Читать книгу Seven Men Came Back - Warwick Deeping - Страница 6
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ОглавлениеReaction. Matters became merrier. Red wine had replaced the champagne, wine that had been buried in a garden for four years, and with it other disharmonies were laid to rest. Crabtree and Pitt begun an argument upon the possibilities of the world after the war. Crabtree talked “Back to the Land” philosophy, but the doctor would have none of it.
“Doesn’t it occur to you, Crabbie, that thousands upon thousands of men have had their souls so stuffed with soil, mud and misery, that they will all hunger for pavements and shop-windows.”
Crabtree would not argue.
“I am going back, doc. I—am—the soil.”
Steel leaned towards him.
“Good old Adam. I suppose that in a few weeks I shall be shovelling sovereigns and silver.”
“Not sovereigns, my dear” said Loviebond the stockbroker. “The gold quid has passed away with the world’s virtue.”
“If you get any good tips, Lovie, pass them on.”
“I have more respect for you, doc, than to do that. Take my tip and take no tips. The financial sea will be stiff with sharks.”
“I say, Lovie, that’s not business.”
“No, my lad, it’s the truth. Are you going to tell the truth, doc, to your patients?”
Pitt pulled a face.
“And lose my practice! I suppose we shall all put on the old blinkers, and fake our figures. What’s going to be your fancy, Skipper?”
Sherring looked meditative.
“That’s on the knees of the gods.”
Kettle was seizing plates and thrusting them at a grandma over whose forehead a wisp of grey hair had draped itself. Bastable was still eating; and Kettle, with a disgusted glance over Bastable’s shoulder, dashed flat-footed to the kitchen. He could be heard grumbling and apostrophizing grandma.
“Some blokes must keep their trotters in the trough. Hi, old dear, clean plates.”
“Comment?”
“Plates, assiets, ain’t yer washed ’em yet? Scootez vous.”
Sherring smiled. It occurred to him that he would miss Kettle in the life that was to be, and all the elemental robust realities of men and their affairs. Loviebond and Pitt were still arguing upon the hypothetical aspects of post-war morality, and Bastable, sitting like an overfed Napoleon, listened with an air of sallow smugness and avoided Steel’s eyes. Kettle dashed in and distributed plates and spoons, and reverting to the kitchen, returned proudly with the jam roll.
Steel drummed on the table with his spoon.
“Yoicks! Jam roll!”
“Will you serve it, sir?”
“Put it here, Kettle.”
The rare and delicious object was placed before Sherring. He cut it into sections, everybody leaning forward, save Bastable who helped himself to red wine.
Steel exulted—“Raspberry jam!”
“She simply oozes jam.”
“Congratulations, Kettle.”
Kettle looked hot and proud.
“I wouldn’t mind makin’ a puddin’ every year, gents, just to keep B Mess alive—so to speak.”
Crabtree looked at Sherring.
“Kettle’s forestalled me. We ought to do this every year, Skipper.”
Steel’s mouth was full of roll.
“Scrumptious! Great idea, Crabbie. Why not?”
“What do you say, doc? Would you join us?”
“I should say so.”
“Serious proposition. Private room in a London hotel. Celebrations. Yearly reunion—what!”
“How does it strike you, Sherring?”
Sherring appeared to reflect for a moment, for this proposition assumed that the future would possess certain qualities that were calculable, and to Sherring the future was far from calculable.
“The idea is that we should all meet every year on the night of November 11th?”
“There’s a sort of inevitableness about it, Skipper.”
Kettle was standing at the foot of the table behind Mr. Loviebond’s chair, watching Sherring’s face; and Sherring, in the act of speaking, met Kettle’s eyes.
“I agree; one might almost call it a sacrament. I propose that Loviebond acts as our secretary. I should like everybody who is here to-night to turn up. Kettle, you’ll come.”
“Me—sir? To wait on you?”
“No, no; to dine with us, Kettle.”
“Good business, good old Kettle.”
Kettle looked hot and gratified.
“It’s very kind of you gents. I will say I couldn’t ‘ave ‘ad a nicer lot o’ gents to do for——”
He became suddenly speechless, staring at Sherring.
“Well, that settles it, Kettle. You’ll come. And Bastable too. What about you, Bastable?”
Bastable had his glass at his lips. He was slightly flushed. He gave Sherring a look, the inwardness of which was veiled.
“Yes—I shall come.”
It was Pitt, who, after glancing round the room as though he were counting heads, drew the attention of the party to a mystic coincidence.
“The Symbolic Seven! Has anyone realized that we shall dine under the mystic sign of seven?”
Crabtree smiled—“We are seven.”
“Let’s call it the ‘We are Seven Club.’ ”
“An inspiration, my lad. Then I take it we elect Captain Sherring as our president, and Mr. Loviebond as our honorary secretary?”
Loviebond rose to the occasion.
“Gentlemen, the We are Seven Club. We will pledge ourselves to meet every year in London on Armistice Night. Fill us up, Kettle.”
They rose. Kettle went round with the second bottle of red wine, a pontifical Kettle. Sherring raised his glass.
“Gentlemen, the We are Seven Club. Every year on the night of November 11th we meet and dine.”
“The Seven Club.”
Kettle, having found a glass for himself, dribbled the lees of the bottle into it and drank.
“Gents, I’m a prard bloke to-night.”
“Good old Kettle.”
Bastable was lighting a cigarette. He spoke, “I’m the junior member, but if I may say so, we may expect to see some interesting changes in the future.”
Steel grinned at him.
“P. B. in a white waistcoat, what!”
Bastable was laconic.
“Oh, something more significant than that, Steel.”
