Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 16
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ОглавлениеHallam’s Hotel flattered itself that it had remained shabbily and indifferently English instead of becoming indifferently and cheaply French. Everything about it was shabby, the carpets, the waiters, the decorations, and this very shabbiness was supposed to add tone to the hotel’s atmosphere. Even as there is no indignation like the indignation of a rogue who has been called a liar, so there is no impertinence to equal the impertinence of a tradition. “The Hallam” met you like some supercilious and complacent manservant, and offering you everything that was second-rate at first-rate prices, assumed that you knew that for nearly seventy years the Hallam had housed people who were “county.” The baths might be somewhat smeary and inadequate, but then they had sufficed for a Victorian generation that had said its prayers more often than it had sponged itself. The Hallam remained supremely Hallam. Almost, its distinguished shabbiness was charged for in the bill.
Loviebond had selected the Hallam, because he was Loviebond, and knew a little about the West End. The Hallam might be shabby and casual to the point of impertinence, but it was still the thing. Bounders did not go there to splash, because the exhibition would have suggested an aquatic display in an old-fashioned stone sink instead of in a marble bath. The American invasion had not yet compelled the Hallam to call in the plumber and the decorator and an Italian director, or expire in the odour of its sanctimonious shabbiness.
Loviebond’s taxi deposited him outside the white portico at 7.15. He had changed in his office, and it was a very correct and man-about-town Loviebond who walked into the badly-lit vestibule. Loviebond lived at Chislehurst and had married a wife, one of the Chislehurst “Crackenthorps.” Everybody in the City who was worth while knew of the Crackenthorps.
Loviebond spoke to a young woman in the office.
“The Seven Club. We’re in the ‘Beaconsfield,’ I believe?”
The young woman had not yet absorbed the Hallam’s air of austere indifference.
“Yes, the Beaconsfield.”
She smiled upon Loviebond, for he, too, was young; and Loviebond smiled back at her.
“Oh, about the bill, I’ll come down and settle when the show’s over.”
“That will be quite all right, sir.”
The “Beaconsfield,” one of the Hallam’s private rooms, was on the first floor, and Loviebond climbed the stairs. A depressed waiter of uncertain age was attending to the fire. The room had red plush curtains at the windows, solid mahogany furniture, a Turkey carpet, a chandelier that had been adapted to electric light. The wallpaper was a pale green.
The waiter, returning the shovel to the brass coal-pot, emitted a sound that seemed to mingle a sigh with an eructation. Loviebond addressed him.
“Take my things, waiter, will you.”
The waiter took Mr. Loviebond’s hat, coat and scarf, and placed them on a table in the corner on the left of the door.
“Champagne all right, waiter?”
“Four bottles of Heidsieck 1913, sir.”
“Got it in ice?”
The waiter eyed him with tired superciliousness. Who was this young swell who was trying to teach “Hallams” the elements of its business.
“In ice, sir.”
Loviebond scrutinized the table, and then went to examine himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He gave a tweak to the bows of his black tie, and then stood to warm his hands.
“Beastly cold. My taxi had a window that wouldn’t shut. Half your taxis, waiter, ought to be on the scrap heap.”
“They’re not my taxis, sir.”
Loviebond turned and surveyed him. This spirit of sulkiness was all too prevalent.
“Look here, my man, are you going to wait on us?”
“I am, sir.”
“Well, this is going to be a cheerful evening, so you may as well try and look cheerful—Hallo, Doc, old man!”
Dr. Pitt was the complete civilian. He had been poured into his dinner-jacket. He was sleek about the head, and his manners were—at any rate for the moment—more professionally tailored.
“Hallo, Mr. Secretary. What do we do with our clothes?”
The waiter had disappeared, and Loviebond looked annoyed.
“Damn that waiter! Half these people at home are Bolshie. Shove them on that table, Doc.”
They shook hands, scrutinizing each other as though mutually aware of some subtle change in the once friendly and familiar figure.
“It’s the same old Doc, and yet—different. I suppose it’s the clothes.”
“Did you expect me to go bald in a year?”
“It might be ten years.”
“Has life been so crowded for you, Lovie?”
Loviebond’s smile was self-conscious and complacent.
“Well, in a way—yes. I’m doing pretty well. Of course this damned taxation hits one rather badly.”
Pitt’s eyes were mischievous.
“Supertax, I suppose.”
“Yes, worse luck. Doesn’t worry you, Doc.”
Pitt answered drily—“Not yet.”
He stood to warm himself, and also to enjoy the post-war Loviebond.
“Married, aren’t you, Lovie?”
“How did you know that?”
“I think I saw a picture in one of the magazines.”
Loviebond looked pleased.
“O, probably. My wife’s a Crackenthorp. Money of her own, you know; it makes my dashed super-tax all the heavier. Still, I suppose one mustn’t grumble.”
“No, Loviebond.”
Archie Steel was the next arrival, wearing a grey overcoat and a Trilby hat. His blue eyes had lost some of their assurance. They had begun to focus the social problems of life, and to be puzzled and worried by them. Like Loviebond he had become a suburban figure, but not on the Crackenthorp level.
“Hallo, Doc. Hallo, Lovie.”
His enthusiasm for the evening was obvious. This was escape, one of the good old rowdy beanos resurrected. He dashed at the other men, gave Pitt a playful jab in the ribs, and tweaked Loviebond’s meticulously hand-produced tie. Pitt laughed and softly cuffed Archie’s head; but Loviebond, full of a new, civic dignity, turned to the mirror to readjust his tie.
