A Fox Under My Cloak (28 page)

The cellar-man put two goblets of pale yellow whisky on the counter. Phillip paid him, and was about to reach for the siphon when Baldersby seized it first, filled one goblet to the brim, raised it over Phillip's head, and tipped it. The liquid was still foaming down past his nose and ears, and fizzing on the back of his neck, when a fairly hard jet of soda-water struck him on the face, as Baldersby stood back, taking aim.

This was tremendous fun to Phillip: this really was like Fred Karno's Mumming Birds at the Hippo. He grabbed the glass jug of water on the counter, and sluiced it all over Baldersby. Then he gave Baldersby a push, which sent him clattering backwards into the three-legged table, which went over, Baldersby with it. Still laughing, Phillip put on his cap, which had been hanging on a hook, and walked out of the bar, over the cobbles, under the arch, and so down the moonlit street, with its echoes of a distant nightingale, to Godolphin House and his attic room; to undress and lie down, happily knowing, by the absence of saliva in his mouth, that he was not going to be sick.

The camp bed still smelt of carbolic fluid, and suddenly recalling the remark of the salesman at the Stores where he had bought it—
You'll
find
it
redolent
of
the
rigours
of
the
campaign
—he imagined Desmond with him, and started to shake with laughter.

L
YING
on his canvas bed, Phillip was listening to the far voice of the nightingale, when up the stone steps beyond the open door came the blast of an ill-blown hunting horn. This familiar noise of Baldersby's made him get out of bed, and listen at the top of the stairs. The horn notes came again, from the
ante-room
, judging by their muffled effect: two shut wooden doors between. He knew what was happening below, and went to lock himself in the lavatory opposite Baldersby's room at the end of the landing.

Then he decided not to hide but to face whatever was coming, so went back to bed in his wide attic room, first having removed the locket with the miniature from around his neck. Rising footfalls on stone steps, horn notes down below; door pushed open, flash-light dazzling.

“Come on, just as you are. You are wanted in the court.”

“What court? Anyway, let me put on my British warm.”

“Come as you are.”

Held by both arms, he was taken down the steps in pyjamas, through the mess and into the ante-room. There the chairs and sofas, filled with subalterns, were arranged in a rough square. Baldersby stood by a table in the centre, copper horn shoved between brass buttons of his tunic showing water stains. He was flushed, cigar-stub between teeth.

Phillip caught a glimpse of Major Fridkin, the second-
in-command
, in an open doorway: the broad, easy, Chinaman-type face of Hairy Harry, as he was known behind his back by some of the subalterns. It disappeared. Baldersby removed the cigar stub and rapped on the table with his heavy gold signet ring.

“Prisoner over there,” he pointed. “Now, gentlemen, we have a duty to perform, and as senior subaltern of the regiment I have called this court martial to decide what shall be done in the matter of Temporary Second-lieutenant Maddison. We are all aware that he is not a member of the regiment, but only attached for duty: even so, he comes under the jurisdiction of this court. I would like to add, at this point, that the fact that
he is not a member of the regiment has nothing to do with the matter in hand, but only his conduct. There are other subalterns attached to us, and we regard each one as one of ourselves, as by their behaviour they do not let the regiment down. In fact, they are dam' good fellers.”

Cheers greeted this remark. Baldersby took several puffs of his dead cigar, examined it, pinched it, puffed again in vain, then went on:

“Well, that's all. I have called this court to assemble, in accordance with time-honoured unwritten law, as senior
subaltern
, and not as Bertram Baldersby——”

“—of Baldersby Towers, Baldersby, Berkshire!” roared half a dozen voices in chorus.

“Quite, quite,” blinked Baldersby. “But all joking aside, you fellers, Dimmock, just returned from the first battalion, is next in seniority to myself, and since I am standing down to be a witness in the case, not as senior subaltern, as I said, but as——”

“—Baldersby of Baldersby Towers, Baldersby, Berkshire!” roared the solid square of junior subalterns.

“Order,” said Baldersby; and sitting down, he extracted a cigar from a heavy leather case, and lit it, puffing blue clouds of smoke.

Phillip recognised Dimmock as the fourth man in the Belvoir Arms, with Major Fridkin, Jonah the Whale, and Baldersby.

Dimmock, lean, fair, blue-eyed, sat on the table edge and said, “I accept the presidency of this court, which is composed of a junior subaltern of the regiment, another junior subaltern of the prisoner's regiment, and myself. Let the case be stated against the prisoner. Who is the prosecutor?”

“Here,” said Baldersby, holding up a hand.

