the old man made some sign which Guy did not catch, and she picked up the tea tray and left the room.
After a while the smell of incense became stronger, and now someone was playing a zither in another room. The old man said, ‘We must wait till David comes back. The war’s finished there, but … we must wait till he comes back. If he comes back, he will inherit the bank … not yet, but soon. But he will need a chief man he can trust at his side … a man with more brains than David has. He spent all his time playing your Rugby football … and that is good too, for a banker, in England. But he will lean on someone whose brain is faster and better than his. It is my responsibility to see that he does not choose the wrong man … by giving him the right man. So … this right man would never own the bank, but he would do well … as well as anyone else in England … And if David does not come back, I will not have a son … Do you like the theatre?’
‘Very much, sir.’
‘Good. I will arrange for two seats for you to a good play for tonight. You will take Rebecca. She has never been out alone with a man before, but she knows the world. She will not disgrace you. My chauffeur will bring her to the Grosvenor Hotel at eight o’clock. You may take her to the Savoy Hotel for dinner afterwards – the bill will have been paid. After that, bring her back here. The chauffeur will then return you to the Grosvenor.’
Guy started to say something, feeling that he ought; but what was there to say?
‘More potatoes, sir? Another beer?’ Ex-Battery Sergeant-Major Robinson was half on his feet, ready to serve his brother-in-law, beside him at the little table, with more mashed potatoes.
‘No, thanks,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve had enough … though they’re very good.’ He smiled at his sister, across the table from him, the new baby cradled in her arms. ‘And Stan, please don’t call me “sir” in here. I’m only wearing uniform because the CAS has ordered me to … and because I have to wear it when I go over to Wellington.’
Stan sat down, shaking his head, ‘Can’t help it, Guy. Being in the army so long, it just comes before I can think, when I know you’re a major.’ He laughed and began collecting food in one corner of his plate with his fork, then expertly scooping it up and into his mouth; as he had no left arm his wife cut up the meat for him before setting his plate on the table. He said, ‘Well, I’m out of the army now and I s’pose if I had an ordinary job, I’d soon forget about saluting, but I can’t get an ordinary job, can I! Ruddy lucky to get this one, that’s the truth. And here it’s “sir”, “sir” just as much as it was in the army – even to kids no more than thirteen, with their voices not yet broken.’ He looked directly at Guy – ‘It don’t seem right to me, Guy, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Guy finished his food and laid down his knife and fork on the side of his plate. Wellington had taught him to eat fast, and here Stan had the disadvantage of lacking an arm, while Virginia was holding baby Kate in her arm, so he was far ahead of them. He said, ‘Have you always felt like this? That the class system here was all wrong?’
Stan swallowed and continued masticating his forkful of food; then said, ‘A bit, perhaps, but I was in the Regular Army, see? We respected our officers because they risked their lives more than we did. When something dangerous had to be done, they were always there. But after 1914 there wasn’t no Regular Army. The officers we got – that were coming in when I was wounded, that was doing the cushy jobs back here in Blighty, they were all sorts. But civvy street’s not like the army. We knew what our officers did to get their pay and the pips on their shoulders. We don’t know what the bosses do to get all their money and Rolls-Royces, except perhaps that their dad made a pile. My dad’s a working man. I’m a working man. The working man’s done his bit in this war, over there and back here, and what we’re going to be asking for is a fair chance … a fair chance our kids can be Prime Ministers, or bara sahibs, or major-generals.’
Virginia had been sitting quiet, her eyes, always full of warmth and proud love, moving constantly from her husband, to her brother, to her daughter. She said now, ‘Stan thinks … he realised that Kate wouldn’t have as good a chance in life as your baby … he doesn’t mean just yours, of course … because of her accent, which she’ll learn from him.’
‘And from you too, now,’ Guy said. ‘You’ve been working hard at it so they won’t think you’re hoity-toity when you visit Stan’s people in Leeds. Mummy’s horrified at it.’
Virginia said, ‘I haven’t really tried hard, it’s just changed naturally, as I suppose it would have if I’d married an American or a Scotsman … But it’s true, isn’t it, what Stan says?’
Guy said, ‘Yes. But leadership in commerce and industry isn’t the same as military leadership. It involves getting to the front of progress … perhaps cutting down on labour … making bigger profits …’
Stan said, ‘More scholarships to the posh schools would help. The Government could give ’em the money.’
‘Which the schools wouldn’t take,’ Guy said. ‘If they did, the Government would be able to control what and how they teach … I don’t see why industries shouldn’t be persuaded to subscribe to scholarship programmes like that … all such scholarship funds could be tax deductible … There are ways.’
Stan said earnestly, ‘We’ve got to find a way, Guy. We’ve got to have the same sort of feeling between the employers and the workers that we had in the trenches. After all, they’re in the same boat, in a factory, as they are over there, in the trenches.’