“Still the babe. Aren’t you going to grow up, my lad.”
Steel was far too full of the occasion to appreciate the finer shades of evolution in temperament. He grinned at Pitt.
“Good old B Mess. My tie came out of a box. Old Lovie was always particular.”
Dr. Pitt smiled at him.
“Loviebond has responsibilities. High finance and a wife.”
“What, spliced! So am I. Talk about a C.O.! Fancy seeing old Sherring again. All the old crowd.”
He flung his hat and coat on the table.
“Doc, you look absolutely—it. What’s old Sherring doing these days?”
Loviebond, having attended to his tie, assumed that it was his privilege to answer that question.
“No one knows. I had some trouble in getting Sherring’s address. He appears to be in rooms off Baker Street.”
“He’s coming all right?”
“I have every reason to believe so.”
“I say, Lovie, someone has starched your shirt for you. Is old Kettle turning up?”
“I understand so. Fact is, Sherring is a little mysterious these days. I asked him to lunch at my club, and he sent me some excuse.”
Dr. Pitt smiled his dry smile.
“Mysterious! Some diagnoses are so obvious. Everybody knows where you live, Loviebond.”
“I hope so.”
Steel stood with his heels on the fender and his back against the mantelpiece.
“Clovelly—Radnor Road, Narbiton. That’s me. Hallo, here’s old Crabbie.”
He rushed at Crabtree, a Crabtree who sported a hairy coffee-coloured overcoat and a hat that had spent the war shut up in a drawer with moth-balls. Crabtree’s eyebrows seemed to have grown as bushy as his coat. A brown, woollen army scarf protected his shirt-front and collar.
“Hallo, Archie. Hallo, Doc.”
Steel grabbed the brown scarf and pulled out lengths of it.
“Same old scarf! You bought this at Amiens.”
“And same old Crabtree. You look damned fit.”
“I am damned fit, Doc. It’s a good life on a farm. Sherring’s coming, I suppose?”
“O, rather.”
“Here, my lad, mind my collar.”
“The babe is still a babe, Crabbie.”
“So it seems. Let me go, child.”
His brown overcoat and hat joined the other coats and hats upon the table. The sleeves of his dinner-jacket appeared to be too short for his long and powerful arms.
“Doc, you look pretty prosperous.”
“Necessity, old man; appearances.”
Crabtree gripped Steel by the shoulder and looked at him.
“You haven’t been to see me, you young blighter. Any week end.”
“Steel has a wife.”
“Wives can be included. Still a bachelor, Doc?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“Same here. Is Kettle coming? Yes—splendid. And our friend Bastable?”
“By Jove, Lovie, I had forgotten Pork and Beans.”
Loviebond, standing rather straight, like a man about to make an after-dinner speech, gave a tug at his waistcoat.
“As a matter of fact I have been seeing a good deal of Bastable. First-class man of business. I don’t suppose any of you chaps have heard of Affleck, Jeans & Bastable.”
Steel looked cheeky.
“I haven’t. What are they? Tripe merchants?”
“Bankers and bill-brokers, my lad.”
Dr. Pitt had lit a cigarette.
“I’ve heard of them, Loviebond. Old Jeans had a house in Regent’s Park. He was supposed to be worth half a million.”
Loviebond nodded with the air of a man of affairs, a man who was in the know.
“Every penny of it, Doc; big finance; and Bastable——”
Steel showed signs of restiveness.
“You seem to be bucking a lot about Bastable, Lovie.”
“I happen to know the men in the City who count, and who are going to count. Lombard Street, Steel, isn’t quite Narbiton.”
Steel flushed up.
“Hardly; I’m only a bank clerk, but out there in the bloody old war——”
A somewhat tense situation was eased by the appearance of Kettle, a grinning and self-conscious Kettle wearing a dark blue overcoat with a velvet collar, and carrying a bowler hat. His black head had been well oiled and was as polished as his new boots.
“Good evenin’, gents. I’ve taken you at your word.”
Obviously, the Essex Road was feeling a little embarrassed in the presence of a dinner-jacketed Chislehurst and St. John’s Wood, and inclined to remain hesitant in the doorway.
“Hallo, Kettle. Splendid!”
“Come in, Kettle. I’m jolly glad to see you.”
Crabtree and Steel shook hands with the cockney.
“Well, this is a bit of all-right, gents.”
Crabtree, kind soul, helped Kettle off with his coat, and placed it on the table with the other coats. Dr. Pitt held out a hand.
“Kettle, you were one of the men who never went sick.”
Loviebond, more aloof, nodded at the mess-orderly. “Glad to see you, Kettle. Quite like old times.”
Kettle, reassured, and beaming upon them all, held on to Dr. Pitt’s hand.
“Well, I ain’t exactly in the fashion, doctor, but I’m feelin’ fine inside.”
“You look A 1, Kettle.”
Kettle eased his neck in its starched collar and looked at the sleeves of his blue suit. It was a very new suit, and Kettle was proud of it.
“Well, things ain’t so bad with me, gents. I’ve got a little business of m’own.”
“Where, Kettle?”
“Islington. Essex Road. Greengrocery.”
Steel patted him on the back.
“Selling spuds instead of cooking them, Kettle.”
Kettle beamed upon him.
