Indecent Exposure (21 page)

Later in the morning the Kommandant walked into Weezen in the hope of bumping into Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon who had murmured something about “Tomorrow” as he put her to bed. He had just reached the main road and was trudging along it when a horn sounded loudly behind him and caused him to jump off the road. He looked round furiously and found Major Bloxham at the wheel of the vintage Rolls.

“Hop in,” shouted the Major. “Just the man I’m looking for.”

The Kommandant climbed into the front seat and was glad to notice that the Major wasn’t looking very well.

“To tell the truth,” said the Major when the Kommandant asked if he had recovered from the evening’s entertainment, “I’m not on top form this morning. Have to hand it to you, you Boers know how to hold your liquor. I wonder you made it back to the Spa last night.”

Kommandant van Heerden smiled at the compliment. “It takes more than a couple of glasses to put me under the table,” he murmured modestly.

“By the way,” said the Kommandant as they drove into Weezen, “talking of tables, is the woman in the dinner jacket all right?”

“What? La Marquise, you mean?” asked the Major. “Funny you should mention her. As a matter of fact she’s not herself or himself, difficult to tell which, you know, this morning. Said she was feeling a bit off colour.”

In his seat Kommandant van Heerden went very white. If the words “off colour” meant anything at all in the context, and the Kommandant felt sure they did, he could well believe La Marquise was speaking the truth. There was now little doubt in his mind that he had not imagined seeing Els under the table. Removing the trousers of a drunk Lesbian was just the sort of unchivalrous act that had all the hallmarks of Konstabel Els. But Konstabel Els was dead. The Kommandant wrestled with the problem of Els resurrected until they arrived outside the Weezen Bar.

“Hair of the dog,” said the Major and went into the bar. The Kommandant followed him in.

“Gin and peppermint for me,” said Major Bloxham. “What’s yours, old boy?”

The Kommandant said he’d have the same but his mind was still elsewhere.

“Did she say what had happened?” he asked.

Major Bloxham looked at him curiously.

“You seem to have quite a thing about her,” he said finally. “Intriguing, what?” The Kommandant looked at him sharply, and the Major continued, “Let me see, I remember she said something rather queer at breakfast. Oh I know. She said, ‘I feel absolutely buggered.’ That’s right. Seemed rather a coarse sort of thing for a woman to say.”

Beside him the Kommandant couldn’t agree. If he had seen Els under the table he was pretty sure the lady was speaking no more than the simple truth. Serves the silly bitch right for dressing up in men’s clothes, he thought.

“By the way Daphne sent a message,” said the Major, “wants to know if you’ll come out with the hunt tomorrow.”

The Kommandant dragged his thoughts away from the problem of Els and the transvestite Lesbian and tried to think about the hunt.

“I’d love to,” he said, “but I’d have to borrow a gun.”

“Of course it’s only a drag hunt,” continued the Major before it dawned on him that the Kommandant shot foxes. A similar dreadful misunderstanding existed in the Kommandant’s mind.

“Drag hunt?” he said, looking at the Major with some disgust.

“Gun?” said Major Bloxham with equal revulsion. He looked hastily round the bar to make sure no one was listening before leaning over to the Kommandant.

“Look, old boy,” he said conspiratorially, “a word to the wise and all that but if you’ll take my advice I wouldn’t go round broadcasting, well, you know what I mean.”

“Do you mean to tell me that Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon …” stuttered the Kommandant, trying to imagine what the Colonel looked like in drag.

“Exactly, old boy,” said the Major. “He’s terribly touchy about that sort of thing.”

“I’m not in the least surprised,” said the Kommandant.

“Just keep it under your hat,” said the Major. “What about another drink? Your turn, I think.”

The Kommandant ordered two more gin and peppermints and by the time they had arrived had begun to think he understood Major Bloxham’s role in the Heathcote-Kilkoon family. The Major’s next remark confirmed it.

“Bottoms up,” he said and lifted his glass.

The Kommandant put his down on the bar and looked at him sternly.

“It’s illegal,” he said, “I suppose you realize that.”

“What is, old boy?” asked the Major.

It was the Kommandant’s turn to look round the bar hastily.

“Drag hunts,” he said finally.