“Who is defending counsel for the prisoner?”

O'Connor stood up. He was a spare, dark man, with lean, clean-shaven brown face, and
pince-nez
glasses. “If the defendant wishes——” He went to Phillip. “The defendant is agreeable, sir.”

“Very well, I call upon Baldersby——”

“—of Baldersby Towers, Baldersby, Berkshire!” roared the onlookers.

“Not so much noise, you chaps,” said Dimmock, in a quiet voice, as he swung a knee from his perch on the table. “Carry on, the prosecution.”

“Very well,” said Baldersby, expelling smoke as he got up. He looked round for an ash-tray, upon which to lay his cigar. After a little fussing, he put it on the marble mantelpiece, and standing there, said, “General bad behaviour, lack of respect to senior officers, speaking when not spoken to first—often with a cigarette in mouth—all examples of bad form. It lets down the regiment.”

“Can you give any particular instances?”

“Well, there is the incident of setting fire to the colonel's newspaper on guest night.”

O'Connor rose; and being motioned to speak, said,

“I suggest to the court that the defendant has already purged his contempt for that gaucherie committed in extenuating
circumstances
. In addition, he has apologised to the colonel.”

“What does the prosecution say?”

“Damned bad form,” growled Baldersby. “No idea of good form.”

“Do you agree that the gaucherie has been purged?”

“He's a little tick, all the same He cut guest night last week.”

Dimmock turned to Phillip. “What do you say to that?”

“Sir, I forgot all about it.”

Baldersby went on, “He lets down the regiment! Look at that bounder from the garage he goes about with! That feller who has the infernal impudence to wear Parthenopian colours on his boater and on his tie—a chap in a shop!”

O'Connor said, “I submit that my client is not responsible for an acquaintance who adds the feather of a paycock to the plumage of a crow.”

There were ironical cheers from the chairs and sofas.

“Who is the man who wears Parthenopian colours? Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is he teaching you to drive a motorcar?” asked O'Connor.

“Yes.”

“Do you pay for the hire of the motorcars you use?”

“Yes, I do.”

“How much?” interjected Baldersby.

“Ten shillings an afternoon.”

Dimmock said, “Any further complaints? We have
established
one thing so far—cutting guest night. What other charges does the prosecution prefer?”

“I don't prefer any of 'em, I dislike everything about the feller,” maintained Baldersby, stoutly. “Then there's another thing. He goes into the R.N.A.S. chief petty officers' mess-room in the Belvoir Arms without being invited, and ignores all hints to keep out. He isn't fit to hold the King's commission, and gives the regiment a dam' bad name by his presence anywhere.”

“Do you agree about the R.N.A.S. mess accusation?”

“I didn't know, sir!”

“Haven't you heard that ignorance is no excuse?”

“How was I to know?” said Phillip, desperately. He thought that he was being court-martialled seriously. “I thought it was all part of the hotel!”

“One doesn't sound the ‘h' in that word,” growled Baldersby. “I saw and heard Maddison soliciting in the bar, having the dam' bad manners to ask an A.S.C. officer, who is friendly with one of the barmaids there, if the girl was ‘all right'. The feller turned his back on him, I saw him, I was with three brother officers of the regiment in the smoke room at the time. So I cooled him down.”

O'Connor said, “How did you do that?”

“In the usual way of dealing with a cad. I emptied my glass in his face.”

“In the bar of the Belvoir Arms?”

“Yes. And I'd do it again.”

“What happened then?”

“He poured the water-jug over me, gave me a shove which caught me off balance, and caused a table belonging to the hotel to be broken.”

The whole room broke into laughter, except the faces of Phillip, Dimmock, Baldersby, and O'Connor.

“Order,” said Dimmock.

“I would like to ask a question,” said O'Connor in a mild voice, as he looked steadily at the ceiling. “Was the defendant in angry mood when he retaliated in kind? Was there a scowl on his face? Did he show his teeth? Did he reveal any desire for revenge? Or did he have upon his visage a familiar
unsophisticated
inane grin, partly, perhaps, of embarrassment, partly, perhaps, of bewilderment? Did he, a newcomer to the life of an officer's mess in England, did he regard it all as a spree, similar to the fun we have in the ante-room during some nights, when natural high spirits and gaiety prevail over the sombre
prospects of war? If it be claimed that it was an error in the most gross taste to confuse private behaviour in a regimental ante-room with lack of decorum—and I am not going to suggest that it be an error in the most gross taste, for that might involve a question beyond the scope of this, shall we say, unofficial court-martial, then——” The speaker paused, studiously
avoiding
the senior subaltern's face.

