Читать книгу Men at Arms - Evelyn Waugh - Страница 5

The Crouchback family, until quite lately rich and numerous, was now much reduced. Guy was the youngest of them and it seemed likely he would be the last. His mother was dead, his father over seventy. There had been four children. Angela, the eldest; then Gervase, who went straight from Downside into the Irish Guards and was picked off by a sniper his first day in France, instantly, fresh and clean and unwearied, as he followed the duckboard across the mud, carrying his blackthorn stick, on his way to report to company headquarters. Ivo was only a year older than Guy but they were never friends. Ivo was always odd. He grew much odder and finally, when he was twenty-six, disappeared from home. For months there was no news of him. Then he was found barricaded alone in a lodging in Cricklewood where he was starving himself to death. He was carried out emaciated and delirious and died a few days later stark mad. That was in 1931. Ivo’s death sometimes seemed to Guy a horrible caricature of his own life, which at just that time was plunged in disaster.

Before Ivo’s oddness gave real cause for anxiety Guy had married, not a Catholic but a bright, fashionable girl, quite unlike anyone that his friends or family would have expected. He took his younger son’s share of the diminished family fortune, and settled in Kenya, living, it seemed to him afterwards, in unruffled good humour beside a mountain lake where the air was always brilliant and keen and the flamingos rose at dawn first white, then pink, then a whirl of shadow passing across the glowing sky. He farmed assiduously and nearly made it pay. Then unaccountably his wife said that her health required a year in England. She wrote regularly and affectionately until one day, still affectionately, she informed him that she had fallen deeply in love with an acquaintance of theirs named Tommy Blackhouse; that Guy was not to be cross about it; that she wanted a divorce, ‘And, please,’ her letter had ended, ‘there’s to be no chivalrous nonsense of your going to Brighton and playing “the guilty party”. That would mean six months separation from Tommy and I won’t trust him out of my sight for six minutes, the beast.’

So Guy left Kenya and shortly afterwards his father left Broome. The property was reduced by then to the house and park and home farm. In recent years it had achieved a certain celebrity among those interested in such things. It was almost unique in contemporary England, having been held in uninterrupted male succession since the reign of Henry I. Mr. Crouchback did not sell it. He let it, instead, to a convent and himself retired to Matchet, a nearby watering-place. And the sanctuary lamp still burned at Broome as of old.

No one was more conscious of the decline of the House of Crouchback than Guy’s brother-in-law, Arthur Box-Bender, who had married Angela in 1914 when Broome seemed set unalterably in the firmament, a celestial body emanating tradition and unobtrusive authority. Box-Bender was not a man of family and he respected Angela’s pedigree. He even at one time considered the addition of Crouchback to his own name, in place of either Box or Bender, both of which seemed easily dispensable, but Mr. Crouchback’s chilling indifference and Angela’s ridicule quickly discouraged him. He was not a Catholic and he thought it Guy’s plain duty to marry again, preferably someone with money, and carry on his line. He was not a sensitive man and he could not approve Guy’s hiding himself away. He ought to take over the home farm at Broome. He ought to go into politics. People like Guy, he freely stated, owed something to their country; but when at the end of August 1939 Guy presented himself in London with the object of paying that debt, Arthur Box-Bender was not sympathetic.

‘My dear Guy,’ he said, ‘be your age.’

Box-Bender was fifty-six and a Member of Parliament. Many years ago he had served quite creditably in a rifle regiment; he had a son serving with them now. For him soldiering was something that belonged to extreme youth, like butterscotch and catapults. Guy at thirty-five, shortly to be thirty-six, still looked on himself as a young man. Time had stood still for him during the last eight years. It had advanced swiftly for Box-Bender.

‘Can you seriously imagine yourself sprinting about at the head of a platoon?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Guy. ‘That’s exactly what I did imagine.’

Guy usually stayed with Box-Bender in Lowndes Square when he was in London. He had come straight to him now from Victoria but found his sister Angela away in the country and the house already half dismantled. Box-Bender’s study was the last room to be left untouched. They were sitting there now before going out to dinner.

