Private's Progress (16 page)

“Good morning, Cox,” said Stanley.

“Good morning, sir. Nice and breezy. Very ’andy form of transport, really, these things. Permission to smoke, sir?”

He took out one of the brigadier’s cigars.

“Well, it was a successful operation, wasn’t it?” said Stanley.

“Not finished yet,” said Cox. “Still, innit lovely, this sail? Just now I nearly broke my bastard neck. One of these ’ollow-chested matelots with a bucket, swabbin’ down, and I slipped up all of a sudden. This matelot says, ‘I just cleaned over that deck, matey,’ he says. ‘Now you’ve gone and littered it up.’ I said, ‘It’s ’orrible bastards like you get chivved in Pompey, late at nights. I only want to find the ab-o-lutions.’ ‘You what?’ he says. ‘The abolutions,’ I said; ‘I don’t ’ave to get vulgar, do I?’
‘
Oh,’
he says, ‘you mean the ’eads. First on yer left.’ But honest, when I got there you never got any peace and quiet. All rumblin’s and tidal waves, with the boat goin’ up and down.”

In the afternoon they passed the Nore Light, and, with hootings of sirens, put in to Sheerness in a
mournful
mist. It was only by being strenuously unpleasant that the naval lieutenant dissuaded Brigadier
Tracepurcel
from bringing the craft into harbour.

Cox drove the four lorries off the ramp and lined them up by the railway tracks on the quayside. The brigadier organised three Service Corps drivers and handed Stanley a sheaf of documents.

“You’ll ride in the first and be in command of the convoy,” he said. “The drivers will be here for you in about three-quarters of an hour. Don’t disclose the nature of the loads. Cox will drive me up to Town in the
fourth truck now. I want the minimum delay. Get the other three up as soon as you can and handed over at the Horse Guards. Report first thing to me tomorrow at the War House. All quite clear? Grand. Here are some cigars for the journey.”

He drove off in the truck and Stanley waited for his drivers.

They arrived grumbling, and had obviously been expecting a free evening. They kept strictly to speed limits and halted without orders exactly an hour and fifty minutes after starting.

“I don’t want any halts,” said Stanley to the moody man beside him, just about to switch off the engine.

“Excuse me, sir,” said the driver firmly. “Permission to fall out for a Jimmy Riddle.”

The other two had pulled up behind and were already puffing at cigarettes by the roadside.

Stanley dismounted and accosted them.

“If you’ve all relieved yourselves we’ll start up again,” he said.

They nipped out their cigarette-ends truculently and went back to their cabs. One of them cleared his throat with a bitter parody of a genteel cough.

They drove in silence all the way. Having made a disciplinary stand, Stanley felt unable to flout
regulations
by smoking in the vehicle.

At the Horse Guards the duty officer signed for the three trucks with a bad grace.

“It’s all very well saying lock the things up,” he grumbled. “Do you realise I’ve got to sort out the M.T. sergeant, get three other trucks out of garages and into the vehicle park, and get your bloody trucks in, get
the bloody garages locked
and
reorganise the bloody P.A.D. picket?”

He was surly and, it seemed to Stanley, quite
unnecessarily
haggard. An edge of pyjama poked over the collar of his battledress blouse.

“Yes, yes, I know it’s not your fault,” he went on. “But I’ve got to fix those chaps of yours up in one of the Guard-Rooms, too.”

“T
HIS IS A
pretty good book too, old boy,” said College Sid appreciatively. “A common or garden dictionary. Thousands of amazing facts for the
inquisitive
lad. For example, do you know what a
febrifuge
is?”

“I couldn’t say, old boy,” said Herbert.

“Well, it says: A cooling drink. Suppose a bloke said to you: ‘Come in, old boy, have a febrifuge’?”

“Extraordinary thing,” said Herbert.

They were sitting in the
bric-à-brac-
littered
parlour behind the shop.

“You’ve got some jolly good books in the sixpenny box, old boy,” said College Sid. “What about this
Life
Story
of
Ida
D.
Sankey
,
The
Singing
Evangelist?
And this
Temperance
Recitations
seems wonderful value for the money. You ought to read some of these, really.
In
the
Mahdi’
s
Grasp
was pretty exciting, too. I read that yesterday.”

“I can’t seem to get on much with this one,” said Herbert, reposing on a faded
chaise-longue.
“It’s called
The
Two
Babylons,
or
the
Papal
Worship
Proved
to
be
The
Worship
of
Nimrod
and
His
Wife.”
He put the book back in the threepenny box. “These chaps are a bit late, it’s gone nine.”

At this time the brigadier was opening a large oblong parcel on the carpet of Philip’s and Catherine’s lounge.

“I wonder what your opinion would be on this,” he said to Philip.

He removed a sheet of corrugated cardboard and exposed a vigorous painting of market stalls in the Dutch tradition.

Philip became animated.

