The Soldier's Art (16 page)

“Well, old
cock,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. This is a bit of luck. What are you up
to? On leave, or stationed in London?”

Before I could
answer, Priscilla herself came up to the table. She had followed Stevens almost
at once. There was not much else for her to do. Even if she might have
preferred to postpone a meeting, in due course inevitable, or, like myself,
hoped to reduce contacts to no more than a nod or brief word at the end of the
evening, Stevens had given her no chance to impede his own renewal of
acquaintance. His principle was to work on impulse. Nothing could have
prevented him from making the move he had. Now that had taken place, she no
doubt judged the best tactical course was to ally herself with this explosive
greeting; as good a way of handling the situation as any other, if it had to be
handled at all. Besides, Priscilla may have felt that, by joining us, she could
keep
an eye on Stevens; modify, if necessary, whatever
he might say.

“Yes, why are
you here, Nick?” she asked, speaking challengingly, as if I, rather than her,
found myself in doubtful company. “I thought you were miles away across the
sea. And Hugh – how marvellous to see you again after so long. I was listening
to something of yours in a B.B.C. programme last week.”

She was
perfectly self-possessed. If aware of rumours afloat about herself and Stevens
– of which she could hardly be ignorant, had she bothered to give a moment’s
thought to the matter – Priscilla was perfectly prepared to brazen these out.
The two of them could not know, of course, how narrowly they had missed Lovell
himself. Perhaps, again, neither cared. Lovell’s taste for drama would
certainly have been glutted, had they arrived an hour or so earlier. In the
group we now formed, Moreland was the one who seemed most embarrassed.
Conventionally speaking, he had not risen to the occasion very successfully.
His highly developed intuitive faculties had instantly registered something was
amiss; while the mere fact he had himself once been in love with Priscilla was,
in any case, enough to agitate him, when unexpectedly confronted with her. No
doubt he was also piqued at her coming on him in circumstances which must
reveal sooner or later he and Mrs. Maclintick were making a life together. He
muttered something or other about whatever composition Priscilla had heard on the
radio, but seemed unable to pursue any coherent conversation. Mrs. Maclintick
stared at Stevens without friendliness, though a good deal of curiosity, a
reception that seemed perfectly to satisfy him.

“Look here,”
he said. “Are you all having a very special private party? If not, couldn’t we
come and sit with you? This is the chance of a lifetime to make a jolly evening
of my last night in London for a long time – who knows, perhaps for ever. I’m
on embarkation leave, you know, have to catch a train back to my unit to-night.”

He began
addressing this speech to me, but, half-way through, turned towards Mrs.
Maclintick, as if to appeal to her good nature. She did not offer much
encouragement; at the same time issued no immediate refusal.

“Anything you
like,” she said. “I’m too tired to care much what happens. Been on my feet all
day doling out shepherd’s pie made of sausage meat and stale swiss roll all
minced up together. But don’t expect Moreland to pay. I’ve let him have enough
out of the house-keeping money to cover our share of dinner – and an extra
round of drinks if we can get that.”

Moreland made
some sort of protest at this, half amused, half ashamed. Stevens, obviously
assessing Mrs. Maclintick’s measure at a glance (just as Stringham had, at the
party years before after Moreland’s symphony), laughed loudly. She glared at
him for treating her self-pity so lightly, but, although fierce in expression,
her stare was not entirely one of dislike.

“We’ll be
absolutely self-supporting, I promise that,” said Stevens. “I’ve only got a
quid or two left myself, but Priscilla cashed a cheque earlier in the day, so
we’ll have to prise it out of her if necessary.”

“You may not
find that so easy,” said Priscilla, laughing too, though perhaps not best
pleased at this indication of being permanently in the company of Stevens. “In
the end Nick will probably have to fork out, as a relation. Will if really be
all right if we join you, Nick?”