‘I’m afraid you won’t get much encouragement. All that sort of thing happened in 1914--retired colonels dyeing their hair and enlisting in the ranks. I remember it. I was there. All very gallant of course but it won’t happen this time. The whole thing is planned. The Government know just how many men they can handle; they know where they can get them; they’ll take them in their own time. At the moment we haven’t got the accommodation or the equipment for any big increase. There may be casualties, of course, but personally I don’t see it as a soldier’s war at all. Where are we going to fight? No one in his senses would try to break either the Maginot or the Siegfried Line. As I see it, both sides will sit tight until they begin to feel the economic pinch. The Germans are short of almost every industrial essential. As soon as they realize that Mr. Hitler’s bluff has been called, we shan’t hear much more of Mr. Hitler. That’s an internal matter for the Germans to settle for themselves. We can’t treat with the present gang of course, but as soon as they produce a respectable government we shall be able to iron out all our differences.’

‘That’s rather how my Italian taxi-driver talked yesterday.’

‘Of course. Always go to a taxi-driver when you want a sane, independent opinion. I talked to one to-day. He said: “When we are at war then it’ll be time to start talking about war. Just at present we aren’t at war.” Very sound that.’

‘But I notice you are taking every precaution.’

Box-Bender’s three daughters had been despatched to stay with a commercial associate in Connecticut. The house in Lowndes Square was being emptied and shut. Some of the furniture had gone to the country; the rest would go to store. Box-Bender had taken part of a large brand-new luxury flat, going cheap at the moment. He and two colleagues from the House of Commons would share these quarters. The cleverest of his dodges had been to get his house in the constituency accepted as a repository for ‘National Art Treasures’. There would be no trouble there with billeting officers, civil or military. A few minutes earlier Box-Bender had explained these provisions with some pride. Now he merely turned to the wireless and said: ‘D’you mind awfully if I just switch this thing on for a moment to hear what they’re saying? There may be something new.’

But there was not. Nor was there any message of peace. The evacuation of centres of population was proceeding like clockwork; happy groups of mothers and children were arriving punctually at their distributing centres and being welcomed into their new homes. Box-Bender switched it off.

‘Nothing new since this afternoon. Funny how one keeps twiddling the thing these days. I never had much use for it before. By the way, Guy, that’s a thing that might suit you, if you really want to make yourself useful. They’re very keen to collect foreign language speakers at the B.B.C. for monitoring and propaganda and that sort of rot. Not very exciting of course but someone has to do it and I should think your Italian would come in very handy.’

There was no great affection between the two brothers-in-law. It never occurred to Guy to speculate about Box-Bender’s view of him. It never occurred to him that Box-Bender had any particular view. As a matter of fact, which he freely admitted to Angela, Box-Bender had for some years been expecting Guy to go mad. He was not an imaginative man, nor easily impressionable, but he had been much mixed up in the quest for Ivo and his ghastly discovery. That thing had made an impression. Guy and Ivo were remarkably alike. Box-Bender remembered Ivo’s look in the days when his extreme oddness still tottered this side of lunacy; it had not been a wild look at all; something rather smug and purposeful; something ‘dedicated’; something in fact very much like the look in Guy’s eyes now as he presented himself so inopportunely in Lowndes Square talking calmly about the Irish Guards. It could bode no good. Best get him quickly into something like the B.B.C., out of harm’s way.

They dined that night at Bellamy’s. Guy’s family had always belonged to this club. Gervase’s name was on the 1914-1918 Roll of Honour in the front hall. Poor crazy Ivo had often sat in the bay window alarming passers-by with his fixed stare. Guy had joined in early manhood, seldom used it in recent years, but kept his name on the list notwithstanding. It was an historic place. Once fuddled gamblers, attended by linkmen, had felt their way down these steps to their coaches. Now Guy and Box-Bender felt their way up in utter blindness. The first glass doors were painted out. Within them in the little vestibule was a perceptible eerie phosphorescence. Beyond the second pair of doors was bright light, noise, and a thick and stagnant fog of cigar-smoke and whisky. In these first days of the black-out the problem of ventilation was unsolved.

