The Soldier's Art (14 page)

“So I should
imagine.”

“You liked
him?”

“We got on
pretty well.”

“Why was he
Returned-to-Unit?”

“For cutting a
lecture.”

Lovell seemed
all at once to lose interest in Stevens and his personality. His manner
changed. There could be no doubt he was very upset.

“So far as I
can see there was nothing particularly wrong with our marriage,” he said. “If I
hadn’t been sent to that God-awful spot, it would have gone on all
right. At least that’s how things appeared to me. I don’t particularly want a divorce
even now.”

“Is there any
question of a divorce?”

“It isn’t
going to be much fun living with a woman who’s in love with someone else.”

“Lots of
people do it, and
vice versa.”

“At best, it’s
never going to be the same.”

“Nothing ever
remains the same. Marriage or anything else.”

“I thought
your theory was that everything did always remain the same?”

“Everything
alters, yet does remain the same. It might even improve matters.”

“Do you really
think so?”

“Not really.”

“Neither do I,”
said Lovell, “though I see what you mean. That’s if she’s prepared to come back
and live with me. I’m not even sure of that. I think she wants to marry
Stevens.”

“She must be
mad.”

“Mad she may
be, but that’s the way she’s talking.”

“Where’s
Caroline?”

“My parents
are looking after her.”

“And Priscilla
herself?”

“Staying with
Molly Jeavons – though I only found out that by chance yesterday. She’s been
moving about among various relations, is naturally at times rather vague about
her whereabouts, so far as keeping me informed is concerned.”

“You’ve dished
all this up with her?”

“On my last
leave – making it a charming affair.”

“But lately?”

“Since then,
we’ve been out of touch more than once. We are at this moment, until I found,
quite by chance, she was at the Jeavonses’. I’m hoping to see her to-night.
That’s why I can’t dine with you.”

“You and
Priscilla are dining together?”

“Not exactly.
You remember Bijou Ardglass, that gorgeous mannequin, one-time girl-friend of
Prince Theodoric? I ran into her yesterday on my way to Combined Ops. She’s
driving for the Belgians or Poles, one of the Allied contingents – an odd
female organisation run by Lady McReith, whom Bijou was full of stories about.
Bijou asked me to a small party she is giving for her fortieth birthday, about
half-a-dozen old friends at the Madrid.”

“Bijou
Ardglass’s fortieth birthday.”

“Makes you
think.”

“I only knew
her by sight, but even so – and Priscilla will be there?”

“Bijou found
her at Aunt Molly’s. Of course Priscilla told Bijou I was on the East Coast. I
was when we last exchanged letters. I explained to Bijou I’d just been posted
to London at short notice – which was quite true – and hadn’t managed to get
together with Priscilla yet.”

“You haven’t
called up Priscilla at the Jeavonses’?”

“I thought it
would be best if we met at Bijou’s party – without Priscilla knowing I was
going to be there. I have a reason for that. The Madrid was the place we
celebrated our engagement. The Madrid might also be the place where we
straightened things out.”

That was just
like Lovell. Everything had to be staged. Perhaps he was right, and everything
does have to be staged. That is a system that can at least be argued as the
best. At any rate, people must run their lives on their own terms.

“I mean it’s
worth making an effort to patch things up,” he said, “don’t you think, Nick?”

He asked the
question as if he had no idea what the answer would be, possibly even expecting
a negative rather than affirmative one.

“Yes, of
course – every possible effort.”

“You can
imagine what all this is like going on in one’s head, round and round for ever,
while you’re trying to sort out a lot of bloody stuff about
radios and landing-craft. For instance, if she goes off with Stevens, think of
all the negotiations about Caroline, all that kind of thing.”

“Chips – Hugh
Moreland has appeared at the door on the other side of the room. Is there
anything else you want to say that’s urgent?”

“Nothing. I’ve
got it all off my chest now. That was what I needed. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“The point is,
you agree it’s worth taking trouble to get on an even keel again?”

“Can’t say it
too strongly.”

Lovell nodded
several times.

“And you’ll be
my executor?”

“Honoured.”

“I’ll write to
the solicitors then. Marvellous to have got that fixed. Hallo, Hugh, how are
you? Ages since we met.”