“Vermeer,” he said instantly. “Though I don’t know this one. Where did it come from?”

“Wait a minute,” said Uncle Bertram. “Take a look at these.”

Holbein, Corot, Monet, Van Gogh, Van Dyck, a Rubens.

“There’s no doubt about these,” said Philip,
entranced.

“Would you like that Vermeer?” asked Uncle Bertram. “It would seem a reasonable fee for an expert opinion on the others.”

Philip subsided into an armchair, glassily.

Uncle Bertram lit a cigar unperturbedly and crossed to the fireplace.

“Some nice sewers there,” he remarked, indicating Philip’s unsold canvas, framed now forlornly on the wall. “Quite takes me back. I had a hand in blowing some up in Munich earlier in the war.”

“You’re the first one they’ve evoked,” said Catherine.

“I like it,” said Uncle Bertram. “Roll it up and I’ll take it for three hundred in oncers.”

“Sold to the gentleman with the shifty look,” said Catherine, unhooking it and holding out a hand.

Uncle Bertram handed over three packets.

“Well,” he said, buttoning his overcoat, “I must leave you now; I can’t stay for a drink, but have some loot when I’ve gone.”

He pulled a bottle of Benedictine from his pocket and dumped it on the Vermeer.

“Cheerio,” he said.

“
Sayonara
,”
said Catherine.

Philip was still gazing at the painting when Uncle Bertram went out with his parcel.

He roused suddenly as the door clicked.

“But he mustn’t be let get away with it,” he
exclaimed
distractedly.

Catherine pushed him back in the chair.

“Resume your seat, Young,” she said firmly. “Look carefully at this unearned income.” She waved the three packets of notes at him. “You don’t imagine for a minute that any masterpieces are going to be lost to posterity, do you? Can you really see Uncle Bertram as a picture hoarder? They’ll be back in
circulation
again just as soon as he gets his money. In a couple of years they’ll have been bought in great excitement at Christie’s or in New York and
triumphantly
featured in the world’s galleries. And your Sewers couldn’t be in better or more appreciative hands. Relax, as my Americans say, and have a Benedictine.”

Philip sighed heavily.

“I think I shall,” he said.

“There we are,” said Herbert, rising to a tap at the back door.

The brigadier and Cox were let in.

“Ah, good evening,” said the brigadier in a
businesslike
fashion. “The truck is outside the yard gate. Let’s have a hand in with the stuff.”

“Evening,” said Cox. “Nice place you got here. ’Ow are you, my old Sid? All right? Me?
Mussengrumble
.”

A vigorous twenty minutes saw the truck off-loaded into the back of the shop. By midnight a complete inventory had been made and the gold bullion weighed. Herbert’s seedy back parlour was transformed by the glitter of wealth.

“Christmas day in the workhouse,” said Cox admiringly.

“Right you are,” said Herbert to Uncle Bertram. “I’ll make my phone calls to confirm.”

While he rang his contacts College Sid poured drinks into a curious selection of cut-glass beakers which, as a preliminary, he dusted with his coat-sleeve.

“Have a febrifuge,” he said.

“Oh, ta,” said Cox. “Not my usual, but I’ll have a bash.”

Herbert handed over a sheaf of post-dated cheques and several packets of bearer bonds.

“Grand,” said Uncle Bertram. He handed round cigars and ran quickly through the cheques.

After a second drink the visitors took their leave.

Stanley retired, exhausted, to the flat near the School of Oriental Languages. There were several letters for Purbeck and Hammersley-Forsyth, but none for
himself
. He searched for pyjamas, and Lord Purbeck’s spare mosquito net lurched out at him from the wardrobe
and floundered at his feet. Several of their less precious acquisitions—a Reserved notice from the Café Royal, a green wooden chair from Hyde Park, and a tobacconist’s nobbly rubber doormat with “Erinmore Curly Cut” on it—these forlorn survivals stood incongruously among the busts.

He would have telephoned Catherine, but the
brigadier
had forbidden any civilian contact.

All night he dreamed a recurring dream of the
gymnasium
at Gravestone, the interminable bouts of Flat Hand Boxing, and the P.T. instructor’s lecture on Unarmed Combat. “
Watch
closely
,”
in his high-pitched voice,
“
vulnerable
parts
of
the
body.
The
’
air
,
the
ears
,
the
eyes
,
the
nose
,
the
mouth.
Movin
’
further
down
,
the
solar
wassname
—
plexus,
stomach
,
the
goolies
,
the
shins
,
the
ankles,
the
toes.
”
The list, with all its gruesome implications, churned round and round his brain till the morning.

Stanley breakfasted meagrely in a milk bar and went to report at the War Office.

Major Dale saw him. He was about to have his first tankard of tea.

“Good morning, Windrush,” he greeted Stanley. He unlocked a drawer, took out a teaspoon and a
meat-paste
jar half full of sugar and sweetened his tea. He locked up his little store again and gave Stanley a railway warrant.

