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  There had been one other letter in Mr Crouchback’s post, which saddened him though it presented no problem. His wine merchants wrote to say that their cellars had been partly destroyed by enemy action. They hoped to maintain diminished supplies to their regular customers but could no longer fulfil specific orders. Monthly parcels would be made up from whatever stock was available. Pilfering and breakages were becoming frequent on the railways. Customers were requested to report all losses immediately.

  Parcels, thought Mr Crouchback. Everything that day seemed to be connected with parcels.

  After dinner, according to the custom of more than a year, Mr Crouchback joined Mrs Tickeridge in the Residents’ Lounge.

  Their conversation began, as always, with the subject of Felix’s afternoon exercise. Then:

  ‘Guy’s home. I hope we shall see him here soon. I don’t know what he’s up to. Something rather secret, I expect. He came back with his Brigadier – the man you call “Ben”.’

  Mrs Tickeridge had that day received a letter from her husband in which certain plain hints informed her that Brigadier Ritchie-Hook had got into another of his scrapes. Well trained in service propriety she changed the subject.

  ‘And your grandson?’

  ‘That’s just what I wanted to ask about. My daughter has had this postcard. May I show it to you – and her letter? Aren’t they puzzling?’

  Mrs Tickeridge took the documents and perused them. At length she said: ‘I don’t think I ever read Trumper’s Eucris.’

  ‘No, no. It’s not that I’m puzzled by. That’s hair-stuff. Used to use it myself when I could afford it. But don’t you think it very peculiar that in his first postcard home he should only be asking for things for himself? It’s most unlike him.’

  ‘I expect he’s hungry, poor boy.’

  ‘Surely not? Prisoners of war have full army rations. There’s an international agreement about it, I know. You don’t suppose it’s a code. “Glucose D” – whoever heard of “Glucose D”? I’m sure Tony has never seen the stuff. Someone put him up to it. You would think that a boy writing to his mother for the first time, when he must know how anxious she has been, would have something better to say than “Glucose D”.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s really hungry.’

  ‘Even so, he ought to consider his mother’s feelings. You’ve read her letter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s got quite the wrong end of the stick. My son-in-law is in the House of Commons and of course he picks up some rather peculiar ideas there.’

  ‘No, it’s been on the wireless.’

  ‘The wireless,’ said Mr Crouchback in a tone as near bitterness as he possessed. ‘The wireless. Just the sort of thing they would put about. It seems to me the most improper idea. Why should we not send what we want to those we love – even “Glucose D”?’

  ‘I suppose in wartime it’s only fair to share things equally.’

  ‘Why? Less in wartime than ever I should have thought. As you say, the boy may be really hungry. If he wants “Glucose D” why can’t I send it to him? Why can’t my son-in-law get foreigners to help? There’s a man in Switzerland who used to come and stay at Broome year after year. I know he’d like to help Tony. Why shouldn’t he? I don’t understand.’

  Mrs Tickeridge saw the gentle, bewildered old man gaze earnestly at her, seeking an answer she could not give. He continued:

  ‘After all, any present means that you want someone to have something someone else hasn’t got. I mean even if it’s only a cream jug at a wedding. I shouldn’t wonder if the Government didn’t try and stop us praying for people next.’ Mr Crouchback sadly considered this possibility and then added: ‘Not that anyone really needs a cream-jug and apparently Tony needs these things he asks for. It’s all wrong. I’m not much of a dab at explaining things, but I know it’s all wrong.’

  Mrs Tickeridge was mending Jenifer’s jersey. She darned silently. She was not much of a dab herself at explaining things. Presently Mr Crouchback spoke again, from the tangle of his perplexities.

  ‘And what is Brisko?’

  ‘Brisko?’

  ‘And Yumcrunch? Both these things are in my room at the moment and I don’t for the life of me know what to do with them. They’re American.’

  ‘I know just what you mean. I’ve seen them advertised in a magazine. Yumcrunch is what they eat for breakfast instead of porridge.’

  ‘Would it suit Felix? Wouldn’t blow him up?’

  ‘He’d love it. And the other thing is what they use instead of lard.’

  ‘Pretty rich for a dog?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I expect Mrs Cuthbert will be very grateful for it in the kitchen.’

