Читать книгу Royal Regiment - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 22

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Battery-Sergeant-Major Leonard Cartwright, a bulky man, a “Contemptible”, like Patterson and Noakes, married, with five children, said, “Thank you, sir”, and seated himself heavily on the one other chair in the battery office.

Lance-Sergeant Godden—said Sergeant-Major Cartwright—was outside. He’d best tell his own story. A bad business. Promising young man like that, too. Messing about with another sergeant’s wife. Divorce indeed. As though divorce were as easy as kiss your hand. No arguing with either of them either. His own wife had been to see her on the Sunday. Bold as brass, the hussy. Showed one what people were coming to nowadays. In his opinion, the films had a lot to answer for. And the newspapers too if it came to that.

Rockingham heard the monologue out. Cartwright’s version of the affair only elaborated Patterson’s—and seemed equally obscure on the two main points. Questioned on the first of these, “But how do you come to know so much about it, Sergeant-Major?” Cartwright blew out his cheeks before answering:

“He came to me for advice, sir. I’m by way of being a relative of his”.

Questioned on the second point, he hung in the wind and took counsel with his prominent moustache.

“I’d rather not name any names”, he said at last “If he likes to, it’s another matter.”

“Am I to gather from that”—the battery commander, also, had hesitated an appreciable second before speaking—“that the—er—husband is still in ignorance?”

“He’s on one of them special courses, sir. Due back next week. She says she’s going to tell him then ... There’s, there’s one child, sir.”

“That’s bad.”

“Shall I send him in, sir?”

“Please.”

Cartwright, whom Rockingham had known since he was a trumpeter, hauled himself to his feet; saluted, and went out. A moment later, another figure stood to attention before the desk.

Lance-Sergeant Godden’s figure was all the soldier’s, athletic without being overmuscled, long of leg and narrow in the hips. The cap, the shining black boots, added inches to his five foot ten.

“I gather you want to see me on a private matter”, began Rockingham; and the face under the cap peak set, as the clean-shaven lips answered: “Yes, sir. If you please”.

Godden’s face—it had seemed to Rockingham since he first saw the man—might have been modelled by some ancient Greek sculptor. The eyes were gray-blue; the hair very nearly pure gold. His speech, despite an indefinable trace of West Country accent, betrayed a good education. With a war on, he would certainly have been recommended for a commission. But as a peace soldier he was more than three years beyond the age limit, rising twenty-seven.

“Pity”, thought the battery commander. Aloud he said, unsmiling, “Go on”.

Godden, still at attention, hesitated.

“It’s a little difficult to explain, sir.”

“Sit down. And try.”

The sergeant, with a grace completely lacking in Cartwright, obeyed the order.

“If I could talk this out as man to man, sir ...” he began, after a few seconds’ more hesitancy; then, “My eight years will be up in May, sir. I’ve always done my duty. I’d like well enough to re-engage. Only——”

And there he stopped dead—rather astutely it seemed to Rockingham, who said, “I’m very glad to know that, Godden. But that isn’t all you want to talk to me about, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Go on, then. Though I may as well tell you I’ve heard a good deal already.”

“I know that, sir. I asked Uncle Leo ... the Sergeant-Major, I mean—to tell you. Or rather I asked him to tell Captain Patterson, not realising you’d be back quite so soon, sir.”

Feet on the gravel outside disturbed them both. Patterson’s face glanced in through the window; disappeared.

“We haven’t done anything wrong”, said Godden suddenly. “But we’ll have to, if she’s to get free of him. That’s the law, sir. It doesn’t seem fair somehow or other.”

And after that words poured from him, while Rockingham listened, thinking, “And one kids oneself one knows these chaps, that they’re one’s own men!”