Читать книгу Royal Regiment - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 32

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The afternoon, for a wonder, had turned out fine. Thanks to that new polish of Noakes’ discovering, one’s old bus—standing there with her hood down—looked “almost posh”.

“Don’t get yourself gonged, Rusty”, chaffed Lyttelton, who had cadged a lift as far as Aldershot, as they climbed in.

It was two o’clock by then. Alone, some thirty-five minutes later, the commander of the Turban battery pulled up and looked at his map.

The remembered directions seemed perfectly clear. A mile on, he must turn to his left. To make assurance doubly sure, he consulted the letter again; returned it to his pigskin pocketbook; and drove on slowly through the bright sunshine, his mind almost a blank.

The Hampshire side road proved narrow, steep and winding. At heart a countryman, he rejoiced in its emptiness—and the smell of the good earth, the pines and the glistening hedgerows. Winter seemed almost over. The first snowdrops were out. Soon, it would be daffodil time. A fine county, this. A fine country, England. Worth fighting for again, if one had to. Worth dying for.

Not that one wanted to die.

All the same, if any of the family had to go west, better himself or Geoffrey than William ...

Curious thought!

His mind went blank again. Rounding a corner, he had to brake for two lovers, strolling arm in arm.

“Lucky young devils”, he thought next—and again the thought seemed curious. Surely, at his age, a man could do without love?

His dashboard clock showed him that it was not yet three. He stopped again—picking his place carefully, drawing well in to the side of the road—to light a pipe.

The smoke brought comfort, retrospection—and a few daydreams.

He looked back across his twenty-five years in the Regiment. Good years, on the whole. He’d done well enough in the war—a Military Cross, a couple of mentions. Afterwards he’d “managed to scrape into Staff College”. Pity that promotion was so slow nowadays. He was just as capable of commanding a brigade as Lampson. Still, he’d have his brigade eventually. And his shell might “come to something”.

“There are worse lives than mine”, he concluded; and drove on once more, slowly, till he reached the crossroads indicated in the letter.

From there, another mile of main road and another turning brought him within sight of high iron lodge gates, swung back from worn stone pillars topped by griffins.

“Ger-falcons would be more appropriate”, he thought; and smiled to himself as he turned in.