“Just the same, Mr. Steel. As full of mischief as a wagon-load of monkeys.”
“I hope so, Kettle.”
Pitt produced his cigarette-case, opened it, and offered it to Kettle. The waiter, appearing in the doorway, cast a supercilious glance at the Essex Road, and addressed Loviebond.
“Party complete, sir?”
“No, two more gentlemen to come. I’ll ring the bell, waiter, when we are ready.”
The waiter disappeared, and a moment later the frame of the doorway was filled by another figure. There was a shout from Steel.
“Skipper!”
They stood looking at Sherring, momentarily mute, for Sherring was the man who somehow made the night complete. To Crabtree, Steel and Kettle he was more than mere man, the same and yet different, thinner, a black overcoat over one arm, his dinner-jacket well cut, his tie tied by hand. His eyes smiled at them all, whimsically, and with a little glimmer of wistfulness. Almost, he looked shy.
“Skipper, old man.”
His motionless figure came to life and stepped forward out of its frame, and the figures of those other men flowed towards him. They surrounded him; they touched him; they looked into his face. They uttered his name, blurted out a few simple words.
Sherring’s face seemed to shine.
“By Jove, this is—good.”
Kettle was taking his coat from him.
“Kettle, how’s life?”
“Champion, sir.”
Steel, an almost emotional Steel, relieved Sherring of his hat.
“All the little Kettles are full of steam, Skipper, and Kettle’s selling sprouts and spuds.”
“Splendid.”
Pitt held his arm.
“And I’m quite an Agag, Sherring.”
“Smooth as silk, Doc, what! Hallo, Crabbie. Good old Adam.”
“The red man.”
“Hallo, Lovie. How’s the House?”
Loviebond was the only pompous member of the party.
“Quite bullish, Sherring. My firm represents a certain tradition. Come and get warm. I’ve arranged everything. We are waiting now for Bastable.”
Sherring, with one arm round Crabtree and the other round Steel, moved to the hearthrug.
“Bastable. Of course. Late—as usual.”
Steel’s eyes met Loviebond’s.
“Do you mean to say we are going to wait for Pork and Beans?”
Loviebond, chin up, tugged at his waistcoat.
“Of course. The Seven Club does not sit down to dine until its number is complete.”
“Well, I’m damned! Is the Skipper to stand about——?”
Sherring gently cuffed his head.
“All right, Archie. I have kept you all waiting.”
“That’s different. But Bastable——”
As though answering to his name, Mr. Bernard Bastable, of Affleck, Jeans & Bastable stood in the doorway. He had left his scarf, coat and opera hat in the official cloak-room below, and he displayed to his fellow-members tails and a white waistcoat, and a shirt rather resplendent as to studs. The black and whiteness of him were obviously polished and prosperous, his self-assurance slightly studied. By arriving late he may have intended to suggest that he was to be the most important person present, and judged by some post-war standards—he was.
“Evening, everybody. Afraid I’m late, but I had a board-meeting at half-past six, and had to change in my chambers.”
He nodded at Sherring and the doctor, and shook hands with an affable Loviebond who crossed the room to meet him. The sallow solidity of him was very sure of the floor and poised on patent leather shoes. A successful young man, and becoming so singularly successful that his swagger would pass with other men as one of the privileges of power. To a fascinated Kettle he displayed diamonds of the first water in his shirt studs.
“Suppose I need not call you sir, now—Sherring! Ah, Steel, how’s the bank?”
He took the centre of the hearthrug, and warming his hands, held the centre of the room’s attention. Steel’s blue eyes were on stalks, Dr. Pitt’s eyebrows ironical. Sherring observed him as though it piqued him to compare the Bastable of yesterday with the Bastable of to-day.
“You can push on dinner, Loviebond, if you want to.”
Steel, who had been struggling towards self-expression, began to speak: “Jolly condescending of you, P. B.,” but Bastable ignored him, and went on addressing the company as though he was speaking to a gathering of shareholders among whom Steel was a mere dead-head.
“You see, I have to go on to another show, a function run by a lot of society dames——”
Steel, red with insurgent self-regard, managed to get out four words:
“Hence the diamond studs!”
Bastable looked at Steel as though he found Steel very amusing.
“Yes, hence the diamond studs, Steel. Mark it up against my grandfather. They were his.”
Loviebond rang the bell, and assumed temporary control of these discordant temperaments.
“We can sit. Yes, waiter, we’re ready. Sherring, you’ll take the head—of course. Doc, on Sherring’s right. I’m at the foot. Bernard, I’ll have you on my right. Crabbie, you had better sit on Sherring’s left. Kettle next. Steel, the Doc will keep you in order.”
They took their seats, and a little self-consciously so. The atmosphere had lost its fluidity. It was as though Bastable had somehow congealed it, and changed it from a liquid to a colloid. Steel’s rather crude soul was seething. He wanted to kick the swine. Crabtree had grown silent, like a countryman sensing rough weather. Dr. Pitt’s eyebrows remained ironic. Kettle’s eyes were beady, like the bright eyes of some intelligent animal in the presence of a natural enemy.
The waiter shuffled round with oysters. A second waiter appeared with brown bread and butter, lemon and etceteras. Bastable refused oysters.
Loviebond looked concerned.
“Best Whitstable, Bernard.”
“Thanks, no, Loviebond. Fact is—I have to be careful. When a man has to use his head he can’t let go over the flesh-pots. I expect you know that, doctor.”
