The Golden Virgin (5 page)

Desmond drove on for a mile, then he put on the brake, turned the switch, and sat still. Looking at Phillip intently with his pale blue eyes he said slowly and quietly, “I’ve wanted to tell you something for a long time.”

Surprised by his manner, Phillip asked what it was.

“It concerns Helena Rolls.”

“Yes.”

“You may not like what I am going to say.”

“Go on, say it.”

“I consider that you are wasting yourself on something quite vain.”

“But how do you know it is quite vain?” said Phillip, feeling weak.

“Because it is obvious to everyone except yourself. She isn’t your sort. She laughs at you behind your back.”

“How do you know, Des? Who told you?”

“I shan’t say. But I do know. Just as I know that you are losing your happiness because of her. She isn’t worth it.”

Phillip hardly knew what to say. What did Desmond know? Had he been talking to someone who knew the truth? No doubt Mrs. Rolls was only being kind. She was sorry for him, that was it. The Swift, his hopes of the new life with the Navvies’ battalion, all seemed grey, like the mist over the fields.

“Why can’t we be as we were? Aren’t I enough for you?” asked Desmond.

“Well Des, of course you’re my great friend, but honestly, what I think about her does not affect you and me.”

“I say it does.”

Phillip laughed, partly from nervousness. Desmond gripped his arm.

“Does it seem a matter only for laughing, that I am concerned for our friendship?”

“Let go my arm! Aren’t you being just a little melodramatic, old chap?”

“Very well, if that’s your attitude, I’ve no more to say.”

The Swift was standing under a large oak. A labourer in front was digging in a deep ditch beside the road, on which lay many acorns, some squashed by carts which were unloading dung on the stubble field over the hedge.

“Is this the way to Becontree Heath?” Phillip called out.

“Straight on, sir, and turn left at the village.”

“What’s the name of the village?”

“Thet be Dagenham.”

Desmond drove on unspeaking, and in half an hour they were at Hornchurch. Asking for the headquarters of the battalion, Phillip was told it was at Grey Towers, the turrets of which could be seen among trees.

Fifty yards inside the gate was a wooden hut, set to one side of the gravel drive. He stopped, and knocked at the door, entered, and saw a red-faced youth half-risen from a blanket-covered trestle table and shouting, “What the bloody hell do you want? I told you I haven’t got the blasted book of railway warrants, didn’t I?”

To Phillip’s surprise the young captain was addressing an old major, whose face showed amusement.

“Second Lieutenant Maddison reporting for duty, sir!”

“——off!” replied the captain amiably. “This isn’t the Orderly Room. Anyway you’re bloody late.”

“Can you direct me to the Orderly Room, sir.”

“The Old Man and the Adj. are in town. This is ‘A’ Company’s Office. —— off!”

“Where shall I —— off to, sir?” asked Phillip, observing a look of humour in the eyes of this very young captain. Before the captain could reply, he gave brief details of himself, standing to attention, aware that the large hands before him on the blanket table were red and raw, the lips thick, the band of the new service cap already saturated with hair-oil, the fingers yellow with nicotine.

The old major looked at Phillip quizzically. “Weren’t you the young feller that come to see Colonel Broad at Alexandra Palace, on a motor-cycle with O.H.M.S. painted across the forks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had a nerve, didn’t you, to call yourself O.H.M.S.?”

“I was on His Majesty’s Service, sir.”

“Is that your car outside?” asked the captain suddenly looking up.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that O.H.M.S. likewise?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’s the tommy sitting in it?”

“He’s a friend taking the runabout back to London for me.”

“You couldn’t have timed it better, cock! The major and I’ve got to hop up to town On His Majesty’s Service, so your friend can take us. You’ve been posted to Captain Kingsman’s Company. Go and ask the mess sergeant where that is. I’ll show you the mess, I’m just going there myself.”

He got up, shook himself into a greatcoat, with red piping on the epaulettes set with very new gilt stars, and said to the major, “We’re in Meredith, we’re in! I’ll bring your old iron back tonight O.H.M.S. You don’t mind my borrowing it, do you?”

“It’s got no lamps, sir.”