Guy said, ‘I agree, but it’s going to be very difficult without equality of sacrifice. And giving money’s not the same as … giving an arm.’
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br /> He stood up – ‘I’ve got to go soon. I have to be at the Master’s Lodge at half-past two, and I’m speaking in Great School at three. The Master wants me to talk about air fighting … how I shot down Immelmann, Boelcke, and Richthofen in single combat … the chivalry of the air … but must also stress the beastliness of the Hun … I suppose I’ll have to give the boys their money’s worth. It’s hard to believe that nearly half of them were there when I left, three years ago … but I think I’ll have to say something about what ought to be done next, in England, and the world. The war’s nearly over, and they have to think of that now, the same as the rest of us.’
The telephone rang, and the hotel exchange operator said, ‘Call for you, sir. Do you wish to be disturbed?’
‘Put it through.’ Marian de Forges was speaking, wearing a beige gown and a hat, lolling on a couch in a French drawing-room – ‘It was a privilege to sing for you the other night. I have a present for you.’
‘All right. Come round.’ Guy sank back, lighting a cigarette. A detachment of Guards marched by the window on their way to Buckingham Palace. Funny, his room was on the fourth floor, the music loud and martial, setting his feet to tapping in their Grecian leather slippers. He adjusted his dressing gown and went to the door where someone had knocked. He opened it. It wasn’t Marian de Forges but a taller, younger woman, blue eyes, wide set in a longish face, oval chin, a diamond ring and a wedding ring. A small parcel dangled by a string from one finger – ‘Philippa,’ she said, ‘Duchess of Kendal … I have come to give you this, on behalf of the women of England.’ It was a box, which she couldn’t open, lots of boxes, one within the other. The carpet was disappearing under paper and string – ‘This!’ She pressed the catch, the lid flew open. Resting on a bed of watered silk was the winged badge of a Royal Air Force pilot, created in enamel, diamonds, and rubies.
He looked up. Her sable coat was off, and she was slowly unbuttoning her dark blue dress. He felt an erection growing as the curve of her bosom began to appear. There was a knock on the door, it was opened from outside and Marian de Forges sailed in, head high, carrying a huge box. She was wearing dovegrey and theatre make-up. She stopped, staring at the duchess, and said, ‘It is hot in here,’ took off her astrakhan coat, and began to unbutton her dress, meanwhile saying, ‘Open the parcel, Guy.’
The room was filling with spectators, men and women, in the stands. He was fumbling with the parcel, more boxes within boxes. At last, the smallest one – a wristwatch, the case solid gold, the band gold in stretch links. On the back it was inscribed To Guy from all of us. The spectators were cheering and a band playing. The duchess screamed, ‘Who’s “all of us”? All you stage whores?’ They were both practically naked now. The door opened and Florinda walked in. The crowd cheered wildly and Maria von Rackow, at his elbow, said seriously, ‘Make up your mind, Guy.’
Florinda said, ‘I came to suggest a walk in the Park, Guy, but I see you’re going to take your exercise indoors.’ Her clothes came off in a whirl, as though she was the centre of a cyclone. The grass was ankle-deep in tissue paper, petticoats, and champagne glasses. He had his fly buttons undone and his prick out, stiff as a pole, aching for their cunts, all now on display. They were rotating slowly in the centre of the floor, arms raised and arched over their heads. They sang in chorus, ‘Anything you want, Butcher, except …’ Then they were silent. The crowd had all left and it was raining. The duchess screamed, ‘I got here first! Get out, you bitches!’ Marian de Forges said, ‘Put it in!’ Florinda began to cry, and Guy took her bare shoulders, ‘Darling, Flo … don’t cry … I love you. I love you.’ She sank into his arms, and he awoke, his pillow wet with sweat and tears.
It was six and he could not get back to sleep, but lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, as the light grew. At half-past eight the waiter came up with his breakfast and the morning papers … Armies sweeping across the Lys Canal … British troops approaching Mons, Guy read. Mons, that was the first British battle of the war. It was a Sunday, like today. He remembered leaning out of his window, looking across the Combermere Quad and wondering where his father was. In those days the guns could not be heard in Kent, and certainly had never reached Berkshire, or even London, they were so small and few. He yawned and poured himself another cup of coffee. Yesterday had been a tiring day. Stan Robinson had made him think and that was always more tiring than mere physical activity. The only thing more exacting was physical fear. You wouldn’t think it took much out of one to fly an aeroplane in good weather for an hour and a half, and it didn’t – in peace. But send the same pilot in the same machine up into aerial combat, and he’d come back – if he did – sweat-soaked, trembling, and exhausted. Then there had been the drive over to Wellington, half an hour with the Master … Mr Vaughan hadn’t changed, still like a slightly puzzled bear, still liked to pop into his library through a concealed swinging section of books; he had recalled how Guy had tried to save Dick Yeoman from being sacked, but he didn’t mention Dick’s offence; too delicate, rather shameful … And after the lecture, wandering about the school, meeting boys he’d known as squealers, now school prefects … talking to Sheddy Fenn … eating dinner in Hall, not with the School Prefects, at the High Table but with his own Beresford, the squealers at the bottom of the table gazing so hard up at his wings and ribbons that they barely remembered to get their second helpings.… Port in the Common Room afterwards. There were a lot of gaps, from pre-war, now; most of the younger ushers he’d known were in France, dead or alive … Finally a late train up from Wellington College Station (alight here for Crowthorne) … which meant a change at Guildford, and then dozing in a corner of his carriage to Waterloo. There’d been another man in the compartment, but thank heaven the man had had enough tact not to disturb him, flatter him, or ask questions … At last to the hotel, and sleep, and that peculiar dream, half-sexy and half-frightening.