Dressed in his
familiar old blue suit, looking more than ever as if he made a practice of
sleeping in it, dark grey shirt and crimson tie, Moreland, hatless, seemed an
improbable survival from pre-war life. He was flushed and breathing rather
hard. This gave the impression of poorish health. His face, his whole person,
was thinner. The flush increased when he recognised Lovell, who must at once
have recalled thoughts of Priscilla. Even after this redness had died down, a
certain discoloration of the skin remained, increasing the suggestion that
Moreland was not well. There was a moment of awkwardness, in spite of Lovell’s
immediate display of satisfaction that they should have met again. This was
chiefly because Moreland seemed unwilling to commit himself by sitting at our
table; an old habit of his, one of those characteristic postponements of action
for which he was always laughing at himself, like his constitutional inability
in all circumstances to decide from a menu what he wanted to eat.

“I shall be taken
for a spy if I sit with you both,” he said. “Somehow I never expected you’d
really be wearing uniform, Nick, even though I knew you were in the army. I
must tell you of rather a menacing thing that happened the other day. Norman
Chandler appeared on my doorstep to hear the latest musical gossip. He’s also
become an officer, and we went off to get some lunch at Foppa’s, where neither
of us had been since the beginning of the war. The downstairs room was shut,
because the window had been broken by a bomb, so we went upstairs, where the
club used to be. There we found a couple of seedy-looking characters who said
the restaurant was closed. We asked where Foppa was to be found. They said they
didn’t know. They weren’t at all friendly. Positively disagreeable. Then I
suddenly grasped they thought we were after Foppa for being an Italian – wanted
to intern him or something. An army type and a member of the Special Branch. It
was obvious as soon as one thought of it.”

“The Special
Branch must have changed a lot if they now dress like you, Hugh.”

“Not more than
army officers, if they now look like Norman.”

“Anyway, take
a seat,” said Lovell. “What are you going to drink? How’s your war been going,
Hugh? Not drearier than mine, I feel sure, if you’ll excuse the self-pity.”

Moreland
laughed, now more at ease after telling the story about Chandler and himself;
Foppa’s restaurant, even if closed, providing a kind of frame to unite the
three of us.

“I seem to
have neutralised the death-wish for the moment,” he said. “Raids are a great
help in that. I was also momentarily cheered just now by finding the man with
the peg-leg and patch over one eye still going. He was behind the London
Pavilion this evening, playing
‘Softly Awakes
My Heart’.
Rather an individual version. One of
the worst features of the war is the dearth of itinerant musicians, indeed of
vagrants generally. For example, I haven’t seen the cantatrice on crutches for
years. As I seem equally unfitted for warlike duties, I’d thought of filling
the gap and becoming a street musician myself. Unfortunately, I’m such a poor executant.”

“There’s a
former music critic in our Public Relations branch,” said Lovell. “He says the
great thing for musicians now is the R.A.F. band.”

“Doubt if they’d
take me,” said Moreland, “though the idea of massed orchestras of drum and fife
soaring across the sky is attractive. Which is your P.R. man’s paper?”

Lovell
mentioned the name of the critic, who turned out to be an admirer of Moreland’s
work. The two of them began to discuss musical matters, of which Lovell
possessed a smattering, anyway as far as personalities were concerned, from
days of helping to write a column. No one could have guessed from Lovell’s
manner that inwardly he was in a state of great disturbance. On the contrary,
it was Moreland who, after a preliminary burst of talkativeness, reverted to an
earlier uneasiness of manner. Something was on his mind. He kept shifting about
in his seat, looking towards the door of the restaurant, as if expecting an
arrival that might not be exactly welcome. This apparent nervousness brought to
mind the unaccustomed tone of his postcard. It looked as if something had
happened, which he lacked the will to explain.

“Are you
dining with us?” he suddenly asked Lovell.

There was no reason why that enquiry
should not be made. The tone
was perfectly friendly. All the same, a touch of abruptness added to this sense
of apprehension.

“Chips is
going to the Madrid – I didn’t realise places like that still functioned.”

“Not many of
them do,” said Lovell. “In any case I’m never asked to them. I’ve no doubt it
will be a very sober affair compared with the old days. The only thing to be
said is that Max Pilgrim is doing a revival of some of his old songs –
’Tess
of Le Touquet,’ ‘Heather, Heather, she’s under the weather
,’
all those.”

