Читать книгу Household Ghosts: A James Kennaway Omnibus - James Kennaway - Страница 21

ONE

THE DAWN WAS like an afternoon; the day seemed to break with an immense regret. There were no bright streaks dramatic enough for an execution; but it was a prisoner’s day, dull and without birds.

It was just freezing outside and the barracks was at its worst. The high wall closed out the real world like a frame surrounding an etching. A tint of brown in the sandstone was the only colour within the perimeter, apart from the white of the snow, and the grey: the grey of the slates where the snow had thawed a little and shifted in an untidy avalanche; the grey shoulders of the Officers’ Mess at the end of the square; the grey figures scuttling about from block to block, the orderly corporals, the pickets dismissing, the bugler in search of breakfast, and the detention squads sweeping away the first paths through the sticky snow.

And in the middle of it all was another grey form, apparently in no hurry, walking clumsily, his head and shoulders wagging from side to side, like a great bear in a ring. Jock had not been to bed at all, and now he felt cold and sick. His feet were wet, every limb was dead-weight, every joint stiff, and his chin rested on his chest. Only once or twice did he look up. He stared blankly at the buildings and the figures moving about as the day began, he observed the lights going on in the barrack rooms, heard the echoes of the first complaints. He turned all the way round to look at every building, at the chimneys, and at the arc of sky. Two or three times he had hesitated and slightly changed his direction; he left a track of his indecision behind him in the snow. Then he lifted his head and marched towards the stucco villas of the Married Quarters (Warrant Officers and non-commissioned ranks). These were hidden behind the Officers’ Mess in the northernmost part of the area, and every house was dismally identical.

Jock expected Morag to come into the cramped little room. He was sitting like a bundle in a greatcoat, heaped into a modern armchair. Mrs McLean’s parlour was very spick-and-span with its tiled fireplace, piano, antimacassars, calendars, and obstacles galore. If the furniture was displaced by six inches in any direction, there was no thoroughfare from the window to the fire or to the door. Jock stood up awkwardly when he heard the approaching foot-steps, and the Pipe-Major nodded to him.

‘I’d thought she would come down, but she’s very determined.’

‘Did you tell her it was me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Did you tell her the rest? What I said you’d to say?’

‘Aye. Mrs McLean and I have both had a word with her.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She said she was tired.’ He gave a gesture of sympathy. ‘The lassie’s worn out: that’s all it is.’

Slowly, slowly Jock picked his way through the furniture to the little space in the bow of the window. He was careful that the borders of his coat should not sweep away any ashtray or ornaments and he still had hold of the cloth when he replied cautiously, ‘But I said I apologised.’ His hands came away from his coat. The light shone on the upturned palms. ‘I said I was sorry. Does the lassie think it was easy for me? Does she suppose it doesn’t cost me anything to say that? What more could I say?’

Mr McLean shook his head. He was at a loss, and he was afraid of Jock; afraid that Jock might fail.

Outside it had already begun to thaw. Some snow had slipped off the roof and there were a few drops of water falling from the rone pipe outside the window. There was some moisture on the window itself: just enough to tempt Jock to draw a double cross with his finger and rub it out again with the side of his fist. He left his fist resting on the pane and stared and stared at the greyness outside.

Mr McLean shifted uneasily and ran his fingers up and down the leather strap of his sporran. He smiled.

‘Och, Colonel Sinclair, you know what the young girls are. You know what the daughters are like: she’ll come away. She’s upset. It’s her dignity that’s suffered. It is her pride.’

Jock moved at ‘pride’.

‘A-huh. It’s her pride.’ He seemed too tired to go further than that and he dug his hands in his coat pockets. Then he smiled, moving his hands in the pockets with a sort of shrug.

‘It’s like having your own words flung back in your face. I taught her to be proud, Pipe-Major. I taught her independence. Christ, I don’t know why I bothered sending her to school. I taught her everything she knows.’

‘She’s a fine girl. But she’s like yourself. That is all that is the matter. She will come away. She is still upset: and the lassie is tired.’ His voice fell softly, like truth. But Jock’s was grating:

‘Ach, I should have known she would not come downstairs. She’s ashamed of me. I shouldn’t have come – and that’s a fact.’ He nodded and recovered himself. ‘It’s good of you to look after her.’

