Blunted Lance (37 page)

‘Balmael’s found out about his wife,’ he said.

‘And?’

‘He’s suing for divorce.’

The old man studied his son. Robert, he well knew, wouldn’t want to be involved. If Lord Balmael divorced his wife it would undoubtedly end with problems for Robert, perhaps even a divorce of his own, something he would never want because it would put him beyond the reach of the Cosgro money.

‘I suppose it doesn’t surprise me,’ he said. ‘What does Balmael intend?’

‘He’s cited George Cotton-Sampson and a feller in the Guards – John Lecquerier. He’s on the point of citing me also.’

‘And you’ve denied it, of course?’ The old man studied his son with contempt. ‘You never had the courage of your convictions, did you, Robert?’

‘I’m thinking of Elfrida and the children.’

‘Pity you didn’t do that earlier. When you push your fingers into other people’s pies, you must expect them to emerge sticky!’

‘Dammit, Father, there were others!’ Robert was using the fact as an excuse and his father rounded on him.

‘I knew there were and I dare bet you did, too. All I can say is that you’re not very particular. What are you after, Robert?’

‘I’ve told Balmael’s solicitor I’m not involved. I said I was with you that weekend. The
whole
weekend. It was the weekend we went to watch the tank demonstration at Hatfield Park. There’s plenty of proof that I was there and your word would be good enough to get me off the hook.’

The old man’s eyes were cold. ‘I don’t normally tell lies,’ he said.

They began to argue, their tempers mounting. It was the old man’s feeling that he should ignore the request, but for once he sensed he had a grip on his slippery son.

‘Look, Father,’ Robert blurted out. ‘We’ve done well with the tanks. We churned out steel and armour plate in enormous quantities. I think we’ve helped the army.’

The old man exploded. ‘Don’t tell me you did it merely for your country!’ he snapped. ‘You did it for money! You’ve been well paid and you and Walter Cosgro have made a fortune out of them – as you did out of those shoddy uniforms you supplied for the New Armies in 1914.’

Robert stopped dead and drew another deep breath. ‘Lloyd George has indicated that he intends to see I get something for it.’

‘A title?’

Robert paused, his face red, then he nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘How much did it cost you?’

‘Titles aren’t bought.’

‘A contribution to a political party goes a long way.’

‘I can’t discuss it, Father. You know I can’t.’

‘Doubtless, because of your steel and uniforms, they considered they could let you have it more cheaply than some of the other rogues who’re getting them.’

‘Dammit, Father–!’

‘Don’t you “dammit” me, Robert,’ the old man blazed. ‘You’re in no position to! I’ll tell Balmael’s solicitor you were with me, if you wish. But it won’t be for
your
sake! It’ll be for Elfrida and the children! The credit they bestow on you’s not due to you, but to Elfrida, who’s probably the best Cosgro it’s ever been my pleasure to meet. If it’ll save her some unhappiness, then I’ll tell Balmael’s solicitor what you wish me to say. But certainly not to save your bloody Lady Balmael. I don’t give a damn for her, and Balmael’s well shot of her. He’s a soldier serving in France and he had a right to expect honesty from his wife. As for you, in return for not involving you with the Balmael divorce case, I’ll expect you to behave yourself in future.’

There was a look of relief on Robert’s face. ‘Of course, Father.’

The old man didn’t believe him for a moment but at least it might make him more careful.

‘The slightest suggestion that you’re back with this woman – or any other woman, for that matter – and I’m prepared to let it be known that I was wrong and you weren’t with me.’

‘You could hardly do that, Father,’ Robert said comfortably. ‘It would seem like perjury.’

The old man eyed him coldly. ‘You think of everything, don’t you, Robert? But you forget, old men are excused a great deal. I could say age had made me confused and they’d accept it. However—’

The relieved look on his son’s face changed.

‘However,’ the old man went on maliciously, ‘I’d better make it clear before that smug look on your face becomes a smile, that I’m not doing it for nothing.’

Robert’s face became wary again. ‘What are you getting at, Father?’

‘I’ve told you I don’t give a damn for you. So that, in return, you’ll do something for me. You’ll renounce all claims on this house.’

‘What?’ Robert’s face grew red. ‘I’m damned if I’ll do that, Father!’

The old man faced him coolly. ‘It’s your choice.’