“Max is our
lodger now,” said Moreland unexpectedly. “He may be looking in here later after
his act. He’s been with E.N.S.A. entertaining the forces – by his own account
enjoying a spot of entertainment himself – and has been released to do this
brief season at the Madrid as a kind of rest.”

I was curious
to know who was included when Moreland spoke of “our” lodger. A question on
this subject might be more tactfully put after Lovell’s withdrawal. It sounded
as if someone had taken Matilda’s place. Lovell spoke a word or two about the
party ahead of him. He seemed unwilling to leave us.

“I’ve never
been to the Madrid as a client,” said Moreland. “I once went there years ago,
so to speak to the stage door, to collect Max after his act, because we were
having supper together. I remember his talking about your friend Bijou Ardglass
then. Wasn’t she mistress of some Balkan royalty?”

“Theodoric,”
said Lovell, “but they can’t have met for years. That Scandinavian princess he
married keeps Theodoric very much in order. They were both lucky to get away
when they did. He’s always been very pro-British and would have been in a bad
way had the Germans got him when they overran the country. There’s a small
contingent of his own people over here now. They were training in France when
the war came, and crossed at the time of Dunkirk. I say, I hope there’ll be
something to drink to-night. The wine outlook becomes
increasingly desperate since France went. One didn’t expect to have to fight a
war on an occasional half-pint of bitter, and lucky if you find that.
Well, it’s been nice seeing you both. I’ll keep in touch,
Nick, about those various points.”

We said
good-bye to him. Lovell left for the Madrid. Moreland showed signs of relief
that he was no longer with us. At first I thought this was
still, as it were, on account of Priscilla;
or, like some people – amongst whom several of his own relations were
included – he simply found Lovell’s company tedious. As it turned out, both
possibilities were incorrect. Quite another matter was on Moreland’s mind. This
was only revealed when I suggested it was time
to
order dinner. Moreland hesitated,

“Do you mind
if we wait a minute or two longer?” he said. “Audrey thought she’d probably get
away in time to join us for some food.”

“Audrey who?”

“Audrey
Maclintick – you know her.” He spoke sharply, as if the question had been a
silly one to ask.

“Maclintick’s
wife – the one who went off with the violinist?”

“Yes – Maclintick’s
widow, rather. I always assume everyone is familiar with the rough outlines of
my own life, such as they are. I suppose, as a gallant soldier, you live rather
out of the world of rank and fashion. Audrey and I are running steady now.”

“Under the
same roof?”

“In my old
flat. I found I could get back there, owing to the blitz and it being left
empty, so took the opportunity to move in again.”

“And Max
Pilgrim is your lodger?”

“Has been for
some months.”

Moreland had
been embarrassed by having to explain so specifically that he was now living
with Mrs. Maclintick, but seemed glad this fact was made plain. There had been
no avoiding a pointblank enquiry about the situation; nor was all surprise
possible to conceal. He must certainly have been conscious that, to any friend
not already aware he and Mrs. Maclintick had begun to see each other frequently,
the news must come as an incalculable reversal of former circumstances and
feelings.

“Life became
rather impossible after Matilda left me,” he said. He spoke almost apologetically,
at the same time seemed to find relief in expressing how the present situation
had come about. The statement that life for him had become “impossible” after
Matilda’s departure was easy to believe. Without Matilda, the organisation of
Moreland’s day was hard to imagine. Formerly she had arranged almost all the
routine of those affairs not immediately dictated by his profession. In that
respect, unless she had greatly changed, Mrs. Maclintick could hardly be
proving an adequate substitute. On the one or two occasions when, in the past,
I had myself encountered Mrs. Maclintick, she had appeared to me, without
qualification, as one of the least sympathetic of women. So far as that went,
in those days she had been in the habit of showing towards Moreland himself
sentiments not much short of active dislike. He had been no better disposed to
her, though, as an old friend of Maclintick’s, always doing his best to keep
the peace between them as husband and wife. When she had left Maclintick for
Carolo, Moreland’s sympathies were certainly on Maclintick’s side. In short,
this was another of war’s violent readjustments; possibly to be revealed under
close investigation as more logical than might appear at first sight. Indeed,
as Moreland began to expand the story, as so often happens, the unthinkable
took on the authoritative tone of something that had to be.