Pitt’s glance was ironic.
“Not—till one owns the flesh-pots.”
Crabtree nodded. He would never get fat on the flesh-pots.
Steel’s lower lip was combative. His blue eyes stared.
“Some chaps have to diet. I suppose the P. B. type——”
Bastable boomed through him.
“I fence every day, or play squash. My pros help me to keep in condition. I get my chauffeur to rush me up to ‘Queens.’ Of course, the ideal thing is to have a squash court of one’s own.”
“Squash,” said Steel; “I should say so.”
Kettle had been put out of countenance by his oysters. Nature would have prompted him to pick up the shells and slide the bivalves into his mouth. He had sat and watched Sherring, and his eyes had met Sherring’s. They had smiled at each other.
“You’ve given me a start, sir. Never seen so many ruddy forks.”
He became conversational.
“My missis thinks me so hignorant. She said to me, ‘Alf, d’you know what a table-napkin is?’ and I said, ‘Cheese it.’ And she said to me, ‘Don’t you go tuckin’ it into y’ collar.’ ”
The table had paused to listen to Kettle, and Kettle, becoming self-conscious, grinned apologetically.
“Beg pardin’, gents.”
Steel saluted him.
“Glad your missis isn’t here to shut you up, Kettle.”
“I take some shuttin’ up, sir.”
The waiter offered him brown bread and butter and he eyed it suspiciously over his left shoulder.
“What’s this?”
“Brown bread and butter, sir.”
“May as well do the job thoroughly, what?”
There was laughter, and Sherring smiled upon the greengrocer.
“Kettle, you make me feel happy.”
“That’s what we’re ‘ere for sir, ain’t it!”
With the soup the conversation tended to run in couples. Bastable and Loviebond were discussing some financial affair; Kettle, after blowing on his soup and meeting Mr. Loviebond’s shocked and curious stare, seemed to fall shamefully into his soup plate and had to be rescued from it by Steel. “Remember the cellar at the Red Château, Kettle——?” Pitt and Crabtree, both bachelors, were arguing for and against marriage. Sherring, passing his spoon to and fro through his soup, glanced from face to face, and smiled gently and whimsically. Kettle was making moist noises and grinning delightedly at Steel. “Remember your billet in Bethune, sir. Bit of all right, what!” Loviebond was deferring almost obsequiously to Bastable. Sherring watched him, and becoming conscious of being watched in turn met Dr. Pitt’s eyes. They exchanged a little, significant smile.
“Rather intriguing, Sherring, this reassembling and reshuffling of personalities.”
“We may think we don’t change, Doc, but we do.”
“Sure?”
Sherring glanced again at Bastable and Loviebond.
“Or was it that we were all stuffed into brown sacks, so to speak.”
Pitt nodded at him.
“Our bill-broker was always a bill-broker. But generalizations are so damned cheap.”
There was the popping of a champagne cork, and Steel ducked his head.
“Christ! Zero hour. Where did that one go?”
Kettle waved his table-napkin.
“Over the top for the glory boys.”
Bastable, feeling the draught, turned and looked at Kettle as he might have looked at a performing monkey. Steel thrust at him across the table.
“Remember our last zero hour, Bastable?”
Bastable ignored him.
“What year, Loviebond? 1913? Yes, not a bad vintage. I was lunching with Sir Guy Garnet yesterday at the club. He was telling me that if you want the best fizz—— O, by the way, Steel, Sir Guy’s your chief, I believe?”
“He is.”
“Ever met him?”
Steel’s eyes were combative.
“Ask me another!—You haven’t answered my question.”
Sherring straightened in his chair. It had become obvious that inevitable discords threatened this love-feast.
“It’s rather early, you chaps, but I’ll give you a toast. His Majesty the King.”
He rose, glass in hand, and the others rose with him.
“Gentlemen, the King.”
Kettle flourished his table-napkin, and it flicked Bastable’s ear.
“The King, gawd bless ‘im.”
Bastable was the first to resume his seat. He had conformed to a convention. But Kettle had treated an unfamiliar drink with insufficient respect, and was coughing and spluttering.
“ ‘Scuse me, gents, reg’lar gas attack.”
Six foot-one Crabtree looked down at him benignantly.
“A bit lively, Kettle.”
“And I’m a bit hinnocent, sir.”
They seated themselves, and Loviebond once more deferred to Bastable.
“What were you going to say about Sir Guy Garnet, Bernard?”
Tactlessly tactful fellow! Bastable, turning his glass with thumb and finger, spoke like a man of authority.
“He gave me the address of his wine merchants, Manson’s in Piccadilly. Sir Guy’s a man who has twenty thousand down in wine. Quite a sound idea.”
Kettle made a mouth like a fish.
“Blimey, twenty tharsand quid in booze!”
“Yes, Kettle.”
Steel splurged again into aggression.
“Well—I call it a damned shame. That sort of thing makes one feel red.”
Bastable gave him a sallow, shimmering smile.
“With envy, Steel?”
“I’m not out to envy any profiteering blighter.”
Bastable was contemptuous.
“Do you think, Steel, that the head of the bank of which you are—shall we say—a humble member——”
“Look here—I’m not taking any cheek from you, Bastable.”
Again Sherring intervened.
“Archie, this is a peace celebration.”