“Mr. President,” went on O'Connor, in his clear voice, enhanced by his Irish accent, “speaking only as the counsel for the defendant, and not for a moment as a guest of the
regiment
, I suggest that my client, in giving tit-for-tat, in responding in the classic manner of Tit versus Tat, in returning a measure of water within a jug for a measure of Scots whisky and an additional measure of soda-water within a siphon, was only conforming to a precedent set by a distinguished member of His Majesty's Forces!”

Cheers greeted this speech, followed by the roared chorus of “Baldersby of Baldersby Towers, Baldersby, Berkshire!”

Baldersby retrieved his cigar, and striking one of the monster Bryant and May's matches in a giant box upon the marble mantelpiece tried to set fire to the charred end. Then puffing furiously he took it from beneath his teeth and waved it in the air.

“That's all very well, but what has it got to do with the fact that by his very presence here in the mess of the
Cantuvellaunians
he is an eyesore and we don't want him here! Let 'm get back to where he came from! That disgusting
motor-bicycle
he rides about on, with a coffee pot stuck on the end of the rusty pipe! That isn't funny, it's utter bloody awful bad form! It makes the townee cads laugh. No doubt, it might be funny in a circus, dammit, but not when done among officers and gentlemen!”

Baldersby pressed the bell violently: almost instantly the mess-sergeant glided in, a deferential, enquiring expression upon his smooth face as he went to Baldersby, who said, “Six large ‘Old Scotties',” and with a slight bow the mess-sergeant glided away.

“I'll tell you what!” roared Baldersby, waving cigar with one hand and tugging left section of tow-like moustache with the other. “I would like to see the outsider in the middle of twenty couple o' dog hounds now, here, at this very moment!”
and pulling the horn from between his buttons he drew a deep breath, pressed the mouthpiece to one corner of his mouth, hardened every muscle of head (including eyes), neck, and abdomen, and produced the series of piercing high notes known in the hunting field as the rattle or mort-blast.

“
Whoo
Whoop!
Whoo
Whoop!
Whoo
Whoop!
”

Then from the side of his mouth came equally piercing yells, as the imagined lemon, black, white and tan foxhounds tore the hated figment of Maddison's face to bloody gobs of flesh and cracked bone.

Phillip ran for the door in his pyjamas, as “Hercules” launched himself in a flying tackle across the table—and missed his grab. Phillip opened the door and was gone before anyone could stop him. The effect of the whisky was still upon him; his mood was of wild self-annihilation. He would apply in the morning to go back to France. Near to hysteria, he ran out of Godolphin House and up the hill towards Freshwell's Garage, meaning to get his motor-cycle and ride as far towards London as he could on what petrol remained in the tank.

The mood did not last more than a few moments in the fresh air. He stopped, and looked back. In the moonlit street he saw figures. He waited until they had gone back into the mess, then crossed the road swiftly on bare feet and went along in the shadow-fringe of house-roofs on the opposite pavement, thus passing unseen the house on the corner.

Near the theatre he crossed over again, and waited by a shop window displaying saddles, boots, curry combs, bits, saddle soap, and spurs. He was going on tip-toe past the Pigskin Club, when two figures came out and walked slowly together, with clinking swan-neck spurs, the same way as himself. He kept behind them, distant about ten yards. They stopped when the notes of the horn came again. So did he.

The notes were muffled, seeming to come from the upper rooms of Godolphin House. Then they came clearly, with the noise of a window being opened up above. It was his bedroom. Immediately afterwards a glint appeared by the attic window, a dim object sailed downwards, and crashed upon the roadway below. Other major crashes followed at intervals, then a minor one. That's my soap-dish, thought Phillip.

“Damme, Willie,” he heard the rusty voice of “Crasher”, the Crimean veteran, say, “I thought for a moment that the
Russkies were carronadin' ‘Old Strawballs' little lot, don't y'know.”

At that moment a succession of wooden drawers, their contents flying, descended from the window above.

“An original way to move furniture, I must say, General.”

“Damme, Willie, d'you suppose any more's to follow? They're not celebratin' me, d'you suppose, Willie?”

“Probably raggin' some unfortunate young cub, General.”

“Do 'im world o' good, Willie.”

A camp bed hissed through the air, and clattered upon the iron railings.

“Damme Willie, that looks like one of those new-fangled campaign beds we saw at the Stores t'other day! Damme Willie, I'm in half a mind to get me trumpet and sound the alarm, and rout 'em out again, Willie. What d'ye say?”