“But that’s the worst of living in a round world, old boy,” he said.
“A round world!” echoed Franz in amazement.
“We’re all encircled,” explained Migs, waving his hand in an airy manner. “We’ve all got people living all round us—bound to have, you know. Wasn’t it Bismarck who discovered it first?”
“Discovered what?”
“I mean he made that point about encirclement.”
Franz did not reply. The finer points of Chancellor Bismarck’s policy had not been considered a necessary point of education.
“Clever chap, Bismarck,” continued Migs in a ruminative voice, “I forget what he said exactly, but I have a feeling he was a bit anxious about encirclement.” Migs shut his eyes, and his voice became more drowsy than usual. “You know all about it, of course … never really studied the question, myself.”
Franz had always believed—indeed he had been taught to believe—that encirclement was a new danger discovered by his Leader. It seemed strange that nobody had seen fit to instruct him in the pronouncements of Bismarck … it seemed even stranger that Migs should know more about it than he—Migs of all people! Franz had formed a very low opinion of Migs Corbett for he was the living antithesis of everything that Franz had been taught to admire. He played no games, he took no exercise and, as far as Franz could see, he did nothing at all to justify his existence. He lay about in a deck chair and smoked cigarettes and expected everyone to fetch and carry for him … and strangely enough they did it. Yes, even Wynne was ready to fetch a cigarette for Migs and to put it in his mouth and light it for him.
“As far as I can remember,” continued Migs in that sleepy voice which Franz had grown to dislike so intensely, “as far as I can remember Bismarck took a great deal of trouble to make friends with his neighbours, the idea being that nobody minds being surrounded by friends. Encirclement doesn’t worry you, does it, Wynne?”
“What d’you mean?” Wynne inquired.
“Ivy Lodge on the east … Cherry Trees on the west,” explained Migs. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” agreed Wynne. “No, I like it, really. It’s only when horrid people like the Pages come—you know they’ve bought the Red House—that you being to feel a bit hemmed in.”
“Make friends with the Pages, darling,” murmured Migs. “The Pages must have their good points … find them out … establish contact (even if it means that you have to fondle their Pekes). That’s what old Bismarck did, and believe me there were no flies on old Bismarck.”
“I believe it might be quite a good plan,” agreed Wynne thoughtfully.
Franz decided not to report this extraordinary conversation to his father, partly because he was aware that his father would not understand it, and partly because his own share in the discussion had been so feeble. He realised that the reason he had not been able to stand up to Migs was simply that Migs knew more about the subject than he did … there was something wrong here, decided Franz.
They were still sitting under the tree and Franz was still meditating upon his difficulties when an incredibly ancient and battered car drove in at the gate and Roy Braithwaite leapt out, followed more slowly by his friend and shipmate Harry Coles. Franz had met these two young men before. They were officers in the British Navy and therefore were entitled to respect; they behaved like schoolboys of course, but Franz made allowances for them.
“Oh, Roy, how splendid!” exclaimed Wynne, rushing to her brother and hugging him ecstatically. “I was just wondering if you’d come today. How long have you got?”
“Till tomorrow night,” replied Roy. “That’s all, but it’s better than nothing, isn’t it? Could we have somebody in to dance?”
“Of course we could—Nina, and the Audleys—darling Roy, it’s so lovely to see you.”
“You saw me the day before yesterday.”
“I know, but it seems ages.”
She stood and looked at him with her heart in her eyes for, to Wynne, Roy was the pink of perfection. She had always thought that if she ever married it would have to be somebody like Roy—only of course there was nobody like Roy, that was the trouble—he was so big and ruddy and smiling, he could share her thoughts and feelings and could laugh at the same absurd jokes. She had loved and admired Roy ever since she could remember; she had always followed his lead and had been greedy for his approbation; she had climbed trees and jumped ditches and had hidden her fear of cows so that he might not despise her … Wynne had never minded what she did if only Roy would let her play with him.