‘Dammit, Father, this is my home! This is where my roots lie.’

‘You transferred your roots long since to Cosgro territory. You have everything you need. Dabney has precious little.’

‘I can’t do it, Father.’

‘Then I’m damned if I’ll swear you were with me in London.’

‘Father, this house and its contents, everything the family possesses, belong both to me and to Dabney.’

‘It’s not so long ago when you were saying it
all
belonged to you.’

‘That wasn’t my intention.’

‘I know damn well it was! But never mind, I’ve decided what I want to do. I shall make a new will.’

Robert hesitated then he nodded. The old man eyed him.

‘I haven’t finished, Robert,’ he said slowly. ‘I know what’s in your mind. You’re thinking it shouldn’t be difficult to overturn it, to suggest I’m not of sound mind. You will argue that it should be shared between you and Dabney, then you’ll use your ill-gotten wealth to push Dabney out. No, Robert—’ the old man smiled ‘—it won’t be like that. You’ll come with me to my solicitors to
witness
the will. Then it must be accepted that you agreed with it.’

Robert stared at his father, his eyes glowing angrily. But he had no choice.

The old man turned away, as if he had had enough of his son. ‘I’ll make the arrangements and I shall inform you when to be present. And you
will
be present. Nothing will stand in your way. Neither your money or the government or Lloyd George or the Lord God Almighty. If you are not there, I shall assume you’ve backed out of the deal and I shall go immediately to Balmael’s solicitors. Is that understood?’

Robert swallowed. ‘Yes, Father. I understand.’

The old man headed for the door. ‘Then I think we had better join the others before they wonder what’s happening.’

The following morning when Josh arrived, he found his grandfather in a strange subdued mood, making notes on a sheet of paper.

‘What are you doing, Grandpa?’ he asked.

‘Making me will.’

‘Why?’

‘Because eventually I shall die, and you make wills so that you can go on bossing your family about after you’re dead.’

The boy looked puzzled and the old man gestured. ‘This house,’ he said. ‘Everything in it. That – that – and that—’ the old hand with its gnarled fingers gestured at the silverware, the statuettes, the spears, the assegais, the banners and the strange weapons which had been collected during a lifetime of fighting ‘—I want them to go to your father and then to you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they’re no use to your Uncle Robert. He doesn’t understand them. Your father does. I think
you
will. I want them to go to someone who won’t merely stick them in the attic or throw them away.’

‘I’ll have ’em, Grandpa! I’ll look after ’em!’ The boy paused. ‘Grandpa, do you think we’re winning the war?’

‘It begins to look like it.’

‘When will it end?’

‘Next year. 1919. 1920. Something like that.’

‘Could it end before?’

‘Could. We seem to have ’em on the run. Why?’

‘I don’t think I’ll be old enough to join the army before it’s over.’

‘Your time will come, my boy. There are always enough cads in the world to start decent people killing each other. Trotsky’s one. Ludendorff’s one. Horatio Bottomley’s one. Come to that, your Uncle Robert’s one. If we had a cads’ team for 1918, he’d be captain.’

‘Why, Grandpa?’

‘Never mind why. Just write him down.’ The old man tore off a sheet of paper from the pad he was holding. ‘Put ‘em down, boy. Cads’ Team, 1918. R Cosgro-Goff, captain.’

The boy did as he was told and looked up.

‘Who’s vice-captain, Grandpa?’

‘Bottomley, I think. He’s another who—’ the old man stopped, coughed and left it at that. ‘Bottomley for vice-captain.’

‘Better cad than the Kaiser?’

‘I think so. The Kaiser’s lost his form. Bit pathetic, now, I think. He’s well down the list.’

‘Hindenburg?’

‘Oh, yes. Ludendorff, too. Better put down Henry Wilson. He’s still not as shiny white as he ought to be. Lloyd George, too. Then Lenin and Trotsky and that lot.’

‘That’s only eight.’

‘Well, what about Ferdinand of Bulgaria. He’d do. He came into the war hoping to get something out of it. You could also put down this Turkish Johnny, Kemal Whatever-his-name-is.’

The boy looked at what he’d written.

R Cosgro-Goff (captain)

H Bottomley (vice-captain)

Kaiser W

Hindenberg

Lewdendorff

H Wilson

Ferdinand

Kemal?