Outside the mess house Phillip gave Desmond a pound note, saying, “In case you need some petrol. If not, borrow it. Shove the ’bus in Wetherley’s before lighting-up time. I must get some carbide head-lamps. Meanwhile, ask him if he’s got any oil lamps, though O.H.M.S. will get past any copper.”

With mixed feelings Phillip watched the major getting in beside Desmond, to slam the door with violence. What about my new paint and varnish, he thought, as the captain put a nailed boot on a mudguard to get into the dickey seat, where he lolled sideways, knees up, breeched thighs and leather legs angular as he rested his spurs on the other mudguard. With a grating of gears the runabout drove away round the drive, the captain giving him a wave of his heavy ash-wood riding-crop.

“Of all the blasted cheek,” said Phillip, as he walked towards the ivy-covered house, and went through the porch into the hall.

“Good afternoon,” said a short, spruced-up officer, coming down the uncarpeted wooden stairs. “My name is Milman. May I be of assistance? I’m going away on four days’ leave, and my bed is at your disposal if you need one. Perhaps I may show you your room? The mess president is away, at the moment. What about your valise?”

“I didn’t bring it. I hoped to be able to go back for it. Can you tell me where I can find Captain Kingsman?”

“He’s just gone on week-end leave.”

“Oh hell. Who’s in command of the Company, in his absence, d’you know?”

“Captain Bason.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He’s just left for Town,” said a tall dark subaltern coming down the stairs.

“I think I can fix you up with some kit,” smiled Milman. Phillip had liked him at once. He was alert, dapper, with brown upturned moustaches, and looked about twenty-five.

“I’d like to introduce to you my great friend, Thompson,” he said.

“How do you do?” said Phillip.

“Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Not so dusty.”

“Splendid! Let me show you the geography of the place.”

“This way,” said Milman, giving way for Phillip to follow Thompson.

Upstairs, in a large bare room with camp-beds, Phillip waited
while one found him a towel, the other offered use of razor, soap, and folding camp mirror. An ancient batman stood by, a thin broken-pearly forelock pressed with water on his brow. Long horizontal waxed strings of a Matabele moustache wandered around the lobes of his ears. His left breast had all the old ribands.

While this was going on, a third officer at the far end of the room remained standing there with his back turned to the others. He was dipping a toothbrush into a saucer, and rubbing it into his hair. Milman, doing the honours, called to him across the room, “May I introduce——” whereupon a lined face set with sandy eyes under sparse hair lying back in streaks from the forehead was turned in their direction.

“Permit me to finish my toilet before you assault me in my dressing-room with your blasted pretentiousness, will you?” and the owner of the voice returned to work with the toothbrush.

Milman, for a moment, seemed to be quelled. He looked a little helpless, then recovering, said to Phillip, “May I offer you the services of my batman to show you the geography of the place?”

“Don’t forget the ‘laounge’,” called out the man with the toothbrush.

“Very good, sir!” cried the batman. “It’s a nice little place, you’ll find, and very comfortable, is the laounge. You can enjoy yourself there.”

Phillip imagined himself telling Mrs. Neville all about the comic scene: the batman’s head on his stringy neck shaking slightly; his cheeks sunken, the spikes of his waxed moustache sticking out wider than his ears, despite the ears being set almost at right angles to the skull. The ears of an earnest, human cabbage, saying, “We’ll come to the laounge presently, sir. I’ll show you it all in good time. First, here is the geography of the place!” He flung open a door, inviting Phillip to enter. “A moment, sir!” as he pushed past him, apparently to remove a solitary floating match-stick by pulling the plug. “Very comfortable, sir, you see.”

“And this is the bath-room,” as he flung open another door. As though to demonstrate further the principle of water seeking the lowest level, he turned on first one tap, then the other.

“Nothing like a good ’ot bath once-ta-week, sir!”

“I prefer a cold tub, myself,” said Phillip.

“Yes, sir, a pukka sahib’s cold tub, quite right, sir! This way, sir, mind the stairs, sir, they’re slippery with elbow grease.”

