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  Jumbo listened restively. It was not for this he had driven all day with his Most Secret missive. He was out for a treat. There had been a number of jokes lately in the papers about selfish old women in safe hotels. He had chuckled over them often. He was on the point of reminding Miss Vavasour that there was a war on, when Mr Crouchback himself appeared before them, back from school with a pile of uncorrected exercise books, and suddenly the whole evening was changed and became a treat again.

  Miss Vavasour introduced them. Jumbo, slow in some of his perceptions, was quick to recognize ‘a good type’; not only the father of a Halberdier but a man fit to be a Halberdier himself.

  Mr Crouchback explained that Guy was at Southsand, many miles away, collecting the possessions of a brother-officer who had died on active service. These were unexpectedly good tidings. Jumbo saw days, perhaps weeks, of pleasant adventure ahead. He had no objection to prolonging his tour of the seaside resorts indefinitely.

  ‘No, no. Don’t telephone him. I’ll go there tomorrow myself.’

  Then Mr Crouchback showed immediate solicitude for Jumbo’s comfort. He must not think of sleeping in a bathroom. Mr Crouchback’s sitting-room was at his disposal. Then Mr Crouchback gave him some excellent sherry and later, at dinner, burgundy and port. He did not mention that this was the last bottle of a little store which he could never hope to replenish.

  They touched lightly on public affairs and found themselves in close agreement. Jumbo mentioned that in his latter years he had made a modest collection of old silver. Mr Crouchback knew a lot about that. They talked of fishing and pheasant-shooting, not competitively but in placid accord.

  Mrs Tickeridge joined them later and gossiped about the Halberdiers. They did two-thirds of the crossword together. It was exactly Jumbo’s idea of a pleasant evening. Nothing was said of Grigshawe and grievances, and in the end it was he who brought the matter up.

  ‘Sorry to hear there’s been trouble about your room here.’

  ‘Oh, no trouble really. I’ve never even seen this Major Grigshawe they all talk about. I think he must rather have muddled the Cuthberts, and you know how rumours spread and get exaggerated jn a little place like this. Poor Miss Vavasour seems to think we shall all be put into the street. I don’t believe a word of it myself.’

  ‘I’ve known Grigshawe for twenty years. Dare say he’s got a bit too big for his boots. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.’

  ‘Not on my account, please. But it would be kind to put Miss Vavasour’s mind at rest.’

  ‘Perfectly simple matter if he handles it in the proper service way. All he has to do is put in a report that on the relevant date the room was occupied by a senior officer. You won’t have any more trouble with Grigshawe, I can promise.’

  ‘He’s been no trouble to me, I assure you. He seems to have been a little brusque with the Cuthberts. I expect he thought he was only doing his duty.’

  ‘I’ll show him his duty.’

  Mr Crouchback had already left the hotel when Jumbo came down next morning, but Jumbo did not forget. Before his leisurely departure he had a few words with Major Grigshawe.

  Two days later Mr and Mrs Cuthbert sat in their Private Parlour. Major Grigshawe had just left them with the assurance that their pensionnaires would be left undisturbed. The news was not welcome.

  ‘We could have let that room of old Crouchback’s for eight guineas a week,’ said Mr Cuthbert.

  ‘We could let every room in the house twice over.’

  ‘Permanent residents were all very well before the war. They kept us going nicely in the winter months.’

  ‘But there’s a war on now. We can put the rates up again, I suppose.’

  ‘We ought to make a clean sweep and take people only by the week. That’s where the money comes. Keep people moving. Keep them anxious where they’re going next. Some of these people with their houses blitzed are grateful for anything. Grigshawe’s let us down, that’s the truth of the matter.’

  ‘Funny his giving up like that just when everything seemed so friendly.’

  ‘You can’t trust the army, not in business.’

  ‘It was old Crouchback did it. I don’t know how, but he did. He’s an artful old bird if you ask me. Talks so that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I do appreciate your difficulties, Mrs Cuthbert.” “So grateful for all your trouble, Mrs Cuthbert.”’