“Sorry, Skipper. But if my friend across the table——”
“I am saying the same thing to Bastable. We came here to enjoy ourselves——”
Bastable looked amused.
“Our friend Steel is so thin-skinned. I’ll try and remember it, Sherring.”
The dinner passed through the first stage, sole with sauce tartare, and Kettle was once more in trouble with his tools. Having selected a steel knife, he discarded it after a glance at Crabtree’s right fist.
“Reg’lar guessin’ competition for me, Mr. Crabtree.”
Crabtree’s eyes were kind.
“Haven’t forgotten how to make Welsh rabbit, have you, Kettle?”
“Not me. Ev’ry Saturday night I makes the missis and meself a reg’lar mustard plaster.”
Dr. Pitt smiled at him across the table.
“Hot stuff, Kettle.”
“Rawther, sir.”
The champagne was beginning to exert its influence in certain quarters, especially so in Archie Steel. Steel, when primed, became a giggler, a creature of the demonstrative affections until the argumentative and quarrelsome phase arrived. At the moment he was bubbling with the desire to express himself for Sherring’s benefit. He got up, raised his glass, and looked at Sherring.
“We’re a bit early with the toasts, you chaps—but I want to get in first with this one. Skipper—Captain Sherring, M.C.”
Kettle was up like a flash—and thumping the table.
“That’s the stuff, Mr. Steel.”
Crabtree and Pitt rose together. Loviebond got up with the air of a man who was slightly bored, perhaps because he had been proposing to offer that toast himself. Bastable was the last to rise.
“Skipper.”
“Good luck to you, Sherring.”
“The best orficer the old batt ever ‘ad.”
They drank to him, and Sherring smiled up at them rather shyly.
“Thanks, you chaps. You don’t want me to make a speech, do you? I’m not much use at standing on my hind legs.”
Bastable was the first to sit down.
“I agree, Sherring. Oratory can be rather boring.”
The waiters proceeded to serve roast duck, and green peas that had come out of bottles. Meanwhile, other bottles were producing other forms of inspiration. Kettle was wondering whether a fellow ate green peas with a knife. Sherring’s mood was tinted with a pale seriousness, a meditative shade of eau de Nil.
“I say you chaps, isn’t this rather a solemn occasion. The second Armistice Night. We have had time to look at the post-war world and reflect a bit. I would like to put a question. Let’s all try and answer it—honestly. What is the most potent force in post-war England? Supposing we begin with you, Kettle.”
Kettle grimaced, and held his knife and fork at the present.
“The most himportant thing, sir?”
“Yes, Kettle.”
“I should say—grub, sir. I don’t mean to say that my gawd’s my stomick, so to speak, but if your Little Mary ain’t got no fillin’——”
“Kettle’s a realist,” said Pitt.
“You, Archie.”
“The most obvious thing, Skipper?”
“Yes.”
Steel giggled.
“Well, if you ask me I should say that the most startling thing I’ve seen is the leg-show. Talk about revolution!”
Pitt chuckled.
“Or—evolution. As a doctor I hold that health is the soil out of which all good things grow.”
Crabtree nodded his countryman’s head at him.
“Absolutely, Doc.”
Loviebond, fiddling with his tie, was more sententious.
“If a man has large responsibilities as a citizen, he can’t be always running round the corner, Steel.—Personally, I don’t like all this socialism. Bad discipline. People ought to stick to business——”
Bastable, who had been listening with the complacent air of a man who could correct them all, drank, put down his glass, and looked at Sherring.
“There is only one god to-day.”
He paused, and Loviebond was attentive, ingratiating.
“Go on, Bernard. You’re always interesting.”
Bastable assumed an air of arrogance.
“Money, capital. Economic law. Money is the master. You may hear the highbrow theorists talking tosh on ten quid a week. That’s about what they are worth in the world. But offer one of the gentlemen a fat job in the City and see what becomes of his idealism.”
Loviebond tapped the table with gentlemanly enthusiasm.
“Splendid, Bernard. My views—exactly.”
Sherring looked grave.
“Sex, soil and sovereigns! One sometimes reflects upon a certain state called happiness. I don’t know that I have ever found it. But what is one’s idea of happiness?”
Crabtree’s blue eyes were staring at the opposite wall.
“I’ve caught it sometimes, Sherring, very early on one of those dewy mornings just before hay harvest.”
“Assuming, Crabbie,” said Loviebond, “that your hay crop is a commercial proposition.”
“Not necessarily. Life isn’t all hard cash. I take it that Bastable’s idea of happiness is the acquisition of cash.”
“That’s a rather crude statement, Crabtree.”
Pitt joined the debate.
“I’ll give you something even cruder, Bastable. My experience has shown me that even our most eminent citizens are mostly tummy and testicle. If we are not after cash——”
Bastable corrected him.
“Power, doctor, power, and the symbol of power.”
“The Napoleon of Pork and Beans,” said Steel.
Bastable looked tired.
“Waiter, give that gentleman some more champagne. He may find a fresh egg somewhere.”
Once more Sherring parted these two conflicting spirits.
“Yes, more champagne, waiter. As a matter of fact, I think I agree with Crabtree. Life on the land.”
“O no, Sherring,” said Loviebond. “I’ve heard it described as muck and misery.”
Crabtree’s eyes smiled from among kindly wrinkles.
“You’re an urban soul, Lovie. You were born to wear spats.”
