Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 4
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ОглавлениеThe mess-orderly, having brought his dinner to the parading point, hurriedly attended to his own person. The cook was to disappear in the waiter, and Kettle watered his hair and put on his tunic. It boasted two wound stripes, the battalion flash—a yellow diamond on one sleeve. Grandma was stirring the soup.
“You’re a ruddy ol’ witch, you are, muvver.”
The girl in the black shawl sat by the stove, farouche and silent, and taking no interest in the proceedings.
B Coy’s officers began to arrive: Lt. Crabtree and Sec.-Lt. Steel fresh from their billets; Crabtree, long, lean, red and very blue of eye—the countryman and farmer with big hands and bony wrists covered with brown hair; Mr. Steel, snub-nosed, round-faced and fair, with a cherub’s mouth capable of emitting the most mephitic language. Archie Steel was the mess’ barley-headed boy; Crabtree its philosopher.
Young Steel’s eyes were instantly on the girl.
“Bon soir, mam’selle.”
The girl looked at him, rose, and with an air of deliberate sulkiness, walked towards a door that opened on a staircase. Crabtree smiled, and clinched young Steel’s arm.
“Come along, my lad, keep off it.”
“Shut up, you old crabster. Mam’selle——”
The door opened and closed, and Kettle, buttoning up his tunic, looked sly.
“Nothin’ doin’, Mr. Steel. Prard and ‘aughty.”
“Personal experience, Kettle?”
“In a manner of speakin’, yus, sir.”
Crabtree and Steel found Sherring sitting by the stove.
“Hallo, Skipper, to-night’s the night, what!”
Sherring, with his hands spread as though giving the stove his benediction, looked over his right shoulder at these two.
“I shan’t have to send you on any more dirty jobs, Archie. That’s one blessing.”
“You didn’t like it, Skipper?”
“What do you think, you babe? Crabbie, I suppose you’re dreaming of the farm?”
Crabtree, standing beside Sherring’s chair, had the air of a man who had escaped great perils and was glad.
“Yes—peace, Skipper. It’s pretty marvellous.”
Young Steel had a foot on a chair and was tightening the tape of a puttee.
“Marvellous! I should say so. What do you think Crabbie and I saw in the village?”
Sherring’s smile was whimsical.
“A woman.”
“O, better than that. The Old Man standing, all by himself in front of a crucifix with his tin hat off, saying prayers.”
“Why not, Archie?”
“O,—but hell, he’s——”
“Did he see you?”
“No; blind to the world, boozed on beatitudes.”
Sherring laughed and met Crabtree’s eyes.
“The infant doesn’t understand these things.”
Steel looked cheeky. “O, don’t I!—Kettle—I say, are you rising to this ruddy occasion?”
The black head of Kettle projected itself round the edge of the door.
“Sir?”
“What’s the menu? Tin hats on toast?”
“Soup, sir, roast beef and veg, jam roll.”
“Jam roll! Marvellous! I feel like a jam roll. What about drinks?”
Sherring tilted his chair.
“Lovie’s on the scrounge, Archie.”
“Good old Lovie! I’m going to get drunk, Skipper.”
“Oh, are you. Then Crabtree can spank you and put you to bed. Hallo, here’s the doc!”
Dr. Pitt, a short, stocky, sandy man with large front teeth, was being helped off with his British “warm” by Kettle. In the battalion, Captain Pitt, R.A.M.C., had the reputation of being something of a terror. No one had ever skrimshanked past the shrewd solidity of Dr. Pitt, but those of his intimates who knew him in expansive moments, had discovered that the doctor was ticklish. Young Steel and Crabtree mobbed him in the doorway.
“Hallo, doc. Quack, quack!”
They picked him up between them and carried him bodily to a chair, where Pitt, a very powerful man pulled young Steel across his knees.
“You’ve got a rowdy crowd, Sherring.”
“Spank him, doc.”
“I’m going to. Now, you young devil! Who’s ticklish; what?”
The face of grandma appeared in the doorway, a grotesque and grinning mask, but grandma was obstructing a person of peculiar importance. The voice of Kettle was heard.
“Clear the road, old dear. Mr. Loviebond, sir. The bar’s open!”
Steel was put back on his feet. Sherring, who had opened the flap of the stove and was staring at the fire, turned his face towards the doorway. It framed a “Young Master,” Lieut. Loviebond—the Battalion’s transport-officer and supreme knut, with his cap on the back of his head and his bosom full of bottles. A tall, dark, dandified young man with a little smudge of a moustache painted upon his upper lip, he possessed a sense of the dramatic. Mr. Loviebond had begun the war with a monocle, and was finishing it with bottles.
Steel, rather red in the face, yelped at him.
“Good old Lovie! I say, who’s been wrecking somebody’s cellar?”
Loviebond was feeling regal, the man of the moment.
“Not a word, young fellah. Kettle.”
“Sir.”
“Unload me, Kettle. My bosom aches.”
Kettle hurried to assist him.
“I wouldn’t ‘urt a ‘air of their pretty ‘eads, sir.”
Steel jazz-stepped.
“My God, fizz!”
“Fizz—one bottle, red wine—two bottles. Whisky——”
“Lovie, you’re a marvel! Better than your stuff, doc.”
“You wait till to-morrow, my child.”
Kettle, with the air of an auctioneer’s assistant displaying a special “lot,” placed the various bottles on the table.
“Dinner’s ready, sir. Are you waitin’ for Mr. Bastable?”
Steel’s combative round head went up.
“What!—We wait for that little blighter!”
Sherring admonished him.
“Quiet, Archie. Everything’s a wash-out on a night like this. You can serve dinner, Kettle.”
“Right, sir.”
“We don’t wait for Mr. Pork and Beans, Kettle.”
“Archie—shut up.”
“Sorry, Skipper. I shouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t show his face. Bloody little funk.”
Kettle bustled round on his long, flat feet, shoving the chairs in their places. The mess seated itself, Sherring at the head of the table, Pitt on his right, Loviebond at the foot, Crabtree and Steel on Sherring’s left. Grandma’s boot-like face displayed itself in the doorway.
“Bon appetite, messieurs.”
Kettle laid a finger along his nose.
“She’s bin chasin’ me all rarnd the kitchen after some rum.”
Sherring bowed to the old lady.
“Merci, madame. Nous serions très gai ce soir. Give her some rum, Kettle.”
