The Complete McAuslan (31 page)

He sighed. ‘When you consider the power of the human brain, ye feel small,’ he began, and I could see that we were going to be off shortly on another fine philosophic Hebridean flight. So I left him, and went to find Sergeant McCaw and confirm his selection.

The next week was just ridiculous. You’d have thought the Jocks wouldn’t even be interested in such an arcane and contemptible business as an inter-regimental general knowledge competition, but they treated it like the World Cup. Scotsmen, of course, if they feel that national prestige is in any way at stake, tend to go out of their minds; tell them there was to be a knitting bee against England and they would be on the touch-line shouting ‘Purl, Wullie! See’s the chain-stitch, but!’ And as is the case with British regiments anywhere, they and the Fusiliers detested each other heartily. That, and the subtle influence which I’m sure the Colonel percolated through the unit by some magic of his own, was enough to make the quiz the burning topic of the hour.

I first realised this when, during a ten-minute halt on a short route march, Private Fletcher of the lantern visage and inventive mind mentioned the quiz to me, and observed artlessly, as he borrowed a light: ‘Would be a’ right if ye knew what the questions wis goin’ tae be, wouldnit?’ Once upon a time I’d have thought this just a silly remark, but I knew my Fletcher by now.

‘It would,’ I said. ‘But if somebody was to bust into the education officer’s premises at night, and start rifling his papers, that wouldn’t be all right. Know what I mean?’

‘Whit ye take me fur?’ He was all hurt surprise. ‘Ah wis just mentionin’. Passin’ the time.’ He paused. ‘They say the odds is five tae two against us.’

‘You mean there’s a book being made? And we’re not favourites? ’

‘No kiddin’, sur. The word’s got roond. See the Padre? He’s a wandered man, that; he disnae know what time it is. Ye cannae depend on him.’

‘He’s an intelleck-shul, but,’ observed Daft Bob Brown.

‘Intellectual yer granny. Hear him the ither Sunday? On aboot the Guid Samaritan, an’ the Levite passin’ by on the ither side, an’ whit a helluva shame it wis, tae leave some poor sowel lyin’ in the road? Well seen the Padre hasnae been doon Cumberland Street lately. Ah’d dam’ soon pass by on the ither side. Becos if Ah didnae, Ah ken fine whit I’d get — half a dozen Billy Boys fleein’ oot a close tae banjo me.’

This naturally led to a theological discussion in which I bore no part; I’d been lured into debate on the fundamentals with my platoon before. Nor was I surprised that they held a poor opinion of the Padre’s intellect — he did have a tendency to wander off into a kind of metaphysical trance in the pulpit. Skye man, of course. But I was intrigued to find that they were interesting themselves in the quiz; even Private McAuslan.

‘Whit’s an intelleck-shul?’ he inquired.

‘A clever b—’, explained Fletcher, which is not such a bad definition, when you come to think of it. ‘Don’t you worry, dozey,’ he went on. ‘It disnae affect you. An intellectual’s a fella that can think.’

‘Ah can think,’ said McAuslan, aggrieved, and the platoon took him up on it, naturally.

‘What wi’?’

‘Your brains are in your bum, kid.’

‘Hey, sir, why don’t ye hiv McAuslan in yer quiz team?’

‘Aye, he’s the wee boy wi’ the brains.’

‘Professor McAuslan, N.B.G., Y.M.C.A. and bar.’

‘Right — fall in!’ I said, for McAuslan’s expression had turned from persecuted to murderous. He shuffled into the ranks, informing Fletcher raucously that he could think, him, he wisnae so bluidy dumb, and Fletcher wis awfy clever, wasn’t he, etc., etc.

But I hadn’t realised quite how gripped they were by quiz fever until I became aware, midway through the week, that I was being taken care of, solicitously, like a heavy-weight in training. I was conscious, in my leisure moments, of being watched; outside my window I heard my orderly say: ‘It’s a’ right; he’s readin’ a book,’ and on two other occasions he asked pointedly if he could get me anything from the library — a thing he’d never done before. My platoon behaved like Little Lord Fauntleroys, obviously determined to do nothing to disturb the equilibrium of the Great Brain; the Padre complained that he could get no work done for Jocks coming into his office to ask if he was all right, and could they get him anything. Sergeant McCaw, whose feeling for the proletariat did not prevent his being an oppressively efficient martinet with his own platoon, and consequently unpopular, reported that he had actually been brought tea in the morning; he was suspicious, and plainly apprehensive that the jacquerie were about to rise.