Lenin

Trotski

‘That’s only ten, Grandpa. We need one more.’

‘Put down A N Other. I’m sure we’ll find someone. There are plenty of ’em about.’

The boy studied the names for a moment. ‘I’m glad we’ve never had to put down Father’s name,’ he said.

‘Oh, no!’ The old man smiled. ‘Not your father’s. He wouldn’t have a chance in a team like that. Not even at the bottom of the list.’

The boy thought for a moment. ‘I wonder what he’s doing,’ he said.

It seemed to Dabney that the war in the Middle East was as good as won.

The Australians and the New Zealanders were always difficult and their antics in Cairo were already a legend, but, like the men of the Yeomanry and the sowars of the Indian cavalry, most of them were farmers who were unafraid of a wide countryside and had grown up among horses since childhood. Their roots were deep in the soil and they were sufficiently good to have been issued with swords.

At first they were inclined to be derisive about them but they’d gone into action at Beersheba with nothing in their fists but bayonets, and the sword, in spite of what they said, had a tremendous moral effect both on them and on the enemy. The result inevitably was that there were officers who began to insist once more that mechanical contrivances like the tank and the aeroplane would never take the place of a man on a horse armed with a sabre but, certainly, even if horsed cavalry was having its last fling, it was having it under Allenby in a resounding crescendo that had never been seen since it had first arrived with a shock that upset all calculations on its first battlefield two thousand years before. Beersheba had set the pattern and had raised the curtain on a magnificent reappearance. The Arabs had risen in revolt under a man called Lawrence who was disliked at headquarters because he preferred Arab dress and sandals to uniform, but Allenby had seen the possibilities and Dabney was expecting at any moment to see the campaign brought to a conclusion.

He was still making his preparations when, to his surprise, Hedley Ackroyd turned up, a lieutenant-colonel running a bomber wing of the new Royal Air Force, with the news that he and Philippa were engaged.

‘They offered me the choice of a fighter squadron in France or a bomber wing out here,’ he said. ‘The Field Marshal’s advice was succinct: Take the wing.’

There was a rash of promotions and Dabney became an acting major general. Fresh bombers had also been flown out for Hedley Ackroyd, and, with the Indian cavalry regiments all armed with sword or lance, the cavalry were cavalry again in the true sense of the word.

The heat was searing and they were plagued by mosquitoes, centipedes and spiders, to say nothing of malaria and sandfly fever which had turned them all into ghosts poor as crows, their horses gaunt from picking up sand with their scanty feed. But they were well led and Dabney’s troopers were splendid men, tall, strong, independent and full of spirit. Their first reaction to him had been one of wariness because they had no love for British generals. But everything went well from the day when Dabney, wearing only breeches and shirt and riding alone, without any badges of rank, had found a group of them watering horses at a stream. Believing in making contact quickly, he had stopped to talk to them.

‘What are you lot?’ he asked.

One of the Australians, tall, lean and leathery-skinned, eyed him up and down, alerted by his English accent.

‘I’m what’s known as a bleedin’ Light ‘Orseman, cobber,’ he said sharply. ‘What might you be?’

Dabney grinned at the reply. ‘I’m what’s known as a bleedin’ general,’ he said.

As he clattered away, he heard a shout of laughter go up behind him and the following afternoon, reviewing a regiment of Mounted Rifles, he became aware that the leading horseman was the Australian of the day before and that he was carrying a banner on which was printed ‘Goff’s Bleeding Own.’

Apart from their tendency to wear shorts – and hot men on hot horses with bare knees rubbed raw on horses’ flanks led to sores and blood poisoning – they gave him remarkably little trouble. The old hunting maxim, ‘Care for your horse in the stable as if he were worth five hundred pounds and ride him in the field as if he were not worth half a crown’, was still a good one and Dabney taught them that to a horse rubbing down was as massage was to a man, and eventually he had them so they would spend long over the regulation time at the job and walk miles for the chance of acquiring a bundle of green fodder.

For the most part they accepted his demands without a murmur because he had arrived with Allenby, and Allenby had gone through the camps like a strong reviving wind when everybody was discouraged and cynical. During the long hot months of the summer the army had languished, its problems chiefly medical, but now they were pushing north in an extraordinarily bold conception involving the largest mass of cavalry since Napoleon.