The club had only that day re-opened after its annual cleaning. In normal times it would have been quite empty at this season. Now it was thronged. There were many familiar faces but no friends. As Guy passed a member who greeted him, another turned and asked: ‘Who was that? Someone new, isn’t it?’

‘No, he’s belonged for ages. You’ll never guess who he is. Virginia Troy’s first husband.’

‘Really? I thought she was married to Tommy Blackhouse.’

‘This chap was before Tommy. Can’t remember his name. I think he lives in Kenya. Tommy took her from him, then Gussie had her for a bit, then Bert Troy picked her up when she was going spare.’

‘She’s a grand girl. Wouldn’t mind having a go myself one of these days.’

For in this club there were no depressing conventions against the bandying of ladies’ names.

Box-Bender and Guy drank, dined and drank with a group which fluctuated and changed throughout the evening. The conversation was briskly topical and through it Guy began to make acquaintance with this changed city. They spoke of domestic arrangements. Everyone seemed to be feverishly occupied in disencumbering himself of responsibilities. Box-Bender’s arrangements were the microcosm of a national movement. Everywhere houses were being closed, furniture stored, children transported, servants dismissed, lawns ploughed, dower-houses and shooting lodges crammed to capacity; mothers-in-law and nannies were everywhere gaining control.

They spoke of incidents and crimes in the black-out. So-and-so had lost all her teeth in a taxi. So-and-so had been sandbagged in Hay Hill and robbed of his poker-winnings. So-and-so had been knocked down by a Red Cross ambulance and left for dead.

They spoke of various forms of service. Most were in uniform. Everywhere little groups of close friends were arranging to spend the war together. There was a territorial search-light battery manned entirely by fashionable aesthetes who were called ‘the monstrous regiment of gentlemen’. Stockbrokers and wine salesmen were settling into the offices of London District Headquarters. Regular soldiers were kept at twelve hours’ notice for active service. Yachtsmen were in R.N.V.R. uniform growing beards. There seemed no opportunity for Guy in any of this.

‘My brother-in-law here is looking for a job,’ said Box-Bender.

‘You’ve left it rather late, you know. Everyone’s pretty well fixed. Of course things will start popping once the balloon goes up. I should wait till then.’

They sat on late for no one relished the plunge into darkness. No one attempted to drive a car. Taxis were rare. They made up parties to walk homeward together. At length Guy and Box-Bender joined a group walking to Belgravia. They stumbled down the steps together and set out into the baffling midnight void. Time might have gone back two thousand years to the time when London was a stockaded cluster of huts down the river, and the streets through which they walked, empty sedge and swamp.

In the following fortnight Guy came to spend most of the day in Bellamy’s. He moved to an hotel and immediately after breakfast daily walked to St. James’s Street as a man might go to his office. He wrote letters there, a thick batch of them every day, written shamefacedly with growing facility in a corner of the morning-room.

‘Dear General Cutter, Please forgive me for troubling you at this busy time. I hope you remember as I do the happy day when the Bradshawes brought you to my house at Santa Dulcina and we went out together in the boat and so ignominiously failed to spear pulpi ...’

‘Dear Colonel Glover, I am writing to you because I know you served with my brother Gervase and were a friend of his ...’

‘Dear Sam, Though we have not met since Downside I have followed your career with distant admiration and vicarious pride ...’

‘Dear Molly, I am sure I ought not to know, but I do know that Alex is Someone Very Important and Secret at the Admiralty. I know too that you have him completely under your thumb. So do you think you could possibly be an angel ...’

He had become a facile professional beggar.

Usually there was an answer; a type-written note or a telephone call from a secretary or aide-de-camp; an appointment or an invitation. Always there was the same polite discouragement. ‘We organized skeleton staffs at the time of Munich. I expect we shall expand as soon as we know just what our commitments are’--from the civilians--‘Our last directive was to go slow on personnel. I’ll put you in our list and see you are notified as soon as anything turns up.’