At the bottom by the newel post the small officer with the Kaiser moustache was waiting. With a wave of the hand he stepped back from the open door of a room, to allow Phillip to enter before him. The batman hurried in afterwards, saying, “This ’ere’s the laounge, sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s my turn to be the wine-waiter straight away.” He disappeared.

“Will you care to have a drink with me?” said Milman, with a couple of twists upon his moustache. “You will? I’ll ring for the wine-waiter.”

The old batman reappeared, wearing a white jacket, and apologising for not wearing what he called the ‘mascot’. He took the order, and while he was away, Milman’s friend, Thompson, joined them. Phillip began to enjoy himself. It was better than he had expected. The batman came in with a tray bearing three glasses of whiskey, and a siphon of soda. He now wore, proudly it seemed, a small silver shield on a chain round his neck, engraved PORT. He nodded and smiled at Phillip like an old friend, and said, “Sorry, gents, I forgot me gloves this time. Wood, all wood,” as he tapped his head.

Phillip thought that he would show no surprise at this unusual sort of mess. Seeing his eyes on the silver label, Milman said, when the waiter had gone, “The label should be worn for mess dinner, of course, and then only on social nights when the King’s health is proposed by the orderly officer.”

“I see. Is that an old regimental custom?”

“I rather think it was an idea of Major Fluck, the Mess President.”

“Oh yes?”

At this point Thompson said to Milman that they had not too much time if they were to catch their train, and making their excuses for leaving him alone, the two friends went upstairs together; to reappear, as Phillip was ordering himself another whiskey, in identical greatcoats with slung haversacks, calf-skin gloves, and leather-covered short canes. Both looked in the door to say, “Au revoir”, before departing. He watched the two walking down the drive in step, Milman taking long strides and Thompson short ones.

He sat down with
The
Daily
Trident.
Opening it, he read that fireworks had been forbidden in London “under severe penalties”, on Guy Fawkes’ night. Then the
communique
from the Western Front. Nothing of further interest, so throwing down the newspaper, he collected a pile of periodicals on his lap. The first was
an old copy of
Land
and
Water.
An article on Strategy by Hilaire Belloc caught his eye. Uncle Hugh used to quote a poem about the Boer War by Belloc, something about gold and diamond mines, a satire. Belloc’s article proving to be unreadable, he turned the pages of
Punch,
They reminded him of unfunny jokes in the dreary dentists’ room in the High Road, so
Punch
fell to the floor with
Land
and
Water.
Tit
Bits
flopped on top of
Punch.
He read the
Things
we
want
to
know
column in
London
Mail
,
then took
The
Times,
to seek in the
Roll
of
Honour
casualties in the Gaultshires; a few names only, none he recognised; obviously the Loos casualties were not yet published. His eye ran down
The
London
Gazette,
wondering if there had been any promotions in the other regiments with which he had served. Ah, Flynn, the bed-wetter, had resigned his commission in the Cantuvellaunians, on grounds of ill-health. Who else had been hoofed out? He sought other entries of officers coming unstuck, or
stellenbosched,
as Lieut. Brendon, who had served in the Boer War, called it. There were several ways in which an officer could be turfed out of the army, beginning with
resigns
on
account of
ill-health,
otherwise incompetence, for genuine ill-health would merit
invalided
out
of
the
service,
which meant a pension.
Resigns
his
commission
was rather bad, but
Resigns
his
commission,
the
King
having
no
further
use
for
his
ser
vices,
was worse.
Dismissed
the
service
by
sentence
of
a
General
Court
Martial
was a disgrace.
Cashiered
was the end of all things, for you would not then serve again, even as a private.

He pressed the bell, and ordered a large whiskey and soda; then taking out his pocket book, added the sum of £1 to the column of figures which represented previous loans to Desmond, now a total of £19 10s. He had kept account of these items as he kept his own column of receipts each month from pay and allowances, and also half-quarterly payments of salary from the Moon Fire Office. With relief he determined that his account, when Wetherley’s cheque had been presented, would still be about £11 in credit. Officers who gave dud cheques, or stumers as they were called, faced court-martial, and at best dismissal from the service; at worst, they were cashiered. He had known that his account was in funds, and knew also that Wetherley had some security for £10 at least in the motor-bike.