“Glad to get you back all safe and sound,” he said. “HATRACK was very pleased with the whole show. He’s too busy to see you this morning, but he wants you to get back to Ewebourn airfield and hang on there, and he’ll be over as soon as he can get away.”

“But damn it,” said Stanley. “Ewebourn again?”

Major Dale looked up coldly from his tea.

“Paddington and change at Reading,” he said.

Stanley telephoned the R.A.F. station from the railway at Ewebourn. This was a mere two miles from the village, but the line made no such concession to the airfield, and was at no point nearer to it than five miles. Half an hour later an R.A.F. three-tonner arrived with Egan’s C.Q.M.S. on board.

He was plainly disgruntled at having to give up his seat in the cab to Stanley, and announced with some
satisfaction
that the truck was booked to go first in the other direction to draw rations before returning to the airfield.

It was after two when they arrived at the compound on the aerodrome. It was now uninhabited except for a handful of men temporarily on light duties, who acted as room orderlies and did a half-hearted picket at night.

“Captain Egan and the men are expected back later today, sir,” said the C.Q.M.S., making a show of dusting himself and rubbing bruises. “Perhaps you’ll sign detail for tomorrow, sir?”

Stanley took over notional command of the bleak little unit, an odd enclave in Air Force territory, and at three-thirty put under close arrest two men who had quite obviously been absent at the Packhorse. Then he sat down uncomfortably in Egan’s office and read magazines till the evening. By eleven there was still no sign of Egan, and Stanley went to bed.

Egan woke him at two-thirty. From the activity outside it was evident that they had just arrived.

“There you are,” said Egan. “Well, look here, old
boy, did you inspect the cookhouse today? These chaps have had nothing since a haversack lunch and I find the cook in bed and no hot containers laid on. Didn’t any word arrive about hot meals? Surely we were expected?”

“As a matter of a fact,” said Stanley, somewhat offended, “no definite word at all arrived, but out of the goodness of my heart I got them to cut up a lot of sandwiches.”

“Well, there’s been some balls-up,” fumed Egan. “Apparently the picket and the prisoners in the
Guard-Room
have eaten most of the sandwiches, and I’ve got half the picket in the cookhouse now cutting some more. I expect a lot of the chaps will have gone to bed by the time there’s any sort of a meal ready.”

He went off busily to ginger up the cookhouse.

There were grumblings outside, and footsteps past as the irritated voice of one of the picked German speakers approached and receded again.

“—— get here at —— three in the —— morning and there’s —— all laid on. You’d —— think they’d —— have some —— food ready, wouldn’t you? But, no. Not a —— sign.”

“—— roll on,” agreed a companion voice.

Stanley turned over and went to sleep.

In the morning Egan enlarged on the futile and miserable route by which they had returned. The narrative was thickly peopled by harassed R.T.O.s and transit organisations.

“I’ve got it all down, old boy,” said Egan. “Heaven knows why the brig organised it that way. Bad staff work, in my opinion.”

He set to work at once on a detailed report for
submission
through Brigadier Tracepurcel to the General Staff.

Before lunch a despatch rider brought an envelope.

“New posting orders for you,” said Egan.

He showed them to Stanley. His attachment to HATRACK was cancelled and superseded by an immediate posting to Delhi. In a paragraph ironically headed “Embarkation Leave” it stated that in view of the urgency of the posting the granting of leave would not be possible. Immediate arrangements were to be made with A.O.C. Ewebourn for an air passage. Personal kit in excess of fifty pounds weight was to be dispatched from the unit by sea.

“Well, I shall be sorry to see you go, old boy,”
remarked
Egan, “despite the bad organisation of last night. Still, it’s your right place, really, isn’t it? That’s why you did your Japanese course, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Stanley, “as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.”

He sorted his belongings on several ill-conceived systems into “Take With”, to go in his grip, and “Follow On”, for his steel ant-proof trunk. It was difficult to know how much tropical clothing to take on an air journey starting on a cold March morning. In the end, he left it too long and decided at the last moment to wear his cellular tropical shirt under his battledress, and take two pairs of shorts and a mosquito net packed in his grip, with some strange footless stockings known as hose-tops which he had been assured at the outfitters were considered essential for travelling in the East.

His solar topee was lashed insecurely to the outside of
his grip, and next morning it was airborne with him through grey and cloudy skies which were to change within forty-eight hours to a perpetual steel blue, dotted with perpetually circling kitehawks.

The plane, with its mixed load of R.A.F. ground staff and Japanese translator, was dipping to land at Brindisi when the brigadier’s car was discovered, nine miles from Ewebourn, at the splintered foot of a
telegraph
pole.

It was completely burnt out. The remains in the steel frames of the two front seats were removed and later buried together with military honours in the ancient parish churchyard at Queen’s Wetherfold.