The post-war Loviebond was a person lacking in any sense of humour. His self-regard was always pulling sententiously at its waistcoat. It was easily offended.
“I rather flatter myself that in financial affairs—one has to be urban, Crabtree. Bright brains in the City, what! I’m not a theorist or a sentimentalist. I agree with Bernard that—all modern tendencies are economic.”
Sherring laughed gently.
“You’ve got Bradbury on the brain.”
“Here’s a rhyme to that,” said the doctor—“And idealism down the drain!”
Bastable thrust at him aggressively.
“How much idealism is there in a bankrupt business, doctor?”
“All and none, Mr. Financier. To learn the art of being human one has to begin by being poor.”
Both Sherring and Crabtree applauded that saying.
“Wise man, Doc.”
Meanwhile, the club had been consuming Pêche Melba and the plates were being changed. Kettle, who had been solemnly mute during the debate, threw up his head and sniffed.
“Blimey! What price toasted cheese?”
The whole table laughed.
“Welsh rabbit!”
“Kettle’s a humanist.”
Kettle leaned back and spoke to the waiter.
“ ‘Ave you put plenty o’ pepper on it, old lad?”
“I’ll find you a pepper pot, sir,” said the grinning waiter.
“Good egg! None of yer warm wet flannel.”
Sherring’s face looked happier than it had been all the evening. He smiled at Crabtree, pushed back his chair and rose.
“I should like to give you a toast, gentlemen—our champion toaster of cheese, the man who looked after us like a mother and father—Private Kettle.”
Steel rose with enthusiasm, if somewhat unsteadily so.
“Good old Kettle.”
“Oh—oi say, sir—I ain’t got a breath in me. I’m full of Welsh rabbit. But I’m prard to be ‘ere,” and with a grin at Sherring he became inarticulate.
“Good luck to the shop, Kettle.”
“Kettle, may life be all toasted cheese.”
Said Bastable, sitting down with the air of having conferred a favour upon somebody—“There’s a moral in the story. Statecraft has to busy itself with seeing that all our Kettles get sufficient toasted cheese to keep them from making trouble.”
“Just enough—and no more?”
“The eternal carrot.”
“You’re the complete cynic, Bastable.”
“And what are you, doctor?”
“There is one thing that I pray I may not be—a prig.”
Bastable looked amused.
“No—I’m not a prig, doctor. I’m perfectly honest. I respect power. I want power. I mean to possess power.”
“Reminds me of the thing we learnt at school,” said Steel, “Veni, vidi, vici.”
Bastable smiled at him indulgently.
“Quite so, Steel; but not all men are Cæsars.”
The waiter had placed a port decanter on the table on Sherring’s right, and Sherring having filled his glass, passed the decanter to Crabtree. Loviebond was speaking to the waiter concerning the cigars that had been ordered. Steel had brought out a cigarette-case and was preparing to light up.
Loviebond looked shocked.
“Steel, you ought not to smoke before the port.”
Steel was nearing the quarrelsome phase. He flared.
“Why the hell—not?”
“O, well, if you’ve no palate. This port is about the best thing of its kind in London.”
The decanter had reached Bastable, and as he filled his glass he added a spice of venom to it.
“I don’t suppose Steel has made much opportunity for acquiring a nice taste in port.”
Sherring looked sharply at Bastable.
“Excuse me, Bastable, but I can’t let that pass.”
Bastable sipped his port.
“Yes, quite a good vintage. Sorry, Sherring, but Steel and I have been exchanging squibs all the evening. It is supremely unimportant.”
Sherring was angry.
“Indeed. A year ago you would not have made a remark like that.”
Bastable was unabashed.
“O, yes, a year ago! Those were the days of stars and ribbons.”
“We are here to-night to celebrate those days.”
Pitt looked dryly at Sherring.
“I agree. I presume that Bastable is celebrating—other things.”
Bastable smiled at the doctor.
“O, possibly. Some of us are very simple souls. I may bow to the majority—but——”
“There is no but about it,” and Sherring’s voice was sharp; “we are not here to buck about ourselves. O, well, let’s draw down the shutters. Pass the port along. If I have said anything silly I apologize.”
“That’s the captin’, all over,” said Kettle. “Yes, I’m ‘avin’ some more port.”
Crabtree had pulled out a pipe and pouch, and he displayed them to Loviebond.
“All in order, Lovie?”
“But I’ve ordered Coronas.”
“Sorry—I’m a son of the soil.”
“O, as you please. Waiter, hand Captain Sherring the cigars. Will Coronas do you, Bernard?”
“As a matter of fact, I usually smoke Partagas; but a Corona will satisfy me.”
“Magnanimous fellow!” said Pitt.
The cigars had reached Bastable, and he took one between finger and thumb, rolled it, and smelt it.
“Do you mind if I have my coffee now”—and he looked at Sherring—“I have to rush on to this other function. My car’s waiting.”
Sherring nodded at him.
“No apologies needed. What’s your car, Bastable?”
“O, there’s only one car worth having.”
Sherring lit his cigar.
“I see; I’m thinking of getting a Rolls myself.”
Bastable struck a match.
“Secondhand?”
This was too much for Steel who, mute after the last explosion, had been re-approaching boiling point.
“You are a swine, P. B.”
The whole table stiffened and was silent, and Sherring, with a quick glance at Steel, seemed to seize a lashing tiller.
