The Soldier's Art (19 page)

“Max …” shouted Mrs. Maclintick.

She uttered this call from the bedroom. A faint answering cry came from
another room further up the short passage. Its message was indeterminate, the
tone, high and tremulous, bringing back echoes of a voice that had twittered
through myriad forgotten night-clubs in the small hours.

“We’ve got a visitor, Max,” shouted Mrs. Maclintick again.

“I hope there’ll turn out to be some beer left,” said Moreland. “I don’t
feel all that sure.”

He went into the kitchen. I remained in the passage. A door
slowly opened at the far end. Max
Pilgrim appeared, a tall willowy figure in horn-rimmed spectacles and a green brocade
dressing gown. It was years since I had last seen him, where, I could not even
remember, whether in the distance at a party, or, less likely, watching his act
at some cabaret show. For a time he had shared a flat with Isobel’s brother,
Hugo, but we had not been in close touch with Hugo at that period, and had, as
it happened, never visited the place. There had been talk of Pilgrim giving up
his performances in those days and joining Hugo in the decorating business.
Even at that time, Pilgrim’s songs had begun to “date”, professionally
speaking. However, that project had never come off, and, whatever people might
say about being old-fashioned, Pilgrim continued to find himself in demand
right up to the outbreak of war. Now, of course, he expressed to audiences all
that was most nostalgic. Although his hair was dishevelled – perhaps because of
that – he looked at this very moment as if about to break into one of his
songs. He moved a little way up the passage, then paused.

“Here you are at last, my dears,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I
am to see you. You must forgive what I’m looking like, which must be a perfect
sight. I took off my slap before going to bed and am presenting you with a
countenance natural and unadorned, something I’m always most unwilling to do.”

He certainly appeared pale as death. I had
thought at first he was merely looking much older than I
remembered.
Now I accepted as
explanation what he had said about lack
 
of make-up. I noticed, too, that his right hand was
bandaged. The voice was fainter than usual. He
looked uncertainly at me, disguised in uniform. I
explained I was Hugo’s brother-in-law; that we had met once or twice
the past. Pilgrim took my right hand in his left.

“My dear …”

“How are you?”

“I’ve been having a most unenjoyable evening,” he said.

He did not at once release my hand. For some reason I felt a sudden
lack of ease, an odd embarrassment, even apprehension, although absolutely
accustomed to the rather unduly fervent social manner he was employing. I tried
to withdraw from his grasp, but he held on tenaciously, almost as if he were
himself requiring actual physical support.

“We hoped you were coming on from the Madrid to join us at dinner,” I
said. “Hugh tells me you were doing some of the real old favourites there.”

“I was.”

“Did you leave the Madrid too late?”

Then Max Pilgrim let go my hand. He folded his arms. His eyes were
fixed on me. Although no longer linked to him by his own grasp, I continued to
feel indefinably uncomfortable.

“You knew the Madrid?” he asked.

“I’ve been there – not often.”

“But enjoyed yourself there?”

“Always.”

“You’ll never do that again.”

“Why not?”

‘The Madrid is no more,” he said.

“Finished?”

“Finished.”

The season or just your act?”

The place – the building – the tables
and chairs – the dance-floor – the walls – the ceiling – all those gold
pillars. A bomb hit the Madrid
full pitch this evening.”

“Max …”

Mrs. Maclintick let out a cry. It was
a reasonable moment to give expression to a sense of horror. Moreland had come
into the passage from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of beer and three glasses. He stood for a moment, saying
nothing; then we all went into the sitting-room. Pilgrim at once took the
arm-chair. He nursed his bound hand, rocking himself slowly forward and back.

“In the middle of my act,” he said. “It was getting the bird in a big
way. Never experienced the like before, even on tour.”

“So there
was
a blitz earlier in
the evening,” said Moreland.

“There was,” said Pilgrim. “There certainly was.”

No one spoke for some seconds. Pilgrim continued to sit in the chair,
looking straight in front of him, holding his wounded hand with the other. I
knew there was a question I ought to ask, but felt almost physically inhibited
from forming the words. In the end, Mrs. Maclintick, not myself, put the
enquiry.