The telephone rang and the hotel exchange operator said, ‘There’s a lady down here wishes to speak to you, sir. Says she’s Lady Jarrow.’
‘Ask her to come up.’
He got up and looked at himself in the mirror – he needed to shave, but there was no time now. There was a knock on the door and he went to open it; Florinda came in, and by God, wearing that same plain tweed suit and hat, as though for a country shoot! He said, ‘Come in … for the second time. I was dreaming about you not long ago. You came here, and took off your clothes … together with the Duchess of Kendal and Marian de Forges.’
‘The Three Graces,’ Florinda said. ‘Which one did you choose?’
Guy said, ‘I can’t remember.’
‘More likely you had all of us, in turn … I thought it would do you good to have a walk in the Park. I know it would me.’
‘I’d love it. Give me ten minutes to get shaved and dressed. And I’m going to wear mufti. I don’t care if the General draws and quarters me, I’m not going to be mobbed by small boys, ancient clubmen, and nannies. Then back here for lunch, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And I’ll tell you about how I’ve been offered part of a bank, and a rich Jewish virgin heiress to go with it … and a seat in Parliament … and a trip to America … and a directorship at Handley-Page …’
‘They’ve been taking you up into a high place, have they, even in your dreams, and showing you all the kingdoms of the earth?’ Florinda said in a low voice. ‘And we’ll not be seeing you among us down here in the mud much longer, eh?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wish I did. Come on, Flo! Let’s be ten again, just for today. Please!’
But that night he could not sleep, and after tossing and turning and sitting up in bed in the dark listening to the silence – for the last trains had long since chuffed out of Victoria on their way to Brighton and Eastbourne and Shoreham and Hedlington – he got up, dressed, and went out. There was no moon, and clouds obscured the stars. The street lamps were not lit – because of us, he thought, the airmen, the flyers who might slide through th
e high night up there … under the high clouds, moving fast across the scattered stars.
What was that poem, the Highwayman? The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. Wind down here, too, enough to stir the London planes, and shake down more of the remaining leaves. His new gold watch, luminous-dialled, showed half-past three in the morning. He was walking down narrow streets, dark, a cat stirring, nothing else, now along the river. He stopped and leaned over, staring down into the oily dark, the dimly seen swirl of water. It smelled of the sea … tide must be coming in … there was a bridge close to his right … Battersea. Royal Albert. A voice beside him whined, ‘Spare a tanner for a poor muvver, sir.’
He turned, staring. It was a woman, in rags, shivering in the autumn chill, hand out. His eyes were used to the starlight now and he saw that she was pretty, and young, sixteen perhaps. She said, ‘I’ll give you a good time for ’arf a crown, sir. Only I ain’t got nowhere to go. ’Ere, I’ll bend over and you can backscuttle me.’
‘Christ!’ Guy groaned. He found some money in his pocket and pressed it into the girl’s hand. Was this what Stella had been doing? He was walking fast along the embankment now … past tall buildings, deserted. No, two tall, dark shapes, a bull’s-eye flashlight in his face, ‘’Ere, ’ere, not so fast, young feller, what …?’ The light moved down his body and the man’s tone changed, ‘Crikey, it’s an Air Force officer, Bob … Are you all right, sir?’
Guy realised he was wearing uniform. What on earth had persuaded him to put that on, to go out and walk off his insomnia? ‘Quite all right, officer,’ he said. ‘Just can’t sleep.’
‘I seen your picture in the paper,’ the other policeman said. ‘Major Guy Rowland VC, that’s who you are?’
‘Quite right.’ He waved a hand and hurried on, past the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, Boadicea on her chariot, on again … trees, shapes huddled along under the wall … past the Savoy, Waterloo Bridge … over the river now, peering down into the black water from the middle of Rennie’s masterpiece … on, to the south bank, a row of railway arches to one side, the glow of a fire under them. He paused, hanging back in the shadows, looking. Four men and a woman were gathered round the fire, sticks and bits of refuse burning, the fire well back in under the brick arch, the other end blocked up, piles of dirty straw, a bottle passing round.