“Apologies all round—please. I’ve no objection to a secondhand Rolls, partly because I don’t suppose I shall ever own one. Yes, I’ll take a brandy, waiter.”
Crabtree looked at him affectionately.
“Great man, Skipper.”
Coffee and liqueurs were served. Crabtree lit a big, bulldog pipe. Kettle spread himself and sniffed the smoke of his cigar.
“Well—I guess this is the best blow-art I’ve ‘ad since I was born. I look towards you, Mr. Loviebond.”
Loviebond bowed and smiled self-consciously.
“Thank you, Kettle. I hope everybody is satisfied. I arranged that the dinner should cost twelve and sixpence a head, but that does not include the drinks. I should like to stand the drinks and the ‘extras.’ ”
“O, we can’t let you do that, Lovie,” said Sherring.
“Very generous of you, Lovie.”
“ ‘Ear, ‘ear,” from Kettle.
Loviebond adjusted his waistcoat.
“But I should like to. It’s a gesture. I propose that we pass round a plate. Each member can put down his dinner-money and something for the waiters. It will save letter-writing, and I can settle with the hotel before I go.”
Sherring produced a wallet and placed a pound note and a ten-shilling note on a plate.
“All in order, Lovie. Next year the drinks must be my affair. Kettle, you’re my guest to-night.”
“No, sir, I’m not spongin’ on you. I’m prard to be ‘ere, and I’m prard to pay.”
“As a favour, Kettle.”
“If you put it that way, sir, I ain’t got a word t’say, but I thanks yer.”
“Good man.”
Steel had nothing but a pound note, and was wanting change, which Pitt managed to provide, and while the bank-cashier was making up his account, Bastable was peeling a five-pound note from a wad he had produced. Kettle appeared interested in that mass of crisp paper. He chewed his cigar, and watched Bastable’s fiver crown the plate.
“I’ll take four pounds from you, Loviebond.”
“You’ll break the bank, Bernard.”
Bastable slipped the wad of notes back into his breast pocket, and rose, and Kettle with a kind of sigh, seemed to settle himself deliberately into his chair. What an opportunity to follow a swell like Bastable, hustle him and pick his pocket! But Kettle had become a respectable citizen with a little shop in the Essex Road.
Bastable made his apologies.
“Sorry to have to break away, but I must show up at this function.”
Loviebond rose with an air of a man eager to please and conciliate a friend who could be useful. He laid a hand on Bastable’s shoulder.
“I know what a man of affairs you are, Bernard. What about lunching with me at the club next week?”
“I have to go to Paris next week. Rather a big flotation. Make it the week after.”
“Splendid. I’ll ring you up.”
Bastable nodded and smiled at his fellow-members.
“Good night—everybody. Till next year.”
Sherring was the only one who replied.
“Good night, Bastable.”
Loviebond went out with Bastable, holding him affectionately by the arm. There was silence. Kettle blew smoke. Crabtree and Pitt looked at each other. Steel blurted out what some of the others were thinking.
“Fancy Lovie turning ‘toady’!”
Pitt laughed dryly.
“Business, my lad.”
Steel jumped up and made for the door.
“All right, Skipper. I only want to see whether the blighter really has a Rolls.”
Dr. Pitt smiled across at Crabtree.
“Some peace celebration—this! One is beginning to learn who are the important people. That’s why our friend Bastable joined us to-night.”
Sherring knocked cigar ash into a saucer.
“I expect there is some good in Bastable.”
“So long,” said the doctor “as things are good for Bastable. I bet you he’ll turn up again next year—to take it out of us. He’s stiff with assurance.”
Steel reappeared, an outraged Steel.
“Christ! Loviebond’s down there helping the blighter on with his coat.”
“More business, my dear. What about the car?”
“It’s a Rolls all right, with a chap in livery. Damn it, I wish I could put the clock back.”
“One never can, Archie.”
“Pork and Beans! And I had to threaten to kick him out of a hole that morning when we went over the top near Ronsoy.”
Steel sat down in red disgust, and Sherring smiled at him.
“Never mind, Archie, you did the job and you did it damned well.”
But the evening had lost its bravura. These other men seemed to be reflecting upon certain unexpected realities. Sherring sat silent, watching the smoke rise from his cigar. Steel looked depressed. Pitt was frowning as though some professional problem had cropped up to plague him. The room was voiceless when Loviebond returned, a Loviebond who looked pleased with life. Cheerfully and complacently he resumed his place at the table.
“Great lad, Bastable. Fact is—we didn’t get to know him properly out there.”
Steel was in a bad mood.
“I did—old man. Our business was to do the job and not to lickspittle.”
Loviebond’s shirt-front was a surface of shocked, white hauteur.
“What d’you mean? Bastable and I do business together.”
Sherring looked suddenly and strangely tired.
“Now then—B Mess! Doc, you had better prescribe for us.”
“Another war—I think. Look here you two, seriously, I’m not coming here next year if we are going to squabble.”
“Well, if Bastable is going to turn up,” said Steel sulkily, “I shan’t be here.”
Loviebond snubbed him.
“If Steel can’t keep his temper he had better stay away.”
“No—I’m not much use to you, Loviebond, am I? I don’t produce much business.”
“Archie!” said Sherring reproachfully, “don’t talk like that. I’ve been looking forward to this night. It’s being spoilt.”
Steel became emotional.
“Sorry, Skipper. I’m a bloody little fool. I’m going. I’ve got to catch the 11.30—anyway.”