It reached a peak on the Thursday, when I was playing in a company football match, and was brought down by one of the opposition. Before I could move he was helping me up — ‘awfy sorry, sir, ye a’right? It was an accident, honest.’ And this from a half-back whose normal conduct on the field was that of a maddened clog-dancer.

By the Saturday afternoon I was convinced that if this kind of consideration didn’t stop soon, I would go out of my mind. The Padre was feeling it, too — I found him in the mess, muttering nervously, dunking egg-sandwiches in his tea and trying to eat them with a cigarette in his mouth. I believe if I had said anything nice to him or asked him who wrote
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
he would have burst into tears. The Colonel stalked in, full of fight, shot anxious glances at us, and decided that for once breezy encouragement would be out of place. The Adjutant said hopefully that he’d heard there was a touch of dysentery going round the Fusilier barracks, but on the other hand, he’d also heard that they had a full set of
The Children’s Encyclopedia,
so there wasn’t much in it, either way, really. You could feel the tension building up as we sat, munching scones; I was getting into a nervous state, and showed it by quoting to the Padre, ‘I would it were bedtime, Hal, and all well,’ and he started like a convulsed impala and cried: ‘
Henry the Fourth,
Part One! Or is it Part Two? No — Part One! — I think . . . Oh, dear, dear!’ and sank back, rubbing his brow.

It was a relief finally to get to the Uaddan Canteen, already filled with a light fog of smoke from the troops who packed the big concert hall. The rival factions of supporters had arranged themselves on either side of the centre aisle, so that on one hand the sea of khaki was dotted with the cockades on the caps which the Fusiliers had folded and thrust through their epaulettes, and on the other by dark green tartan shoulder flashes. There were even redcaps at the back of the hall; I found myself wondering whether there had ever been a general knowledge contest in history where they had called in the police even before the start.

In the centre of the front row sat the area commander, a portly, jovial brigadier with his complexion well seasoned by sun and booze, and on either side of him the Colonels, talking across him with a smiling jocularity you could have sliced bread on. Officers of both regiments, plus a few of the usual commissioned strays, made up the first two rows, and immediately behind them on the Highland side I saw the serried ranks of Twelve Platoon, with Private McAuslan to the fore eating chips from a huge, steaming bag with cannibal-like gusto. You could almost smell them on the platform.

All this I observed through a crack in the curtains at the back of the stage, where we and our opponents were briefly assembled, smiling uneasily at each other until we were given the word to file out on to the platform. We came out to a reception reminiscent of a Nuremberg rally which has got out of hand; the Fusiliers thundered their boots on the floor, while stern Caledonia on the other side got up and roared abuse across the aisle, sparing a decibel or two for the encouragement of their team. ‘There’s the wee boys!’ I recognised the cry of Private Fletcher, while McAuslan signified his support by standing on his chair and clapping his hands rhythmically above his head — unfortunately he was still holding his supper in one hand, not that he minded; if you’re McAuslan, a few chips in your hair is nothing.

We took our places, each side ranged on hard chairs behind two long Naafi tables on either side of the stage, and the question-master, a horn-rimmed young man with a long neck and the blue Education Corps flash on his shoulder, assembled his papers importantly at a little table in between. He was joined by Father Tuohy, the Roman Catholic chaplain, known locally as the Jovial Monk, who mitted the crowd to sustained applause, told a couple of quick stories, exchanged gags with the groundlings, and generally set the scene. (If ever the Palladium needs a compere at the last minute, they can simply engage the nearest military priest; I don’t know why, but there never was an R.C. padre yet who couldn’t charm the toughest audience into submission.)

Tuohy then explained the rules. There would be individual questions to each man in turn, on his particular subject. If he answered correctly, he got one point and could opt for a second slightly harder question, worth two points, and if again successful, attempt a third still harder question, worth three. If he failed at any stage he kept the points he had, but the question which had stumped him went to the opposition, who scored double if they got it right. At any turn, a contestant could ask for a ten-point question, which would be a real stinker, split into five parts, with two points for each, but unless he got at least four of the parts right, he scored nothing at all. It sounded fairly tricky, with pitfalls waiting for the ambitious.