“Anybody killed?”

Pilgrim nodded.

“Many?”

Pilgrim nodded again.

“Helped to get some of them out,” he said.

“There were a lot?”

“Of course it’s a ghastly muddle on these occasions,” he said. “Frenzied.
Like Dante’s Inferno. All in the black-out too. The wardens and I carried out
six or seven at least. Must have. They’d all had it. I knew some of them
personally. Nasty business, I can assure you. I suppose a few got away with it
– like myself. They tried to persuade me to go with them and have some
treatment, but after I’d had my hand bound up, all I wanted was home, sweet
home. It’s only a scratch, so I came back and tucked up. But I’m glad you’re
all here. Very glad.”

There was no escape now. So far as possible, certainty had to be
established. An effort must be made.

“Bijou Ardglass was there with a party.”

Pilgrim looked at me with surprise.

“You knew that?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Were you asked? If so, you were lucky to have another engagement.”

“They were —”

“Bijou’s table was just where it came through the ceiling.”

“So —”

“I’m afraid it was Bijou’s last party.”

Pilgrim glanced away, quickly passing the bandaged hand across his
eyes. It was an instinctive, not in the least dramatised, gesture.

“But the rest of them?”

“No one survived from that corner. That was where the worst of the
damage was done. My end of the room wasn’t so bad. That’s why I’m here now.”

“You’re sure all the Ardglass party —”

“They were the ones I helped carry out,” said Pilgrim.

He spoke quite simply.

“Chips Lovell —”

“He’d been at the table.”

Moreland looked across at me. Mrs. Maclintick took Pilgrim’s arm.

“How did you get back yourself, Max?” she asked.

“I got a lift on one of the fire-engines. Can you imagine?”

“Here,” said Moreland. “Have some beer.”

Pilgrim took the glass.

“I’d known Bijou for years,” he said. “Known her when she was a little
girl with a plait trying to get a job in the chorus. Wasn’t any good for some
reason. Can’t think why, because she had the Theatre in her blood both sides.
Do you know, Bijou’s father played Abanazar in
Aladdin
when my mother was Principal Boy in the same show? Anyway, it all
turned out best for Bijou in the end. Did much better as a mannequin than she’d
ever have done on the boards. Met richer men, for one thing.”

There was a pause. Moreland cleared his throat uncomfortably. Mrs.
Maclintick sniffed. In the far distance, unexpectedly soon, the All Clear droned.
It was followed, an instant later, by a more local siren.

“That one didn’t take long,” Moreland said.

“Another tip-and-run raider,” said Pilgrim. “The fashion of the moment.”

“It was a single plane caught the Madrid?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll make some tea,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Do us good.”

“Just what I need, Audrey, my dear,” said Pilgrim, sighing. “I couldn’t
think what it was. Now I know it’s tea – not beer at all.”

He drank the beer all the same. Mrs. Maclintick went off to the
kitchen. It became clear that an unpleasant duty must be performed. There was
no avoiding it. Priscilla would have to be told about the Madrid as soon as
possible. If I called up the Jeavonses’ house right away, the telephone, with
any luck, would be answered by Molly Jeavons herself. I could tell her what had
happened. She could break the news. So far as that went, even to make the
announcement to Molly would be bad enough. It might be hard on her to have to
tell Priscilla, but at least Molly was, by universal consent, a person adapted
by nature to such harrowing tasks; warm-hearted, not over sensitive, grasping
immediately the needs of the bereaved, saying just what was required, emotional
yet never incapacitated by emotion. Molly, if I were lucky, would do the job.
There was always the chance Priscilla herself flight be at
the other end of the line. That was a risk that had to be taken into
consideration. In a cowardly way, I delayed action
until Mrs. Maclintick had returned with the tea. After finishing a cup, I asked if I
might use the telephone.

“By the bed,” said Moreland.

Pilgrim began to muse aloud.

“Strange those young Germans up there trying to kill me,” he murmured
to himself. “Ungrateful too. I’ve always had such good times in Berlin.”