‘We don’t want cannon-fodder this time’--from the Services--‘we learned our lesson in 1914 when we threw away the pick of the nation. That’s what we’ve suffered from ever since.’

‘But I’m not the pick of the nation,’ said Guy. ‘I’m natural fodder. I’ve no dependants. I’ve no special skill in anything. What’s more I’m getting old. I’m ready for immediate consumption. You should take the 35’s now and give the young men time to get sons.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not the official view. I’ll put you on our list and see you’re notified as soon as anything turns up.’

In the following days Guy’s name was put on many lists and his few qualifications summarized and filed in many confidential registers where they lay unexamined through all the long years ahead.

England declared war but it made no change in Guy’s routine of appeals and interviews. No bombs fell. There was no rain of poison or fire. Bones were still broken after dark. That was all. At Bellamy’s he found himself one of a large depressed class of men older than himself who had served without glory in the first World War. Most of them had gone straight from school to the trenches and spent the rest of their lives forgetting the mud and lice and noise. They were under orders to await orders and spoke sadly of the various drab posts that awaited them at railway stations and docks and dumps. The balloon had gone up, leaving them on the ground.

Russia invaded Poland. Guy found no sympathy among these old soldiers for his own hot indignation.

‘My dear fellow, we’ve quite enough on our hands as it is. We can’t go to war with the whole world.’

‘Then why go to war at all? If all we want is prosperity, the hardest bargain Hitler made would be preferable to victory. If we are concerned with justice the Russians are as guilty as the Germans.’

‘Justice?’ said the old soldiers. ‘Justice?’

‘Besides,’ said Box-Bender when Guy spoke to him of the matter which seemed in no one’s mind but his, ‘the country would never stand for it. The socialists have been crying blue murder against the Nazis for five years but they are all pacifists at heart. So far as they have any feeling of patriotism it’s for Russia. You’d have a general strike and the whole country in collapse if you set up to be just.’

‘Then what are we fighting for?’

‘Oh we had to do that, you know. The socialists always thought we were pro-Hitler, God knows why. It was quite a job keeping neutral over Spain. You missed all that excitement living abroad. It was quite ticklish, I assure you. If we sat tight now there’d be chaos. What we have to do now is to limit and localize the war, not extend it.’

The conclusion of all these discussions was darkness, the baffling night that lay beyond the club doors. When the closing hour came the old soldiers and young soldiers and the politicians made up their same little companies to grope their way home together. There was always someone going Guy’s way towards his hotel, always a friendly arm. But his heart was lonely.

Guy heard of mysterious departments known only by their initials or as ‘So-and-so’s cloak and dagger boys’. Bankers, gamblers, men with jobs in oil companies seemed to find a way there; not Guy. He met an acquaintance, a journalist, who had once come to Kenya. This man, Lord Kilbannock, had lately written a racing column; now he was in Air Force uniform.

‘How did you manage it?’ Guy asked.

‘Well, it’s rather shaming really. There’s an air marshal whose wife plays bridge with my wife. He’s always been mad keen to get in here. I’ve just put him up. He’s the most awful shit.’

‘Will he get in?’

‘No, no, I’ve seen to that. Three blackballs guaranteed already. But he can’t get me out of the Air Force.’

‘What do you do?’

‘That’s rather shaming too. I’m what’s called a “conducting officer”. I take American journalists round fighter stations. But I shall find something else soon. The great thing is to get into uniform; then you can start moving yourself round. It’s a very exclusive war at present. Once you’re in, there’s every opportunity. I’ve got my eye on India or Egypt. Somewhere where there’s no black-out. Fellow in the flats where I live got coshed on the head the other night, right on the steps. All a bit too dangerous for me. I don’t want a medal. I want to be known as one of the soft-faced men who did well out of the war. Come and have a drink.’

So the evenings passed. Every morning Guy awoke in his hotel bedroom, early and anxious. After a month of it he decided to leave London and visit his family.

He went first to his sister, Angela, to the house in Gloucestershire which Box-Bender bought when he was adopted as Member for the constituency.