“Harry got leave, too,” continued Roy, waving casually towards his friend, “so I brought him along—or rather he brought me. That strange contraption belongs to Harry’s brother, we’re not quite sure what he’ll say when he finds he’s lent it to us.”
“He’ll be as sick as mud,” remarked Harry cheerfully.
“I’m sure he won’t mind,” declared Wynne. “He isn’t using it himself, and you haven’t done it any harm at all.”
“Not yet,” agreed Harry. “As a matter of fact it would be difficult to do it any harm—one dent more or less wouldn’t be noticed—but the thing is I bust up his last car for him so he isn’t too keen on lending me Agatha. It’s silly of course. I can drive much better now (can’t I Roy?) but he’s prejudiced, I’m afraid.”
“Why does he call it Agatha?” inquired Wynne with interest.
“I can’t think,” declared Harry, “unless it’s after some girl or other … but I never heard of anyone being called Agatha, did you?”
Wynne had not—but she had never seen a car like this, so perhaps that was the explanation. She was beginning to put this somewhat abstruse idea into words when Roy interrupted her.
“Look here,” he said, “I’d better get hold of Sophie—will there be a bed for Harry or will he have to sleep on the floor?”
“Anywhere at all will do,” declared Harry. “I mean I can sleep anywhere—”
“He can sleep anywhere,” agreed Roy, “but the place he likes best is the bridge of the Terrible on a cold, foggy night …”
“Shut up,” said Harry. “That was only once, and I wasn’t really asleep at all. I had shut my eyes for a moment because the fog made them prickle … you know how it does.”
“It will be perfectly all right,” Wynne assured them, “I’ll find Sophie, and tell her, and arrange everything. Harry can have the divan bed thing that we got at Harrods. We’ll put it in your room. It’s quite comfy because I slept in it myself when Wendy was here … or you can sleep in it and let Harry have your bed …” she hurried away to make the arrangements and Roy and his friend sat down.
“What a fuss there was!” said Roy, accepting a cigarette from Migs and lighting it with a flick from his pocket-lighter. “Old Harvey gave us leave and Weller was in the most awful rage about it. You know Weller, don’t you, Migs?”
“Knew his brother,” replied Migs laconically.
“Weller’s a most awful swine,” declared Harry. “He never wants any leave himself and he doesn’t see why anyone else should have it. There he sits like a—like a spider or something—”
“He’s more like a cat, I think,” objected Roy. “One of those pussyfoot creatures—I don’t mean that he doesn’t drink because as a matter of fact he puts more through his face than any man I’ve seen—but he creeps about snoopily on rubber soles … and pounces.”
“Everybody hates Weller,” said Harry.
“He’ll get pushed into the sea some dark night if he doesn’t look out.”
“I’d push him myself for twopence.”
The duet finished there, and a long silence ensued. The sun shone and the birds sang and the tennis players rushed about in strenuous combat. Franz ruminated upon what he had heard and wondered whether this was one of the items of interest which he ought to report to his father … disaffection in the British Navy … but Franz was no fool and he was aware that people on the verge of mutiny did not usually proclaim the fact at
the top of their voices, nor did murderers announce their intentions beforehand with such a cheerful air.…
Franz sighed. It was so difficult. What were these people really like inside? They made fun of everything, they insulted each other … and laughed; they reviled their superior officers and criticised their government and its administration. To Franz they were like people from another planet and the more he saw of them the more incompetent he was to understand them.
While Franz had been thinking over his problems the conversation had taken another turn.
“I saw you were at Buckingham Palace yesterday,” remarked Roy. “How did you get on? Was George in good form?”
“Excellent form,” replied Migs. “We had a little chat and I told him some bed-time stories. We parted the best of friends.”