Again he stood still, and there was another silence. Then at last Mr McLean frowned and he said, ‘I cannot understand it. I cannot follow.’ He put his hand out in front of him as if he were groping for a solution. ‘A man of your experience; to do such a thing. Such a stupid thing. You can’t have considered.’

Jock stared at him, but did not reply.

‘It was a terrible thing,’ the Pipe-Major said and he sat down on the arm of the chair. Jock pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket. It was squashed, and there was only one cigarette in it. He rolled the cigarette round his fingers, reshaping it, and tapped the tobacco in at the ends. He lit it with a match from the other pocket, and he smoked, and sniffed. He seemed unwilling to go on or to go back; just as if he were idling; a soldier on a field, waiting to be taken away. ‘What d’you think made me do it?’ The Pipe-Major hesitated, nodding here and there with his head. ‘Man to man, Mr McLean. Forget the badge of rank. It can be forgotten now.’

The other protested. ‘Oh no, sir, it’s no as bad …’

Jock raised his hand.

‘Man to man.’ He sat back on the window seat, his coat ruffled about him, his knees apart. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘You didn’t know about the young man?’

‘No.’

The Pipe-Major raised his head again. ‘She didn’t tell you?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe it was a shock. Just that.’

‘A-huh.’ Jock looked out of the window, idle again.

And at last the Pipe-Major spoke out: ‘I know he’s a corporal, sir: but he’s a good lad. He’s no a fly-by-night, Ian Fraser. His father’s a farmer up by Forres there.’

Jock moaned and he pushed his legs out in front of him. His heels clicked on the floor, and he shook his head backwards and forwards as he tried to find words.

‘Did you think that? Och, man … For Christ’s sake. I expected Mr Simpson to say that – not you. I expected every old school tie from here to St James’s Palace to say that …’ He shook his head again, clicked his fingers to correct himself. ‘That’s not right either. I expected half of them to say just “You know Jock – a ranker born, a ranker aye”; and the others I expected to say what you’re saying. I mean the complex boys. The doctor with his fingers tangled in his hair. “Jock’s self-made,” he’ll say, only he’ll say it with a lot of whys and wherefores, and “should have thoughts” and “in effects” and all that caper.’

The Pipe-Major was a little mystified. He frowned as he tried to follow and Jock rambled on. ‘“It’s no wonder Jock was so upset when he saw his lassie with a corporal.” Ach. To hell. I’ve never had time, Mr McLean, I’ve never had time to get as complicated as that. I leave all that to the county.’ For the first time that morning a twinkle of humour lit his eyes. ‘I’ve been most things, Mr McLean, but I’ve never been a Regimental Sergeant-Major.’

The Pipe-Major understood and smiled, then Jock went on.

‘Nach, nach. To hell with that. Whatever they may like to believe I’ve never had any worries about class. Aye, and I’m sorry. It hurts me that you should think that of me.’ Then he added, ‘And me a piper, too.’

Jock’s intelligence was never to be underestimated. Whether he thought out the moves, and played the game accordingly, or whether the outburst was spontaneous, the Pipe-Major did not stop to think. But his words could not have fallen on more sympathetic ears. Mr McLean, even so early in the morning, began to glow, and to nod. His eyes glistened with favour.

‘Aye, sir, and I hold the same views as you do, though they being so near the politics it’s no my job to express them. I’m glad of what you’ve said to me. If it had been the other way I couldn’t have felt the same at all. We have no place for class here in a Highland Regiment. No place at all. But we’re as well disciplined as the next, are we not?’

The Pipe-Major was throbbing with enthusiasm, and Jock glanced at him slantwise. His eyes were moving quicker now. He was on his feet again, twisting and gesturing.

‘Mr McLean, you’ve been with the Battalion a while.’

‘Seventeen years, sir.’

‘Aye. All through the war.’

‘I didn’t miss any of it.’

‘You were hurt, once?’