  ‘There’s nothing you don’t know.’

  ‘Except Trumper’s whatever-it-was.’

  Presently Mr Crouchback took his leave, fetched Felix and let him out into the darkness. He brought down with him the tin of Brisko and carried it to the proprietress of the hotel in her ‘Private Parlour’.

  ‘Mrs Cuthbert, I have been sent this from America. It is lard. Mrs Tickeridge seems to think you might find it useful in the kitchen.’

  She took it and thanked him rather awkwardly.

  ‘There was something Mr Cuthbert wanted to see you about.’

  ‘I am here.’

  ‘Everything is getting so difficult,’ she said; ‘I’ll fetch Mr Cuthbert.’

  Mr Crouchback stood in the Private Parlour and waited. Presently Mrs Cuthbert returned alone.

  ‘He says, will I speak to you. I don’t know quite how to begin. It’s all because of the war and the regulations and the officer who came today. He was the Quartering Commandant. You know it’s nothing personal, don’t you, Mr Crouchback? I’m sure we’ve always done all we can to oblige, making all sorts of exceptions for you, not charging for the dog’s meals and your having your own wine sent in. Some of the guests have mentioned it more than once how you were specially favoured.’

  ‘I have never made any complaint,’ said Mr Crouchback. ‘I am satisfied that you do everything you can in the circumstances.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mrs Cuthbert, ‘circumstances.’

  ‘I think I know what you wish to say to me, Mrs Cuthbert. It is really quite unnecessary. If you fear I’ll desert you now when you are going through difficult times, after I have been so comfortable for so many years, you may put your mind quite at rest. I know you are both doing your best and I am sincerely grateful.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It wasn’t quite that… I think Mr Cuthbert had better speak to you.’

  ‘He may come to me whenever he likes. Not now. I am just going to take Felix off to bed. Good night, I hope that tin will be of help.’

  ‘Good night and thank you, sir.’

  Miss Vavasour met him on the stairs.

  ‘Oh, Mr Crouchback, I couldn’t help seeing you go into the Private Parlour. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. I had a tin of lard for Mrs Cuthbert.’

  ‘They didn’t say anything about what I told you about?’

  ‘The Cuthberts seemed to be worried about the falling off of the service. I think I was able to reassure them. It is a difficult time for both of them – for all of us. Good night, Miss Vavasour.’

  4

  MEANWHILE the talk in Bellamy’s had drifted irresistibly upward. That very morning in a deep bed in a deep shelter a buoyant busy personage had lain, apportioning the day’s work of an embattled Empire in a series of minutes.

  ‘Pray inform me today on one half sheet of paper why Brig. Ritchie-Hook has been relieved of the command of his Brigade.’

  And twenty-four hours later, almost to the minute, while Mr Crouchback’s form was beginning to construe the neglected passage of Livy, from the same heap of pillows the ukase went out:

  P.M. to Secretary of State for War.

  I have directed that no commander be penalized for errors in discretion towards the enemy. This directive has bee
n flouted in a grievous and vexatious manner in the case of Col. late Brig. Ritchie-Hook, Royal Corps of Halberdiers. Pray assure me that suitable employment has been found for this gallant and resourceful officer as soon as he is passed fit for active service.

  Telephones and typewriters relayed the trumpet note. Great men called to lesser men, and they to men of no consequence at all. Somewhere on the downward official slope Guy’s name too appeared, for Ritchie-Hook, in his room at Millbank Hospital, had not forgotten his companion in guilt. Papers marked ‘Passed to you for immediate action’ went from ‘In’ tray to ‘Out’ tray, until at length they found sea level with the Adjutant of the Halberdier Barracks.

  ‘Sergeant-Major, we have Mr Crouchback’s leave address?’

  ‘Marine Hotel, Matchet, sir.’

  ‘Then make out a move order for him to report forthwith to HOO HQ.’

  ‘Am I to give the address, sir?’

  ‘That wouldn’t do. It’s on the Most Secret list.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Ten minutes later the Adjutant remarked: ‘Sergeant-Major, if we withhold the address, how will Mr Crouchback know where to report?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘We could refer it back to HOO HQ.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘But it is marked “Immediate Action”.’