“But why—” began Franz, and then he stopped. For one thing nobody was listening to him and for another he did not wish to make a fool of himself. Perhaps he had misunderstood what was said, or perhaps this was one of the occasions when one thing was said and the opposite intended. It could not be true (that was certain) Mr. Corbett could not have been received by King George.
“Hullo!” said Roy. “The set’s finished. D’you want to play, Franz?”
“No thank you,” Franz replied, rising to his feet. “I have played enough. I think I will go in now.”
He left the others to play another set and wandered into the drawing-room to find his hostess. Perhaps she would be able to help him. She was kind and he liked her. She puzzled him, of course, but puzzled him in a different way from his contemporaries.…
Cousin Sophie welcomed him with a smile. “Have you had a nice game?” she inquired.
“Yes, thank you,” Franz replied, “but now I have come to talk to you if you are not busy.”
“Of course I’m not busy,” declared Cousin Sophie. “I’m doing the bills, that’s all, and I hate doing the bills; we’ll have a nice little chat until the others come in for tea.” She closed her desk with the bills inside and settled herself comfortably in an easy-chair. “What shall we talk about?” she inquired.
Some people might have found the question stultifying but Franz had plenty of material for conversation.
“I have difficulties,” he declared. “There are many things I cannot understand. Sometimes things are said that are not true. I do not know what to believe and what not to believe.”
“Not true!” echoed Sophie in horrified tones. “But Franz … do you mean they tell lies?”
“Not true,” repeated Franz doggedly. “Perhaps it is not exactly lies, for nobody is deceived except me.”
“I don’t understand,” declared Sophie hopelessly.
“No,” agreed Franz. “It is very difficult. Sometimes they say a thing and it is true, and sometimes they say a thing and it is just the opposite and I cannot make out which it is.”
“I don’t understand,” repeated Sophie more hopelessly than before.
“It is difficult to explain,” said Franz, frowning with the effort involved, “but here is one thing, Cousin Sophie. Mr. Corbett has just been saying that he had an interview with your King.”
“But he did,” declared Sophie smiling with relief. “Dear Migs went up to town yesterday and was received by His Majesty at Buckingham Palace. That’s quite true, Franz.”
“It is true?” inquired Franz incredulously.
“Quite true,” she nodded.
“That is … that is very strange,” Franz said.
Sophie took no notice of this assertion, she continued as if she had not heard. “Migs is a Lieutenant in the Westshires—there have always been Corbetts in the Westshire Regiment. Mr. Corbett’s brother commanded the 1st Battalion in the war, and his grandfather, Sir Miguel Corbett, fought at Waterloo—so you see it was quite natural that Migs should go to the Westshires.”
“Mr. Migs Corbett?” inquired Franz with the sudden conviction that somehow or other they were talking at cross purposes. “Do you really mean that he is an officer in your army?”
“Yes,” said Sophie. “Why shouldn’t he be?”
There were so many reasons why he shouldn’t be that Franz was at a loss to enumerate them. He grasped at the most obvious. “Where is his uniform?” he inquired.
“It’s probably packed away in a box,” replied Sophie somewhat vaguely. “He wouldn’t want to wear it, would he?”
“He wouldn’t want to wear it!” echoed Franz in complete amazement.
“No,” said Sophie, “no, it wouldn’t be comfortable, and it would look so queer.…”
“How could anyone know he was an officer?”
“Nobody could, of course, but that doesn’t matter. I mean it’s much nicer for Migs to wear cool, comfortable clothes when he’s on sick leave. Of course he put on his uniform yesterday for the investiture,” she hesitated and added, “I don’t know if you understand that word, Franz—it means that His Majesty gave Migs the Military Cross.”
Franz stared at her in dumb amazement.
“It was nice wasn’t it?” she continued. “Poor Migs had such a dreadful time in Palestine—what with the heat and the flies and those terrible Arab Bandits—of course Migs never mentions the subject, but Mrs. Corbett told me all about it.”
“I should like to hear about it,” said Franz in a subdued voice.