‘Aye. On the great day. I was playing then. I was piping when you took over command.’ He allowed himself a moment of pride. ‘And I still played when they took me back and bound up my leg.’

‘Aye, I remember.’ Jock paused and they both remembered the day. Then Jock spoke again. ‘They were the days of my glory, Mr McLean. Nobody can deny me that. They were the days of my glory,’ he said with wily tragedy. ‘Nobody would ever want to deny you those days.’ Mr McLean clenched his jaw with the sort of vigour that usually takes whisky. He was not usually boisterous in his loyalty, but this was an exceptional moment. ‘Not any piper anyway. I’ll see to that.’

‘Even if I strike him?’ Jock looked up suddenly, his eyes pale.

Mr McLean was about to answer warmly again. But he hesitated when he saw where the conversation had led him, and he was ashamed that he could not answer straight. He let his head drop and put two fists on his knees. ‘Colonel Sinclair. Colonel Sinclair.’ Jock gave a weary smile. ‘Och, never mind.’ He rose to his feet, preparing to leave, and Mr McLean talked fast and anxiously.

‘It’s not an important thing. It will come out that it’s not an important thing. It is a pity; no more. Sir, if it were only Corporal Fraser and myself there’d be no need … but you must see. There were others there. There was the landlord and the other pipers. It is not possible to ignore it. It would not be right for me. I cannot forget it. But it will soon blow away.’

Jock shook his head. ‘It’ll go to court martial.’ ‘The Colonel could deal with it.’ ‘The Colonel will put it to Brigade. It will go to court martial.’

The Pipe-Major sighed. He knew very well that was the truth. He smiled sadly. ‘I wish I had a television set. I’ve never wished it before. But if I had a television set perhaps I would not have gone out at all.’ He grew serious again. ‘At the court martial they will see that it is not important. Then it will be forgotten.’

Jock shook his head again.

‘You know very well that if it goes as far as court martial, whatever the result, it is the end for me.’

‘No, no. It’ll be forgotten. They wouldn’t demote you on that.’

Jock looked at him steadily.

‘H.Q. Company Commander until they axe me. For Christ’s sake.’

Mr McLean fidgeted, and Jock went on, heatedly this time. ‘Man, the Battalion belongs to me; without it, there’s nothing else for me. D’you know that?’

‘I know that.’

‘If it goes to court martial, it will be the finish.’

The Pipe-Major grew agitated: ‘Colonel Sinclair. You are making it hard for me. It is my duty. No one could be more sorry than myself. Colonel Sinclair, I tell you, I’d walk the plank for you.’

‘Would you?’ He paused, then he moved away and he said, ‘Ach!’

He was suddenly unreasonably angry with the man. Mr McLean seemed to him too resilient to be human, a man sitting on his haunches, riding every punch. His eyes blazed up, he moved, suddenly, pushing his way through the furniture.

‘And tell me this; if there’s war tomorrow, who’s leading the Battalion? Eh?’

The Pipe-Major was hurt. He remained silent, and Jock passed him, saying, ‘Och, to hell with this.’

But in the hall as he reached for his bonnet, he practically stumbled into Morag, who had come downstairs, thinking he was gone. She drew back and she saw his hair tousled, the creases in his coat, the soaking wet shoes and stockings. These were things Morag had grown used to observing. Even though she was afraid to meet him, and determined to draw stiffly away from him, she could not hold back.

‘Father, for heaven’s sake …’

There was a note of sympathy in the voice, and such a note, however slight, is impossible to miss. Jock could not have failed to hear it. But he looked at her with pale, flat eyes as if he were defending himself: as if she had spoken in another tongue.

‘Ach!’ It was a noise, not a word, and Morag drew her elbows into her sides.

‘Father, you’re soaked through.’

He shook and turned away. In a rough voice, with a drunkard’s brutality, he said, ‘Och, you can keep all that stuff. You wrote me a lie and you’re too bloody late now,’ and before she moved, he hurled himself out of the front door, slamming it hard behind him. He walked heels down, determinedly through the snow, with obstinacy in every stride. After only a moment he was miserable but he knew he could not return to the house; his obstinacy prevented that.