Although she
said this lightly, in the same sort of vein used by Stevens himself, she spoke
now with less assurance than he. Certainly she would, in any case, have
preferred no such suggestion to be made. Once put, she was not going to run
counter to it. She was determined to support her lover, show nothing was going
to intimidate her. No doubt she had hoped to spend the evening tête-à-tête with
him, especially if this were his last night in England. Even apart from that,
there was, from her own point of view, nothing whatever to be said for
deliberately joining a group of people that included a brother-in-law. On the
other hand, she had perhaps already learnt the impossibility of dissuading
Stevens from doing things the way he wanted them done. Perhaps, again, that was
one of the attractions he exercised, in contrast with Lovell, usually amenable
in most social matters. Stevens clearly possessed one of those personalities
that require constant reinforcement for their egotism and energy by the
presence and attention of other people round them, an audience to whom they can
“show off.” Such men are attractive to women, at the same time hard for women
to keep at heel. For my own part, I would much rather have prevented the two of
them from sitting with us, but, short of causing what might almost amount to a “scene,”
there seemed no way of avoiding this. Even assuming I made some more or less
discouraging gesture, that was likely to prove not only rather absurd, but also
useless from Lovell’s point of view; perhaps even undesirable where Lovell’s
interests were in question.

“I mean you
look a bit uncertain, Nick?” said Priscilla, laughing again.

Obviously the
thoughts going through my head were as clear as day to her.

“Don’t be
silly.”

“Half a
minute,” said Stevens. “I’ll try and find a waiter and get another chair. We
can’t all cram together on the banquette.”

He went off.
Mrs. Maclintick began some complicated financial computation
with Moreland. This was going to hold the attention of the pair of them for a
minute or two. Priscilla had sat down, and, perhaps because she felt herself
more vulnerable without Stevens, had her head down, fumbling in her bag, as if
she wanted to avoid my eye. I felt some statement should be made which might,
at least to some small extent, define my own position. It was now or never. Any
such “statement” was, I thought, to be conceived of as the term is made use of
by the police, for the description of an accident or crime, a brief summary of
what happened, how and why it took place or was committed.

“I had a drink
with Chips this evening.”

She looked up.

“
Chips
?”

“Here – just
before dinner. He thought he might see you at Bijou Ardglass’s party at the
Madrid.”

That
information would at least prevent her from taking Stevens to the restaurant,
had the thought been in her mind, though, at the same time, could prejudice any
faint chance of herself looking in at the Ardglass party after Stevens had left
to catch his train. Such a possibility had to be faced. A chance must be taken
on that. It was, in any case, unlikely she would go later to the Madrid.
Everything would close down by midnight at the latest, probably before that.

“Oh, but is
Chips in London?”

She was
plainly surprised.

“At Combined
Ops.”

“On the
Combined Ops staff?”

“Yes.”

“That was only
a possibility when I last heard.”

“It’s
happened.”

“Chips thought
the move wouldn’t be for a week or two, even if it came off. His last letter
only reached me this morning. It chased all over the country after me. I’m at
Aunt Molly’s.”

“I’ll give you
the Combined Ops number and extension.”

“I had to put
Bijou off,” she said quite calmly. “I’ll get in touch with Chips to-morrow.”

“He thought
you might be at the Jeavonses’.”

“Why didn’t he
ring up then?”

“He hoped he
was going to see you at the Madrid – make a surprise of it.”

She did not
rise to that.

“The Jeavons
house is more of a shambles than ever,” she said. “Eleanor Walpole-Wilson is
there – Aunt Molly usen’t to like her, but they’re great buddies now – and then
there are two Polish officers whose place was bombed and had nowhere to go, and
a girl who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor.”

“Who’s having
a baby by a Norwegian sailor?” asked Stevens. “No one we know, I hope.”

He had come
back to the table at that moment. Such as it was, my demonstration had been
made, was now, of necessity, over. There was nothing more to be said. The
situation could only be accepted, until, in one field or another, further
action might be required. That, at least, was so far as I myself was concerned.
Recognition of this as a fact seemed unavoidable. The return of Stevens brought
about a reshuffle of places, resulting in Mrs. Maclintick finding herself next
him on the banquette with me on the other side of her. Priscilla and Moreland
were opposite. This seating had been chiefly organised by Stevens himself,
possibly with no more aim than a display of power. I congratulated him on his
M.C.

