Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 5
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ОглавлениеKettle, with two very large thumbs in evidence, was placing soup plates in front of his officers when Second-Lieut. Bastable appeared in the doorway. He stood there hesitant, a sallow, swarthy, heavy young man not unlike the First Napoleon when the finer lines of his youth had been larded over. Steel, picking up a spoon glanced at Bastable over his shoulder, and Steel’s eyes were not friendly.
“You’re late, Pork and Beans.”
The others ignored him, with the exception of Sherring who looked up not unkindly at this junior.
“Billets all right, Bastable?”
“Yes.”
Before taking the vacant chair Bastable glanced in a peculiar way at the faces of these other men, and the look that he gave Steel was one of unblemished hatred. He sat down as though he was well aware of his superfluity. These other men did not welcome him. His massive face had a white stolidity, but its eyes were quick and intelligent. If he had suffered humiliation deservedly, the soul of him was turgid with defiance. The war had not taught him anything, and he had not permitted it to teach him anything. Embusque, and successfully so, for more than three years, he had been slung out to share in the last phase. A strong, selfish, forceful beast he had objected fiercely. He had not behaved too well. Out here in France he was—nothing.
The rest of the mess was finishing its soup, and Kettle, as disher-up and waiter had no time to bestow on an accessory like Mr. Bastable. Mr. Bastable would have to pick up the meal where he found it. Kettle was thrusting a plate full of spoons at grandma. “Wash ’em up, old dear. Lavez.” But Bastable, conscious of having been accorded no soup plate and understanding the significance of the omission, was full of inward blazings.
“Kettle.”
“Sir?”
“I want some soup.”
Kettle had other responsibilities and a ready tongue.
“Sorry, sir, soup’s horf.”
His voice was politely casual, and Steel, enjoying the snub, grinned across the table at his vis-à-vis.
“Can’t hold up the transport, P. B.”
Bastable glared, swallowed, and crumbled bread with his thick fingers. Kettle, bringing in the roast beef, appealed to his great man for succour on this somewhat crowded occasion.
“Would you carve, sir?”
“Put it here, Kettle.”
“Thank yer, sir. I can go round with the veg.”
Loviebond had risen and was dealing with the champagne. He unwired the cork and was easing it when the thing blew out with a bang.
Steel pretended to take cover under the table.
“Christ—I thought the ruddy war was on again!”
Loviebond, attempting to block the bubbling fountain with a thumb, called for glasses.
“Glasses. She’s up.”
“She’ll soon be down, Lovie.”
Mr. Loviebond circled round the table pouring a little of the wine into each glass.
“Sorry I couldn’t get two bottles. We shall have to mix things rather badly, doc.”
Dr. Pitt held his glass to the light.
“No matter. Drink and forget.”
It was Steel who got on his feet, an ebullient, impulsive Steel.
“Gentlemen, being the youngest member of the mess, excluding our friend Napoleon here—I’ll give you the toast of the whitest man on earth, Captain Sherring, M.C. with Bar. Here’s to you, Skipper.”
They rose, and with glasses raised, looked towards Sherring. Bastable stood with the others, though he had been the last to rise.
“To you, Sherring.”
“Skipper.”
Sherring, looking up at them whimsically and a little sadly, had the air of a man who was shy in the face of favours.
“Thanks—everybody. We’ve been a happy crowd. And now this bloody old business is over—I wonder what Blighty is going to do for us?”
Steel laughed.
“Aren’t we the heroes?”
Crabtree, staring at the wine in his glass, spoke like the cautious rustic.
“Till the bills begin to come in.”
They were still on their feet, and it was Steel who discovered that Bastable was back in his chair, and munching meat; to Steel, Bastable was a perpetual offence.
“Hallo, B. P., who gave you permission to sit?”
Bastable’s upward look was a sulky glare.
“Not you, Steel.”
“Not bloody likely. When your seniors are on their feet.”
Bastable’s sallow face seemed to swell. The turgid arrogance of the man concealed for so long under that thick skin, showed a sudden, savage ooze.
“Indeed!—Seniors?—All that superstition was washed out at 11 a.m. I’m not taking orders from any bank clerk.”
Steel’s hackles were up.
“Oh, aren’t you? Then, you’ll take something else.”
The voice of Sherring interposed, quiet but insistent.
“Archie, please.”
“Sorry, Skipper. I’ll turn on the cold douche.”
They were back in their chairs and busy again with knives and forks, but Sherring sat with his hands on the table. He had something to say to that sallow junior.
“Bastable.”
Bastable’s glance was oblique, ugly.
“Yes.”
“The shells may have ceased, but we haven’t been given permission to do or say just what we please.”
“O, quite, Sherring. You have three pips to my one.”
Pitt turned on him, and Pitt could be devastating.
“There’s a very good reason for that, my friend.”
Bastable swallowed hard.
“Oh, is there. But when we have done playing with crowns and stars, you’ll be back among the bottles, doctor, and Sherring——”
There was silence, and Sherring with his little, quiet smile, looked almost sadly at the objector.
“Bastable, just one moment—the superstition may last for a little while yet. You will continue to call me ‘sir.’ You will not address me as Sherring.”
Bastable nodded his head.
“O, quite so, sir,” and his tone was ironic.
Pitt, looking at him askance and with naked scorn, allowed himself to utter words that were unforgettable.
“No more palpitation, Bastable, now that the shelling is over.”
Bastable turned his head, looked into the other man’s eyes, half rose from his chair, sat down again.
“I’ll remember that, Pitt.”
“Captain Pitt.”
“Captain Pitt.”
“That’s right. Now, you can get on with your dinner.”