“Would you? Of course Mrs. Corbett could tell you much better than I can, but I’ll do my best,” said Sophie modestly. She drew a long breath and began the tale. “It was in Palestine,” she said. “I told you that, didn’t I? Well, one day Migs was sent out with his company to escort a convoy. They weren’t expecting trouble because the bandits had been fairly quiet for some time past, but, quite suddenly, when they were going through a narrow pass between some rocks, the bandits swooped down and attacked them. The captain, who was in command of the company, was killed in the first rush and Migs was badly wounded in the leg, but Migs got a man to help him on to a lorry and he fought on, firing at the bandits and encouraging his men. You see, Migs knew how important it was that the convoy should get safely through—it would have been dreadful if it had fallen into the hands of the bandits—it was food and stores and ammunition. They managed to hold off the attacks until reinforcements arrived and drove the bandits away. Poor Migs was very ill for weeks—he was taken to a big hospital at Alexandria—and at one time they thought he might have to lose his leg, but fortunately he’s got a very good constitution and after a little his leg began to mend. They sent him home as soon as he was well enough to be moved and he recovered quite quickly. Of course he still has to rest a great deal and he musn’t get over-tired … so that was why he went up to town yesterday,” said Sophie in a more cheerful tone, “and Mrs. Corbett told me that His Majesty talked to him very kindly and asked him all sorts of things about Palestine and the conditions there.”
Franz was so dumbfounded at this tale that he was incapable of speech and, after a moment’s pause, Sophie added, “You had better not say anything to Migs … he might be annoyed if he knew I’d told you.”
“But he is a hero!” Franz exclaimed.
“Yes, I suppose he is,” agreed Sophie in a surprised sort of voice, “yes, I suppose you might say he was a hero … but as a matter of fact people don’t seem to think about it like that, they just do their duty, you see. They don’t like a lot of fuss.”
Franz considered this. “But Cousin Sophie …” he began, and then he hesitated. He had begun to realise that there was something here which might give him a clue to these incomprehensible people. He had been looking at them from a wrong angle. He had started with the conviction that Britain was a small cosy place where people lived in comfortable houses and amused themselves and each other. He had forgotten Britain’s Empire. No nation could keep an Empire together by living comfortably and cosily at home.… People like Migs Corbett guarded Britain’s Empire. They left their comfortable homes thousands of miles behind them and fought and suffered in deserts under burning suns, a
nd, because this was bred in their bone, they wanted no fuss. It was their duty, that was all.
We would do the same if we had colonies Franz told himself (it was a sore subject of course), but somehow Franz was aware that if a German youth had accomplished anything so spectacular he would enjoy the ensuing “fuss.” He would be fêted and acclaimed, and would strut about in uniform with his decoration pinned to his breast for all the world to see.
“It is very strange,” said Franz after a little pause, “it has given me a lot to think about, Cousin Sophie.”
“Of course it must be strange,” she agreed. “You must always come and ask me if anything puzzles you, Franz dear.”
“Yes,” agreed Franz, “thank you, Cousin Sophie, that will be very helpful to me.”
“Ask me anything you like,” she invited him. “Perhaps there’s something else that you can’t understand.”
She hoped there was for she was enjoying their little chat. It was delightful to be able to explain things to Franz. Her family never came to her to have things explained, but only too often to explain things to her—and that was not nearly so pleasant.
“Yes, indeed,” said Franz slowly. “There are many things that I do not understand.” There were so many, that he did not know where to begin … he cast about in his mind and hit upon the problem of the “bearded pard.” A bearded pard was a kind of leopard—so the dictionary said—but it was also the nickname of the chaplain of the Terrible. This chaplain had come over to lunch at Fernacres with Roy, and everyone—or at least all the younger members of the party—had called him the bearded pard, and had called him it to his face … and his face was round and fat and pink and as innocent of hair as the face of a two-year-old child.
The English Air Page 6