“Oh, that?” he
said. “Pretty hot stuff to have one of those, isn’t it? I really deserved it – we
both did – for putting up with that Aldershot course when we first met. It was
far more gruelling than anything expected of
me
later – those lectures
on the German army. Christ, I dream about
them. Are you at the War House or somewhere?”

“On leave – going
down to the country tomorrow.”

“Hope you have
as much fun on it as I’ve had on mine,” he said.

He seemed
totally unaware that, among members of Priscilla’s family – myself,
for example – conventional reservations might exist regarding the part he was
at that moment playing; that at least they might not wish to hear rubbed in
what an enjoyable time he had been having as her lover. All the same,
shamelessness of any kind, perhaps rightly, always exacts a certain respect.
Lovell himself was no poor hand at displaying
cheek. As usual, a kind of poetic justice was observable in what was happening.

“I suppose
your destination is secret?”

“Don’t quote
me, but there’s been a tropical issue.”

“Middle East?”

“That’s my
opinion.”

“Might be the
Far East.”

“You never
know. I think the other myself.”

Until then
Moreland had been sitting in silence, apparently unable, or unwilling, to cope
with the changed composition of the party at the table. This awkwardness with
new arrivals had always been a trait of his, and probably had little or nothing
to do with the comparatively unfamiliar note struck by the personality and
conversation of Stevens. A couple of middle-aged music critics he had known all
his life might have brought about just the same sort of temporary stoppage in
Moreland’s conversation. Later, he would recover; talk them off their feet.
Now, this change took place, he spoke with sudden animation.

“My God, I
wish I could be transplanted to the Far East without further delay,” he said. “I’d
be prepared to be like Brahms and play the piano in a brothel – even play Brahms’s own compositions in a
brothel, part of the
Requiem
would be
very suitable – if I could only be somewhere like Saigon or Bangkok, leave
London and the blackout behind.”

“A naval
officer I talked to on a bus the other day, just back from Hong Kong, reported
life there as bloody amusing,” said Stevens. “But look, Mr. Moreland, there’s
something I must tell you before we go any further. Of course, I wanted to see
Nicholas again, that was why I came over, but another pretty considerable item
was that I had recognised you. I saw a chance of telling you personally what a
fan of yours I am. Hearing your
Tone Poem
Vieux Port
performed at Birmingham was one of the
high spots of my early life. I was about sixteen, I suppose. You’ve probably
forgotten Birmingham ever had a chance of hearing it, or you yourself ever came
there. I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to meet you and say how much it thrilled
me.”

This was an
unexpected trump card for Stevens to play. Moreland, always modest about his
own works, showed permissible signs of pleasure at this sudden hearty praise
from such an unexpected source. Music was an entirely new line from Stevens, so
far as I knew him, until this moment. Obviously it constituted a weapon in his
armoury, perhaps a formidable one. He had certainly opened up operations on an
extended front since our weeks together at Aldershot. Mrs. Maclintick broke in
at this point.

“Vieux Port’s
the one Maclintick always liked,” she said. “He used to go on about that piece
of music until I told him never to mention the thing to me again.”

“When it was
performed at Birmingham, Maclintick was about the only critic who offered any
praise,” said Moreland. “Even that old puss Gossage was barely civil. The rest
of the critics buried my music completely and me with it. I feel now like Nero
meeting in Hades the unknown mourner who strewed flowers on his grave.”

“You’re not in
your grave yet, Moreland,” said Mrs. Maclintick, “nor even in Hades, though you
always talk as if you were. I never knew such a morbid man.”

“I meant the grave of my
works rather than my own,” said Moreland. “That’s what it looked like
that year at Birmingham.
Anyway, not being dead’s no argument against feeling like Nero. Quite the reverse.”

“Not much hope
of a Roman orgy here,” said Stevens. “Even the food’s hard to wallow in, don’t
you agree, Mrs. Maclintick?”