The bedroom was more untidy than would ever have been allowed in Matilda’s day. I sat on the edge of the bed and dialled the Jeavons number. There was no buzz. I tried again.
After several unsuccessful attempts, none of which even achieved the “number
obtainable” sound, I rang the Exchange. There were further delays. Then the operator
tried the Jeavons number. That, too, was unproductive. No sound of ringing
came. The line was out of order. I gave it
up and returned to the sitting-room.

“I can’t get through. I’ll have to go.”

“Stay the night, if you like,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “You can sleep on the sofa. Maclintick often did in our Pimlico place. Spent
almost more time there than he did in bed.”

The offer was unexpected, rather touching in the circumstances. I saw
she was probably able to look after Moreland better than I thought.

“No – thanks all the same. As I failed on the telephone, I’ll have to go in person.”

“Priscilla?” said Moreland.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

“What a job,” he said.

Max Pilgrim gathered his dressing gown round him. He yawned and stretched.

“I wonder when the next one will arrive,” he said. “Worse than waiting
for the curtain to go up.”

I said good night to them. Moreland came to the door.

“I suppose you’ve really got to do this?” he said.

“Not much avoiding it.”

“Glad it’s not me,” he said.

“You’re right to be.”

There seemed no more taxis left in London. I walked for a time, then,
totally unlooked for at that hour, a bus stopped by the place I was passing.
Without any very clear idea of doing more than move in a south-westerly direction,
I boarded it, in this way travelled as far as a stop in the neighbourhood of
Gloucester Road. Here the journey had to be resumed on foot. The pavements were
endless, threading a way down them like those interminable rovings pursued in
dreams. Cutting through several side turnings, I at last found myself among a
conjunction of dark red brick Renaissance-type houses. In one of these the
Jeavonses had lived for twenty years or more, an odd centre of miscellaneous
hospitality to which Chips Lovell himself had first taken me. In the lower
reaches of their street, two fire-engines were drawn up. By the light of
electric torches, firemen and air-raid wardens were passing in and out of one
of the front-doors. This particular house turned out to be the Jeavonses’. In
the dark, little was to be seen of what was happening. Apart from these dim
figures going to and fro, like the trolls in
Peer Gynt
, nothing seemed abnormal
about the façade. There was no sign of damage to the structure. One of the
wardens, in helmet and overalls, stopped by the steps and lit a cigarette.

“Did this house get it?”

“About an hour ago,” he said, “that last tip-and-run raider.”

“Anybody hurt?”

He took the cigarette from his mouth and nodded.

“I know the people – are they about?”

“You know Mr. Jeavons and Lady Molly?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve only just arrived here?”

“That’s it.”

“Mr. Jeavons and me are on the same warden-post,” he said. “They’ve taken him down there. Giving him a cup of tea.”

“Was he injured?”

“It was her.”

“Badly?”

The warden looked at me as if I should not have asked that question.

“You hadn’t heard?” he said.

“No.”

“Didn’t survive.”

He went on speaking at once, as if from a kind of embarrassment at
having to announce such a thing.

“She and the young lady,” he said. “It was all at the back of the
house. You wouldn’t think there was a jot of damage out here in front, but
there’s plenty inside, I can tell you. Dreadful thing. Used to see a lot of
them. Always very friendly people. Got their newspapers from me, matter of
fact. If you know them, there’s a lady inside can tell you all about it.”

“I’ll go in.”

He threw away the stub of his cigarette and trod on it

“So long,” he said.

“So long.”

He was right about there being a mess inside. A woman m some sort of
uniform was giving instructions to the People clearing up. She turned out to be
Eleanor Walpole-Wilson.

“Eleanor.”

She looked round.

“Hallo, Nick,” she said. “Thank goodness you’ve come.”

She did not seem at all surprised to see me. She came across the hall.
Now in her middle thirties, Eleanor was less unusual in appearance than as a
girl. No doubt uniform suited her. Though her size and shape had also become
more conventional, she retained an air of having been never properly
assimilated to either sex. At the same time, big and broad-shouldered, she was
not exactly a “mannish” woman. Her existence might have been more viable had
that been so.