“Really? How extraordinary. I had no idea,” said the Major. “I mean it’s not as though anyone gets hurt or anything.”

The Kommandant shifted uneasily on his stool.

“I suppose that depends which end you’re on,” he muttered.

“A bit exhausting for the poor bugger out front. I mean, running all that way but it’s only twice a week,” said the Major.

Kommandant van Heerden shuddered.

“You just tell the Colonel what I’ve said,” he told the Major. “Tell him it’s strictly illegal.”

“Will do, old boy,” said the Major, “though it beats me why it should be. Still you’d know about these things, being in the police and all that.”

They sat and finished their drinks in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts.

“Are you absolutely sure it’s illegal, old boy,” Major Bloxham asked finally, “I mean it’s not as though it’s cruel or anything. There’s no actual kill.”

“I should fucking well hope not,” said the Kommandant, highly incensed.

“We just pop a kaffir out after breakfast with a bag of aniseed round his middle and an hour later we all go after him.”

“Aniseed?” the Kommandant asked. “What’s the aniseed for?”

“Gives him a bit of a scent you know,” the Major explained.

Kommandant van Heerden shuddered. Scented kaffirs being chased across country by men in their fifties dressed as women was more than he could stomach.

“What does Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon think about it?” he asked anxiously. He couldn’t see an elegant lady like her approving of drag hunting at all.

“What? Daphne? She loves it. I think she’s keener than anyone else,” said the Major. “Got a wonderful seat, you know.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said the Kommandant who thought the comment about Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s anatomy quite uncalled for. “And what does she wear?”

Major Bloxham laughed. “She’s one of the old school. Hard as nails. Wears a topper for one thing …”

“A topper? Do you mean she wears a top hat?” asked the Kommandant.

“Nothing less, old boy, and she doesn’t spare the whip I can tell you. God help the man who refuses a fence. That woman will give him what for.”

“Charming,” said the Kommandant trying to imagine what it must be like to get what for from Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon wearing nothing less than a top hat.

“We can give you a good mount,” said the Major.

The Kommandant anchored himself to his stool firmly.

“I daresay you can,” he said sternly, “but I wouldn’t advise you to try.”

Major Bloxham stood up.

“Got cold feet, eh?” he said nastily.

“It’s not my feet I’m worried about,” said the Kommandant.

“Well, I’d better be getting back to White Ladies,” said the Major and moved towards the door. Kommandant van Heerden finished his drink and followed him out. He found the Major getting into the Rolls.

“By the way, just as a matter of interest,” the Kommandant said, “what do you wear on these … er … occasions?”

Major Bloxham smiled obscenely.

“Pink, old boy, pink. What else do you think a gentleman wears?” and he let in the clutch and the Rolls moved off leaving the Kommandant filled once more with that sense of disillusionment which seemed to come whenever he put the ideal figures of his imagination to the test of reality. He stood for a moment and then wandered up into the square and stood looking up at the face of the Great Queen. For the first time ha understood the look of veiled disgust he saw there. “No wonder,” he thought, “It can’t have been much fun being Queen of a nation of pansies.” Thinking how symbolic it was that a pigeon had defecated on her bronze forehead he turned and walked slowly back to the Spa for lunch.

“Illegal?” shouted Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon when the Major reported what the Kommandant had said. “Hunting’s illegal? Never heard such tommyrot in my life. Man’s a liar. Afraid of horses I shouldn’t wonder. What else did he say?”

“Admitted he shoots foxes,” said the Major.

Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon exploded.

“Damn me, I always said the fellow was a scoundrel,” he shouted. “And to think I’ve ruined my liver drinking toasts with a swine like that.”

“Don’t shout, Henry dear,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon said, coming in from the next room, “I don’t think my head can stand it and besides, Willy’s dead.”

“Willy’s dead?” asked the Colonel. “Fit enough yesterday.”

“Go and look for yourselves,” said Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon sadly. The two men went through to the next room.

“Good God,” said the Colonel as they looked at the goldfish bowl. “Wonder how that happened?”

“Probably drank himself to death,” said Major Bloxham lightly. Colonel Heathcote-Kilkoon looked at him coldly.