Crabtree rose to intercept him as he went towards the table where the hats and coats lay.
“Come on, Archie, don’t be an ass.”
Steel flared at him.
“Let me alone, damn it. I want to go.”
“Well—I’ll come with you. Waterloo’s my station too.”
Crabtree looked rather wistfully at Sherring, and Sherring nodded at him. “Yes, go with the child.” Steel was hunching himself into his coat, and Crabtree paused between the two tables.
“I wish you’d come down, Sherring, and spend a week end with us. My sister lives with me, you know.”
Sherring rose.
“I’d love to.”
He found Steel almost in tears, making a grab at his hand.
“Sorry, Skipper, you have always been such a sport to me. Good night, Doc; good night—Kettle. Good night, Lovie; sorry I was peevish.”
He was in a hurry to escape, and both angry and ashamed. He caught hold of Crabtree’s arm and almost dragged him to the door. “Come on, old man.” He was afraid of making an even more childish fool of himself, and Crabtree understood. He threw a backward glance at the others as he passed through the doorway.
“Good night, everybody. Till next year.”
Pitt had risen; he strolled across to the table and picked up his coat.
“I have a bad case to look at before I turn in.”
Sherring’s face was the face of a man who was trying to conceal profound disappointment.
“All right, Doc. What, you going too, Lovie?”
He helped Pitt on with his coat.
“Doing pretty well, Doc?”
“As a matter of fact—I am. St. John’s Wood seems to like me and, so far as it goes, I like St. John’s Wood.”
“Do you find it difficult, Doc?”
“What, old man?”
“Telling people the truth.”
Pitt smiled dryly.
“What is the truth, old man? Sometimes—one has to lie to people in order to make them feel good.”
Sherring watched Pitt arranging his scarf.
“I lost one job through trying to be truthful. People who are hard up can’t always afford to tell the truth.”
Pitt looked at him sharply.
“Not that way—are you?”
Sherring’s smile was whimsical.
“No, Doc; I’ve got a job.”
“Look here, if you ever want vetting, send for me. I’ll tell you the truth. No, and no bill, my lad.”
“Then—I shouldn’t send for you, Doc.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m not out merely for filthy lucre.”
Kettle was helping Loviebond with his coat, and Loviebond spoke to Sherring.
“I’ll settle everything downstairs. I take it we all wish to repeat the show next year.”
“Of course, Lovie.”
“A blow-art like this,” said Kettle; “I should say so.”
Loviebond shook hands somewhat condescendingly with Kettle.
“I’m glad you have enjoyed yourself, Kettle. Coming, Doc? Good night, Sherring. Come and have lunch with me one day. What’s your telephone number? Not got one? Well—I’ll drop you a line. Same address?—Good.”
Pitt gave Sherring a warm grip.
“Good night, old man. Don’t forget.”
“Thanks, Doc. Seeing you would do me good. Cheerio. Till next year.”
Sherring and Kettle were left alone together, and Sherring, taking his chair, stood it in front of the fire. He looked tired. He sat and stared at the fire. Kettle, on the hearthrug, looked down at him lovingly.
“Don’t seem like a year, sir, does it?”
Sherring’s eyes remained fixed on the fire.
“No, Kettle; it might be yesterday, and it might be a hundred years ago. By the way, still in the same—business?”
Kettle grinned.
“No—I’m a reformed character. My missus wouldn’t stand for the job. Besides, with a couple o’ kids. Fact is, sir, I brought off one flash job and nearly got pinched. My nerve ain’t what it was, and we ‘ad a little bit of all-right put by.”
“So you started this shop.”
“Yus; I blows down to th’ Market each mornin’. Yus, I’ve got a bit of transport. The missus is ‘ot stuff in the shop.”
“Doing well?”
“We ain’t grumblin’.”
“I’m glad.”
Kettle, with the end of a cigar tucked in the corner of his mouth, turned over the money in his trouser pockets, and looked at the clock.
“Well—it’s bin a marvellous evenin’, sir. Got t’catch an Islington bus. Wish you’d give us a call, sir, sometime.”
“I will—Kettle.”
“You’ll see the name up in the Essex Road. We’d be prard. Well—I must be slopin’. Suppose you’ll be goin’ ‘ome in your car, sir.”
Sherring turned and smiled at him.
“I haven’t got a car, Kettle.”
“I thought you ‘ad, sir.”
“No; I sell cars, and sometimes I drive them to sell to other people. That’s my job.”
“I see, sir. You’ll be takin’ a taxi.”
“Probably. I am going to stay here for a few minutes and sit by the fire. Give my love to Mrs. Kettle and the kids.”
“I will, sir.”
Kettle went for his coat, and Sherring, rising, helped him on with it.
“Fancy you givin’ me a ‘and, sir! If you’d drop in on us, the old woman would be prard to give you a cup o’ tea.”
“I won’t forget, Kettle.”
They shook hands. Kettle walked to the door, turned, put his heels together and saluted.
“Good night, sir.”
“Good night, Kettle. Mind you turn up next year.”
When Kettle had gone, and he was alone, Sherring sat down again in front of the fire. Bending forward, he stretched out his hands to it. There was no smile in his eyes now. He was alone with himself. If he saw pictures in the fire, they were pictures of the past rather than glimpses of the future. And suddenly he looked frail, and shadowy and sad.
He was thinking—“It would have been better if I had died out there.”