‘We’re living in the most frightful squalor,’ she said on the telephone. ‘We can’t meet people at Kemble any more. No petrol. You’ll have to change and take the local train. Or else the ’bus from Stroud if it’s still running. I rather think it isn’t.’

But at Kemble, when he emerged from the corridor in which he had stood for three hours, he found his nephew Tony on the platform to greet him. He was in flannels. Only his close-cropped hair marked him as a soldier.

‘Hullo, Uncle Guy. I hope I’m a pleasant surprise. I’ve come to save you from the local train. They’ve given us embarkation leave and a special issue of petrol coupons. Jump in.’

‘Shouldn’t you be in uniform?’

‘Should be. But no one does. It makes me feel quite human getting out of it for a few hours.’

‘I think I shall want to stay in mine once I get it.’

Tony Box-Bender laughed innocently. ‘I should love to see you. Somehow I can’t imagine you as one of the licentious soldiery. Why did you leave Italy? I should have thought Santa Dulcina was just the place to spend the war. How did you leave everyone?’

‘Momentarily in tears.’

‘I bet they miss you.’

‘Not really. They cry easily.’

They bowled along between low Cotswold walls. Presently they came into sight of the Berkeley Vale far below them with the Severn shining brown and gold in the evening sun.

‘You’re glad to be going to France?’

‘Of course. It’s hell in barracks being chased round all day. It’s pretty good hell at home at the moment--art treasures everywhere and Mum doing the cooking.’

Box-Bender’s house was a small, gabled manor in a sophisticated village where half the cottages were equipped with baths and chintz. Drawing-room and dining-room were blocked to the ceiling with wooden crates.

‘Such a disappointment, darling,’ said Angela. ‘I thought we’d been so clever. I imagined us having the Wallace Collection and luxuriating in Sèvres and Boulle and Bouchers. Such a cultured war, I imagined. Instead we’ve got Hittite tablets from the British Museum, and we mayn’t even peep at them, not that we want to, heaven knows. You’re going to be hideously uncomfortable, darling. I’ve put you in the library. All the top floor is shut so that if we’re bombed we shan’t panic and jump out of the windows. That’s Arthur’s idea. He’s really been too resourceful. He and I are in the cottage. I know we shall break our necks one night going to bed across the garden. Arthur’s so strict about the electric torch. It’s all very idiotic. No one can possibly see into the garden.’

It seemed to Guy that his sister had grown more talkative than she had been.

‘Ought we to have asked people in for your last night, Tony? I’m afraid it’s very dull, but who is there? Besides there really isn’t elbow room for ourselves now we eat in Arthur’s business-room.’

‘No, Mum, it’s much nicer being alone.’

‘I so hoped you’d say that. We like it of course, but I do think they might give you two nights.’

‘Have to be in at reveille on Monday. If you’d stayed in London ...’

‘But you’d sooner be at home your last night?’

‘Wherever you are, Mum.’

‘Isn’t he a dear boy, Guy?’

The library was now the sole living-room. The bed already made up for Guy on a sofa at one end consorted ill with the terrestrial and celestial globes at its head and foot.

‘You and Tony will both have to wash in the loo under the stairs. He’s sleeping in the flower-room, poor pet. Now I must go and see to dinner.’

‘There’s really not the smallest reason for all this,’ said Tony. ‘Mum and Dad seem to enjoy turning everything topsy-turvy. I suppose it comes from having been so very correct before. And of course Dad has always been jolly close about money. He hated paying out when he felt he had to. Now he thinks he’s got a splendid excuse for economizing.’

Arthur Box-Bender came in carrying a tray. ‘Well, you see how we’re roughing it,’ he said. ‘In a year or two, if the war goes on, everyone will have to live like this. We’re starting early. It’s the greatest fun.’

‘You’re only here for week-ends,’ said Tony. ‘I hear you’re very snug in Arlington Street.’

‘I believe you would sooner have spent your leave in London.’

‘Not really,’ said Tony.