  ‘He’s seen better days. We all know that. There’s something about people like him. They were brought up to expect things to be easy for them and somehow or other things always are easy. Damned if I know how they manage it.’

  There was a knock at the door and Mr Crouchback entered. His hair was rough from the wind and his eyes watery, for he had been sitting outside in the dark.

  ‘Good evening. Good evening. Please don’t get up, Mr Cuthbert. I just wanted to tell you something I’ve just decided. A week or so ago you said there was someone in need of a room here. I dare say you’ve forgotten, but I hadn’t. Well, you know, thinking it over it seems to me that it’s rather selfish keeping on both my rooms at a time like this. There’s my grandson in a prison camp, people homeless from the towns, all those residents from Monte Rosa turned out with nowhere to go. It’s all wrong for one old man like myself to take up so much space. I asked at the school and they’re able to store my few sticks of furniture. So I came to give a week’s notice that I shan’t need the sitting-room in future, not in the immediate future, that is. After the war I shall be very pleased to take it on again, you know. I hope this isn’t inconvenient. I’ll stay, of course, until you find a suitable tenant.’

  ‘We’ll do that easy enough. Much obliged to you, Mr Crouchback.’

  ‘That’s settled then. Good night to you both.’

  ‘Talk of the devil,’ said Mrs Cuthbert, when Mr Crouchback had left. ‘What d’you make of that?’

  ‘Maybe he’s feeling the pinch.’

  ‘Not him. He’s worth much more than you’d think. Why, he gives it away, right and left. I know because I’ve done his room sometimes. Letters of thanks from all over the shop.’

  ‘He’s a deep one and no mistake. I never have understood him, not properly. Somehow his mind seems to work different than yours and mine.’

  5

  The Times. 2 November 1940

  Personal.

  In the breakfast room of the Grand Hotel, Southsand, Guy sought his advertisement in the Agony Column, and at length found it.

  CORNER, James Pendennis, popularly known as ‘chatty’, late of Bechuanaland or similar territory, please communicate with Box 108 when he will learn something to his advantage.

  The grammar, he noted with chagrin, was defective but the call was as unambiguous as the Last Trump. It sounded a despairing note, as though from the gorge of Roncesvalles, for he had done his utmost in the matter of Apthorpe’s gear and could now merely wait.

  It was the sixteenth day since he had left barracks, his eleventh at Southsand. The early stages of his quest had been easy. Brook Park, where Apthorpe had jettisoned all that final residuum of the possessions which he regarded as the bare necessaries of life, was still in Halberdier hands. The stores left there were intact and accessible. An amiable Quartermaster was ready to part with anything that was ‘signed for’ in triplicate. Guy signed. He was received at the strange mess with fraternal warmth; with curiosity also for he was the first Halberdier to bring news from Dakar. They induced him to lecture the battalion on ‘the lessons of an opposed landing’. He stayed mum on the subject of Ritchie-Hook’s wound. They gave him transport and he was sent on his way with honour.

  At Southsand he found the Commodore of the Yacht Club eager to disencumber himself. In his small spare bedroom Apthorpe had left what, at a pinch, might be regarded as superfluities. Three journeys by taxi were required to move them. The Commodore helped with his own hands to carry them downstairs and load them. When it was accomplished and the hotel porter had wheeled everything into the vaults, the Com
modore asked: ‘Staying here long?’ and Guy had been obliged to answer: ‘I really don’t know.’

  And still he did not know. Suddenly he found himself alone. The energizing wire between him and the army was cut. He was as immobile as Apthorpe’s gear. Various cryptic prohibitions had lately been proclaimed on the movement of goods. Guy sought aid of the RTO and was rebuffed.

  ‘No can do, old boy. Read the regulations. Officers proceeding on, or returning from, leave may take only a haversack and one suitcase. You’ll have to get a special move order for that stuff.’

  Guy telegraphed to the Adjutant in barracks and after two days received in reply, merely: Extension of leave granted.

  Here he was still, all animation suspended, while autumn turned sharply to winter, and gales shook the double windows of the hotel and great waves broke over the pill-boxes and barbed wire on the promenade.