While he talked, I glanced at our opponents — three officers, one of them a stout, shrewd-looking major, and a bespectacled warrant officer who looked like a Ph.D. and probably was. I glanced along at my companions: Forbes, looking villainous and confident, was sitting up straight with his elbows squared on the board; McCaw, beside him, showed signs of strain on his sallow, tight-skinned face; next to me the Padre was humming the Mingulay boat song between his teeth, his Adam’s apple giving periodic leaps, while he gazed up at the big moths fluttering round the lights. It was sweating hot.

‘Right,’ said Father Tuohy, smiling round genially. ‘All set?’ I could glimpse the sea of faces in the hall out of the corner of my eye; I wished I hadn’t eaten so many scones, for I was feeling decidedly ill — why? For a mere quiz? Yes, for a mere quiz. There was a muscle fluttering in my knee, and I wanted a drink, but I knew if I picked up the tumbler in front of me I’d drop it in sheer nervousness. Right — I’d play it safe, dead safe; no rash scrambling after points; nice and easy, by ear.

‘First general knowledge question to the Fusiliers,’ said the question-master; he had a rather shrill Home Counties voice. ‘What is a triptych?’

Well, thank God he hadn’t asked me. ‘Screens’ flashed across my mind, but I didn’t know, really. Private Fletcher evidently did, though, for in the pause following the question a grating Scottish voice from the body of the hall observed audibly:

‘That’s a right Catholic question, yon!’

Father Tuohy snorted with amusement, and composed himself while the Fusilier major answered — I don’t know what he said, but it earned him a point, and he asked for a second question.

‘With whom or what,’ said the question-master, ‘was Europa indiscreet —not necessarily on the firing-range?’ He smirked, lop-sidedly; ah-ha, I thought, we’ve got an intellectual joker here.

‘A bull,’ said the major, and looked across at me. I knew what he was thinking; the questions, for an army quiz, were middling tough; if he flunked on the third, would I be able to answer it and net six points? Wisely, at that stage of the game, he passed, and the question-master turned to me, his glasses a-gleam. Easy, easy, I thought, just sit and listen — and then some dreadful automatic devil inside me seized on my tongue and made me say, in a nonchalant croak:

‘I’d like a ten-pointer, please.’

The Padre actually gave a muted scream and shuddered away from me, the question-master sat up straight, there was a stir on the platform, a gasp from the hall, and then a bay of triumph from Twelve Platoon: ‘Darkie’s the wee boy! Get tore in!’ Just for a moment, amidst the horrifying realisation of what I’d done, I felt proud – and then I wanted to be sick. My fiend had prompted me to put on a show, for reasons of pure bravado ; if I managed to lift ten points it would be a tremendous psychological start. And if I failed? From the tail of my eye I could see the Colonel; he was clicking his lighter nervously.

‘For ten points then,’ said the question-master, rummaging out another sheaf of papers. ‘I’m going to give you the names of five famous horses, both real and legendary. For two points each, tell me the names of their owners.’ He paused impressively, and apart from the subterranean squelching in my throat, there wasn’t a sound. ‘Ronald. Pegasus. Bucephalus. Black Auster. And – ’ he gave me what looked like a gloating grin ‘ – Incitatus.’

Silence in the hall, and then from somewhere in Twelve Platoon a voice said in horrified awe: ‘Bluidy hell!’ The Colonel’s lighter clattered on the floor, I felt about two thousand eyes riveted on my sweating face – and relief was flooding over me like a huge wave. Take it easy, I was saying to myself; don’t let your tongue betray you. By a most gorgeous fluke, you’re in business. I took a deep breath, tried to keep my voice from shaking, and said:

‘In the same order . . . ahm . . . yes . . . the owners . . . er, would be.’ I paused, determined to get it right. ‘The Seventh Earl of Cardigan, Bellerophon, Alexander the Great, Titus Herminius – in Macaulay’s “Lays” – and the Roman Emperor Caligula.’

Forgive me for describing it, but in a life that has had its share of pursed lips, censorious glares, and downright abuse and condemnation, there haven’t been many moments like that one. It rocked the hall, although I say it myself. The question-master, torn between admiration and resentment at seeing one of his prize questions hammered into the long grass, stuttered, and said: ‘Right! Ten points – yes, ten points!’, the front two rows applauded briskly, the Fusilier major shaded his face with his hand and said something to the man next him, and Twelve Platoon threw up their sweaty nightcaps with abandon. (‘Gi’ the ba’ tae Darkie! Aw-haw-hey! Whaur’s yer triptyches noo?’ etc.) I lit a cigarette with trembling hands.