  ‘Sir.’

  These two men of no consequence at all sat silent and despairing.

  ‘I take it, sir, the correct procedure would be to send it by hand of officer?’

  ‘Can we spare anyone?’

  ‘There’s one, sir.’

  ‘Colonel Trotter?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Jumbo’ Trotter, as his nickname suggested, was both ponderous and popular; he retired with the rank of full colonel in 1936. Within an hour of the declaration of war he was back in barracks and there he had sat ever since. No one had summoned him. No one cared to question his presence. His age and rank rendered him valueless for barrack duties. He dozed over the newspapers, lumbered round the billiard-table, beamed on his juniors’ scrimmages on Guest Nights, and regularly attended Church Parade. Now and then he expressed a wish to ‘have a go at the Jerries’. Mostly he slept. It was he whom Guy had disturbed in the billiard-room on his last visit to the barracks.

  Once or twice a week the Captain-Commandant, in his new role of martinet, resolved to have a word with Jumbo, but the word was never spoken. He had served under Jumbo in Flanders and there learned to revere him for his sublime imperturbability in many dangerous and disgusting circumstances. He readily gave his approval to the old boy’s outing and left him to make his own arrangements.

  It was a hundred and fifty miles to Matchet. Jumbo’s few indispensable possessions could be contained in one japanned-tin uniform case and a pig-skin Gladstone. But there was his bedding. Never move without your bed and your next meal; that was a rule, said Jumbo. Altogether his luggage comprised rather a handful for Halberdier Burns, his aged servant; too much to take by train, he explained to the Barrack Transport Officer. Besides, it was the duty of everyone to keep off the railways. The wireless had said so. Trains were needed for troop movements. The Transport Officer was a callow, amenable, regular subaltern. Jumbo got a car.

  Early next day, in that epoch of mounting oppression, it stood at the steps of the Officers’ House. The luggage was strapped behind. Driver and servant stood beside it. Presently Jumbo emerged, well buttoned up against the morning chill, smoking his after-breakfast pipe, carrying under his arm the ante-room’s only copy of The Times. The men jumped to the salute. Jumbo beamed benignantly on them and raised a fur-lined glove to the peak of his red hat. He conferred briefly with the driver over the map, ordering a detour which would bring him at lunch-time to a friendly mess, then settled himself in the rear-seat. Burns tucked in the rug and leapt to his place beside the driver. Jumbo glanced at the Deaths in the paper before giving the order to move.

  The Adjutant, watching these sedate proceedings from his office window, suddenly said: ‘Sergeant-Major, couldn’t we have recalled Mr Crouchback here and given him the address ourselves?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Too late to change now. Order, counter order, disorder, eh?’

  ‘Sir.’

  The car moved across the gravel towards the guard-house. It might have been carrying an elderly magnate from a London square to a long week-end in the Home Counties, in years before the Total War.

  Mrs Tickeridge knew Colonel Trotter of old. She found him dozing in the hall of the Marine Hotel when she and Jenifer returned from their walk with Felix. He opened his pouchy eyes and accepted their presence without surprise.

  ‘Hullo, Vi. Hullo, shrimp. Nice to see you again.’

  He began to raise himself from his chair.

  ‘Sit down, Jumbo. What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for my tea. Everyone seems half asleep here; said tea was “off”. Ridiculous expression. Had to send my man Burns into the kitchen to brew up. Met opposition from some civilian cook, I gather. Soon settled that. Had some opposition about quarters, too, from the woman in the office. Said she was full up. Soon settled that. Had my bed made up and my things laid out in a bathroom. Woman didn’t seem too pleased about that either. Poor type. Had to remind her there was a war on.’

  ‘Oh, Jumbo, there’s only two baths between the whole lot of us.’

  ‘Shan’t be here long. All have to rough it a bit these days. Burns and the driver fixing themselves up in the town. Trust an old Halberdier to make himself comfortable. No camp-bed in a bathroom for Burns.’

  Burns appeared at that moment with a laden tray and put it beside the colonel.

  ‘Jumbo, what a tea! We never get anything like that. Hot buttered toast, sandwiches, an egg, cherry cake.’