  Here it seemed he was doomed to remain forever, standing guard over a heap of tropical gadgets, like the Russian sentry he had once been told of, the Guardsman who was posted daily year in, year out, until the revolution, in the grounds of Tsarskoe Selo on the spot where Catherine the Great had once wished to preserve a wild-flower.

  Southsand, though unbombed, was thought to be dangerous and had attracted no refugees of the kind who filled other resorts. It was just as he had known it nine months earlier, spacious and desolate and windy and shabby. One change only was apparent; the Ristorante Garibaldi was closed. Mr Pelecci, he learned, had been ‘taken away’ on the day Italy declared war, consigned in a ship to Canada and drowned in mid-Atlantic, sole spy among a host of innocents. Guy visited Mr Goodall and found him elated by the belief that a great rising was imminent throughout Christian Europe; led by the priests and squires, with blessed banners, and the relics of the saints borne ahead, Poles, Hungarians, Austrians, Bavarians, Italians and plucky little contingents from the Catholic cantons of Switzerland would soon be on the march to redeem the times. Even a few Frenchmen, Mr Goodall conceded, might join this Pilgrimage of Grace but he could promise no part in it for Guy.

  The days passed. Ever prone to despond, Guy became sure that his brief adventure was over. He had his pistol. Perhaps, finally, he would get a shot at an invading Storm Trooper and die unrecognized, but sweetly and decorously. More probably he would still be sitting years hence in the Yacht Club and hear on the wireless that the war was won. Ever prone to elaborate his predicament rather fancifully, Guy saw himself make a hermitage of Apthorpe’s tent and end his days encamped on the hills above Southsand, painfully acquiring the skills of ‘Chatty’ Corner, charitably visited once a week by Mr Goodall, a gentler version of poor mad Ivo, who had starved to death in the slums of North-West London.

  So Guy mused while even at that moment, in the fullness of his time, ‘Jumbo’ Trotter was on the move to draw him back into the life of action.

  It was All Souls’ Day. Guy walked to church to pray for his brothers’ souls – for Ivo especially; Gervase seemed far off that year, in Paradise perhaps, in the company of other good soldiers. Mr Goodall was there, popping in and down and up and out and in again assiduously, releasing toties quoties soul after soul from Purgatory.

  ‘Twenty-eight so far,’ he said. ‘I always try and do fifty.’

  The wings of the ransomed beat all about Mr Goodall, but as Guy left church he was alone in the comfortless wind.

  ‘Jumbo’ arrived after luncheon and found Guy rereading Vice Versa in the winter garden. Guy recognized him at once and jumped to his feet.

  ‘Sit down, my dear boy. I’ve just been making friends with your father.’ He unbuttoned himself and took the letter from his breast pocket.

  ‘Something important for you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to and I won’t ask. I am a mere messenger. Better take it up to your room and read it there. Then burn it. Crumple the ash. Well, I expect in your job, whatever it is, you know more than I do about that sort of thing.’

  Guy did as he was told. There was an outer envelope marked in red By hand of officer and an inner one marked Most Secret. He drew out a simple orderly-room chit on which was typed:

  T/y Lt Crouchback, G. Royal Corps of Halberdiers

  The above named officer will report forthwith to Flat 211 Marchmain House, St James’s, sw1.

  Capt. for Captain-Commandant Royal Corps of Halberdiers.

  An undecipherable trail of ink preceded the last line. Even in the innermost depths of military secrecy the Adjutant continued to maintain his anonymity.

  The ashes needed no crumbling; they fell in dust from Guy’s fingers.

  He returned to Jumbo.

  ‘I’ve just had orders to report in London.’

  ‘Tomorrow will do, I suppose?’

  ‘It says “forthwith”.’

  ‘We couldn’t get there before dark. Everyone packs up when the sirens go. I can run you up to London tomorrow morning.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, sir.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I like to look in at “the Senior” every so often to hear how the war’s going. Plenty of room for you. Have you much luggage?’

  ‘About a ton, sir.’

  ‘Have you, by God? Let’s have a look at it.’