‘There wouldn’t have been room for your mother in the flat. No wives. That was part of the concordat we made when we decided to share. Sherry, Guy? I wonder what you’ll think of this. It’s South African. Everyone will be drinking it soon.’

‘This zeal to lead the fashion is something new, Arthur.’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘Not very much.’

‘The sooner we get used to it the better. There is no more coming from Spain.’

‘It all tastes the same to me,’ said Tony.

‘Well, the party is in your honour.’

A gardener’s wife and a girl from the village were now the only servants. Angela did all the lighter and cleaner work of the kitchen. Presently she called them in to dinner in the little study which Arthur Box-Bender liked to call his ‘business-room’. He had a spacious office in the City; his election agent had permanent quarters in the market town; his private secretary had files, a typewriter and two telephones in South-West London; no business was ever done in the room where they now dined, but Box-Bender had first heard the expression used by Mr. Crouchback of the place where he disastrously transacted all the paper work of the estate at Broome. It had an authentic rural flavour, Box-Bender rightly thought.

In the years of peace Box-Bender often entertained neat little parties of eight or ten to dinner. Guy had memories of many candle-lit evenings, of a rather rigid adequacy of food and wine, of Box-Bender sitting square in his place and leading the conversation in humdrum topical subjects. To-night with Angela and Tony frequently on their feet moving the plates, he seemed less at his ease. His interests were still topical and humdrum but Guy and Tony had each his own preoccupation.

‘Shocking thing about the Abercrombies,’ he said. ‘Did you hear? They packed up and went to Jamaica bag and baggage.’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’ said Tony. ‘They couldn’t be any use here. Just extra mouths to feed.’

‘It looks as though I am going to be an extra mouth,’ said Guy. ‘It’s a matter of sentiment, I suppose. One wants to be with one’s own people in war time.’

‘Can’t see it,’ said Tony.

‘There’s plenty of useful work for the civilian,’ said Box-Bender.

‘All the Prentices’ evacuees have gone back to Birmingham in a huff,’ said Angela. ‘They always were unnaturally lucky. We’ve got the Hittite horrors for life, I know.’

‘It’s an awful business for the men not knowing where their wives and families are,’ said Tony. ‘Our wretched Welfare Officer spends his whole day trying to trace them. Six men in my platoon have gone on leave not knowing if they’ve got a home to go to.’

‘Old Mrs. Sparrow fell out of the apple-loft and broke both legs. They wouldn’t take her in at the hospital because all the beds are kept for air-raid casualties.’

‘We have to keep a duty officer on day and night doing PAD. It’s a ghastly bore. They ring up every hour to report “All Clear”.’

‘Caroline Maiden was stopped in Stroud by a policeman and asked why she wasn’t carrying a gas-mask.’

‘Chemical Warfare is the end. I’m jolly grateful I had a classical education. We had to send an officer from the battalion on a C.W. course. They had me down for it. Then by the mercy of God a frightfully wet fellow turned up in C Company who’d just got a science scholarship, so I stood the adjutant a couple of drinks and got him sent instead. All the wettest fellows are in C.W.’

Tony was from another world; their problems were not his. Guy belonged to neither world.

‘I heard someone say that this was a very exclusive war.’

‘Well, surely, Uncle Guy, the more who can keep out of it the better. You civilians don’t know when you’re well off.’

‘Perhaps we don’t want to be particularly well off at the moment, Tony.’

‘I know exactly what I want. An M.C. and a nice neat wound. Then I can spend the rest of the war being cosseted by beautiful nurses.’

‘Please, Tony.’

‘Sorry, Mum. Don’t look so desperately serious. I shall begin to wish I’d spent my leave in London.’

‘I thought I was keeping such a stiff upper lip. Only please, darling, don’t talk like that about being wounded.’

‘Well, it’s the best one can hope for, isn’t it?’

‘Look here,’ said Box-Bender, ‘aren’t we all getting a bit morbid? Take Uncle Guy away while your mother and I clear the table.’

Guy and Tony went into the library. The french windows were open on the paved garden. ‘Damn, we must draw the curtains before we put on the light.’

‘Let’s go out for a minute,’ said Guy.