“I don’t think that’s very funny,” he said and stalked out of the house. Major Bloxham wandered disconsolately onto the stoep where he found La Marquise standing staring at the view.

“And only man is vile, eh?” he said amiably. La Marquise looked at him angrily.

“Darling, you have a wonderful knack of saying the right thing at the wrong time,” she snapped, and waddled off painfully across the lawn leaving the Major wondering what had got into her.

The sense of disillusionment which had been Kommandant van Heerden’s first reaction to Major Bloxham’s disclosures gave way, as he walked back to the Spa, to several new suspicions. Looking back over his recent experiences, the invitation to stay at White Ladies and his subsequent relegation to Weezen Spa, the blatant neglect he had suffered for several days after his arrival, and the overall feeling that in some indefinable way he was not welcome, the Kommandant began to feel that he had some cause for grievance. Nor was that all. The disparity which existed between the behaviour of the Heathcote-Kilkoons and that of the heroes of Dornford Yates’ novels was glaring. Berry & Co didn’t end up blind drunk under the table unless some French crook had drugged their champagne. Berry & Co didn’t invite alcoholic Lesbians to dinner. Berry & Co didn’t go riding round the country dressed … Well, now he came to think of it, there was that story in Jonah & Co where Berry dressed up as a woman. But above all Berry & Co didn’t consort with Konstabel Els, late or not. That was for sure.

Lying on his bed in Colonic Irrigation No 6 the Kommandant nursed his suspicions until what had begun as disillusionment turned into anger.

Nobody’s going to treat me like this he thought, recalling the various insults he had had to put up with, particularly from the fat man, at the dinner. Colourful family indeed, he thought, I’ll colourful you. He got up and stared at the image of himself in the mottled mirror.

“I am Kommandant van Heerden,” he said to himself and puffed out his chest in an assertion of authority and was surprised at the large surge of pride that followed this avowal of his own identity. For a moment the gap between what he was and what he would like to have been closed and he viewed the world with all the defiance of a self-made man. He was just considering the implications of this new self-satisfaction when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” shouted the Kommandant and was surprised to see Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon standing in the doorway.

“Well?” said the Kommandant peremptorily and unable in so short a time to make the change from brusque authority to common courtesy the new situation clearly demanded. Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon looked at him submissively.

“Oh darling,” she murmured. “Oh my darling.” She stood meekly before him and looked down at her immaculate mauve gloves. “I feel so ashamed. So terribly ashamed. To think that we’ve treated you so badly.”

“Yes. Well,” said the Kommandant uncertainly but still sounding as though he were interrogating a suspect.

Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon subsided onto the bed where she sat staring at her shoes.

“It’s all my fault,” she said finally, “I should never have asked you to come.” She glanced round the horrid room to which her offer of hospitality had condemned the Kommandant and sighed. “I should have known better than to imagine Henry would behave decently. He’s got this thing about foreigners, you see.”

The Kommandant could see it. It explained for one thing the presence of La Marquise. A French Lesbian would appeal unnaturally to a transvestite Colonel.

“And then there’s that wretched club of his,” Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon continued. “It’s not so much a club as a secret society. Oh I know you think it’s all terribly innocent and harmless but you don’t have to live with it. You don’t understand how vicious it all is. The disguise, the pretence, the shame of it all.”

“You mean it’s not real?” the Kommandant asked trying to understand the full import of Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon’s outburst.

Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon looked up at him in amazement.

“Don’t tell me they fooled you too,” she said. “Of course it’s not real. Don’t you see? We’re none of us what we pretend to be. Henry’s not a Colonel. Boy’s not a Major. He’s not even a boy, come to that and I’m not a lady. We’re all playing parts, all terrible phonies.” She sat on the edge of the bed and her eyes filled with tears.

“What are you then?” the Kommandant demanded.

“Oh God,” moaned Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon, “need you ask?”

She sat there crying while the Kommandant fetched a glass of water from one of the many washbasins.

“Here, take some of this,” he said proffering the glass. “It will do you good.”

Mrs Heathcote-Kilkoon took a sip and stared at the Kommandant frantically.

“No wonder you’re constipated,” she said finally putting the glass down on the bedside table. “What must you think of us, letting you stay in this awful place?”