  Together they visited the baggage store and stood in silence before the heap of steel trunks, leather cases, brass-bound chests, shapeless canvas sacks, buffalo-hide bags. Jumbo was visibly awed. He himself believed in ample provision for the emergencies of travel. Here was something quite beyond his ambition.

  ‘Nearer two tons than one,’ he said at length. ‘I say, you must be up to something? This needs organization. Where are Area Headquarters?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.’

  Such an admission would have earned any other subaltern a rebuke from ‘Jumbo’, but Guy was now enveloped in an aura of secrecy and importance.

  ‘Lone wolf, eh?’ he said. ‘I’d better get to work on the blower.’

  By this expression Jumbo and many others meant the telephone. He telephoned and presently reported that a lorry would call for them next morning.

  ‘It’s a small world,’ he said.’ I found the fellow I was talking to at Area was a fellow I used to know well. Junior to me, of course. On old Hamilton-Brand’s staff at Gib. Said I’d go along and look him up. Probably dine there. See you in the morning. No point in getting away too early. I told them to have our lorry loaded by ten. All right?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘Lucky I knew the fellow at Area. Didn’t have to tell him anything about you and your affairs. I just said “Mum’s the word” and he twigged.’

  All went smoothly next day; they drove to London with the lorry behind them and reached the Duke of York’s Steps at one o’clock.

  ‘No use your going to see your fellow now,’ said Jumbo. ‘Bound to be out. We can lunch here. Must see the men fed too. Problem is to find a place for your gear.’

  At this moment a Major-General appeared up the steps, clearly bound for the club. Guy saluted him. Jumbo embraced him by both elbows.

  ‘Beano.’

  ‘Jumbo. What are you up to, old boy?’

  ‘Looking for lunch.’

  ‘Better hurry. Everything decent is off the table by one. Awful greedy lot, the young members.’

  ‘Can you find me a guard, Beano?’

  ‘Impossible, old boy. War House these days. Can’t even find a batman.’

  ‘Got a lot of hush-hush stuff here.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Beano after a pause for thought. “There’s a parking place at the War House, CIGS only. He’s away today. I should put your stuff there. No one will touch it. Say it’s the CIGS’s personal baggage. I’ll give your driver a chit. Then he and your other fellow can use the canteen.’

  ‘Good for you, Beano.’

  ‘Not at all, Jumbo.’

  Guy accompanied these two senior officers into the club and found himself swept into the dining-room in a surge of naval and military might. Bella
my’s had its sprinkling of distinguished officers but here everyone in sight was aflame with red tabs, gold braid, medal ribbons, and undisguised hunger. Guy diffidently stood back from the central table round which, as though at a hunt ball, they were struggling for food.

  ‘Go in and fight for it,’ said Beano. ‘Every man for himself.’

  Guy got the last leg of chicken but a Rear-Admiral deftly whisked it off his plate. Presently he emerged victualled in accordance with his rank with bully beef and beetroot.

  ‘Sure that’s all you want?’ asked Jumbo hospitably. ‘Doesn’t look much to me.’

  He himself had half a steak pie before him.

  Throughout the meal Beano talked of a bomb which had narrowly missed him an evening or two earlier.

  ‘I went down flat on my face, old boy, and got up covered in plaster. A narrow squeak, I can tell you.’

  Eventually they left the table.

  ‘Back to the grindstone,’ Beano said.

  ‘I’ll wait here,’ said Jumbo. ‘I shan’t desert you till I’ve seen my mission safely accomplished.’

  On the steps of the club Guy turned aside from the main stream of members who were making for Whitehall, and walked the quarter-mile to Marchmain House, a block of flats in St James’s, where his appointment lay.

  Hazardous Offensive Operations Headquarters, that bizarre product of total war which later was to proliferate through five acres of valuable London property, engrossing the simple high staff officers of all the Services with experts, charlatans, plain lunatics and every unemployed member of the British Communist Party – HOO HQ, at this stage of its history, occupied three flats in a supposedly luxurious modern block.

  Guy, reporting there, found a Major of about his own age, with the D.S.O., M.C. and a slight stammer. The interview lasted a bare five minutes.