It was just light enough to see the way. The air was scented by invisible magnolia flowers, high in the old tree which covered half the house.

‘Never felt less morbid in my life,’ said Tony, but as he and Guy strolled out into the gathering darkness, he broke the silence by saying suddenly: ‘Tell me about going mad. Are lots of Mum’s family cuckoo?’

‘No.’

‘There was Uncle Ivo, wasn’t there?’

‘He suffered from an excess of melancholy.’

‘Not hereditary?’

‘No, no. Why? Do you feel your reason tottering?’

‘Not yet. But it’s something I read, about an officer in the last war who seemed quite normal till he got into action and then went barking mad and his sergeant had to shoot him.’

‘ “Barking” is scarcely the word for your uncle’s trouble. He was in every sense a most retiring man.’

‘How about the others?’

‘Look at me. Look at your grandfather--and your Great-uncle Peregrine; he’s appallingly sane.’

‘He’s spending his time collecting binoculars and sending them to the War Office. Is that sane?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I’m glad you told me.’

Presently Angela called: ‘Come in, you two. It’s quite dark. What are you talking about?’

‘Tony thinks he’s going mad.’

‘Mrs. Groat is. She left the larder un-blacked-out.’

They sat in the library with their backs to Guy’s bed. Quite soon Tony rose to say good-night.

‘Mass is at eight,’ said Angela. ‘We ought to start at twenty to. I’m picking up some evacuees in Uley.’

‘Oh I say, isn’t there something later? I was looking forward to a long lie.’

‘I thought we might all go to communion to-morrow. Do come, Tony.’

‘All right, Mum, of course I will. Only make it twenty-five-to in that case. I shall have to go to scrape after weeks of wickedness.’

Box-Bender looked self-conscious, as he still did, always, when religious practices were spoken of. He could not get used to it--this ease with the Awful.

‘I shall be with you in spirit,’ he said.

Then he left too, and stumbled across the garden to the cottage. Angela and Guy were left alone.

‘He’s a charming boy, Angela.’

‘Yes, so military, isn’t he? All in a matter of months. He doesn’t a bit mind going to France.’

‘I should think not indeed.’

‘Oh, Guy, you’re too young to remember. I grew up with the first war. I’m one of the girls you read about who danced with the men who were being killed. I remember the telegram coming about Gervase. You were just a schoolboy going short of sweets. I remember the first lot who went out. There wasn’t one of them left at the end. What chance has a boy of Tony’s age starting now at the very beginning? I worked in a hospital, you remember. That’s why I couldn’t bear it when Tony talked of a nice neat wound and being cosseted.’

‘He oughtn’t to have said that.’

‘There weren’t any nice neat little wounds. They were all perfectly beastly and this time there’ll be all kinds of ghastly new chemicals too, I suppose. You heard how he spoke about Chemical Warfare--a hobby for “wet” officers. He doesn’t know what it will be like. There isn’t even the hope of his being taken prisoner this time. Under the Kaiser the Germans were still a civilized people. These brutes will do anything.’

‘Angela, there’s nothing I can say except that you know very well you wouldn’t have Tony a bit different. You wouldn’t want him to be one of those wretched boys I hear about who have run away to Ireland or America.’

‘That’s quite inconceivable, of course.’

‘Well, then?’

‘I know. I know. Time for bed. I’m afraid we’ve filled your room with smoke. You can open the window when the light’s out. Thank goodness Arthur has gone ahead. I can use my torch across the garden without being accused of attracting Zeppelins.’

That night, lying long awake, obliged to choose between air and light, choosing air, not reading, Guy thought: Why Tony? What crazy economy was it that squandered Tony and saved himself? In China when called to the army it was honourable to hire a poor young man and send him in one’s place. Tony was rich in love and promise. He himself destitute, possessed of nothing save a few dry grains of faith. Why could he not go to France in Tony’s place, to the neat little wound or the barbarous prison?

But next morning as he knelt at the altar-rail beside Angela and Tony he seemed to hear his answer in the words of the canon: Domine non sum dignus.