  ‘Felt a bit peckish. Told Burns to scrounge round.’

  ‘Poor Mrs Cuthbert. Poor us. No butter for a week.’

  ‘I’m looking for a fellow called Crouchback. Woman in the office said he was out. Know him?’

  ‘He’s a heavenly old man.’

  ‘No. Young Halberdier officer.’

  ‘That’s his son, Guy. What d’you want with him? You’re not taking him under arrest?’

  ‘Lord, no.’

  A look of elephantine cunning came into his eyes. He had no idea of the contents of the sealed envelope buttoned up below his medals.

  ‘Nothing like that. Just a friendly call.’

  Felix sat with his muzzle on Jumbo’s knee gazing at him with devotion. Jumbo cut a corner of toast, dipped it in jam and placed it in the gentle mouth.

  ‘Take him away, Jenifer, there’s a good girl, or he’ll have all my tea off me.’

  Presently Jumbo fell into a doze.

  He woke to the sound of voices near him. The woman from the office, the poor type, was in converse with a stout, upright Major wearing RASC badges.

  ‘I’ve hinted,’ the woman was saying. ‘Mr Cuthbert as good as told him outright. He won’t seem to understand.’

  ‘He’ll understand all right when he finds his furniture on the doorstep. If you can’t move him quietly, I shall use my powers.’

  ‘It does seem a shame rather.’

  ‘You should be grateful, Mrs Cuthbert. I could have taken the whole hotel if I’d cared, and I would have but for Mr Cuthbert being on the square. I’ve taken over the Monte Rosa boarding house instead. The people from there have to sleep somewhere, don’t they?’

  ‘Well, it’s your responsibility. He’ll be very upset, poor old gentleman.’

  Jumbo studied the man carefully and suddenly said very loudly: ‘Grigshawe.’

  The effect was immediate. The Major swung round, stamped, stood to attention and roared back: ‘Sir.’

  ‘Bless my soul, Grigshawe, it is you. Wasn’t sure. I’m very pleased to see you. Shake hands.’

  ‘You’re looking very well, sir.’

  ‘You’ve had quick promotion, eh?’

  ‘Acting-rank, sir.’<
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  ‘We missed you when you put in for a commission. You shouldn’t have left the Halberdiers, you know.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have but for the missus and it being peacetime.’

  ‘What are you up to now?’

  ‘Quartering Commandant, sir. Just clearing a little room here.’

  ‘Excellent. Well, carry on. Carry on.’

  ‘I’ve about finished, sir.’ He stood to attention, nodded to Mrs Cuthbert and left, but there was no peace for Jumbo that afternoon. The room was hardly empty of Mrs Cuthbert before an elderly lady raised her head from a neighbouring chair and coughed. Jumbo regarded her sadly.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. You know that officer?’

  ‘What, Grigshawe? One of the best drill-sergeants we had in the Corps. Extraordinary system taking first-rate NCOs and making second-rate officers of them.’

  ‘That’s dreadful. I had quite made up my mind he must be some sort of criminal, dressed up – a blackmailer or burglar or something. It was our last hope.’

  Jumbo had little curiosity about the affairs of others. It seemed to him vaguely odd that this pleasant-looking lady should so ardently desire Grigshawe to be an impostor. From time to time in his slow passage through life Jumbo had come up against things that puzzled him and had learned to ignore them. Now he merely remarked: ‘Known him twenty years’ and was preparing to leave his seat for a sniff of fresh air, when Miss Vavasour said: ‘You see, he is trying to take Mr Crouchback’s sitting-room.’

  The name gave Jumbo pause and before he could disengage himself Miss Vavasour had begun her recital.

  She spoke vehemently but furtively. In the Marine Hotel, scorn of the Quartering Commandant had quickly given place to dread. He came none knew whence, armed with unknown powers, malevolent, unpredictable, implacable. Miss Vavasour would with relish have thrown herself on any German paratrooper and made short work of him with poker or bread-knife. Grigshawe was a projection of the Gestapo. For two weeks now the permanent residents had lived in a state of whispering agitation. Mr Crouchback followed his routine, calmly refusing to share their alarm. He was the symbol of their security. If he fell, what hope was there for them? And his fall, it seemed, was now encompassed.