Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“The Duke and Duchess of Bridlington. Major Richard Baker.”

They made the appropriate remarks and the Duchess, in her fifties and working hard to be no more than forty in appearance, made no apologies for holding her annual ball.

“We must keep up standards, do you not agree, Major? How else can we honour our heroes other than by representing the England they are fighting for?”

Richard smiled and agreed, unwilling to give an honest answer.

Colonel Braithwaite led him into the ballroom.

“One of the biggest in Town, Baker. Seen much in its time, you know. Best foot forward tonight – a shortage of young men, it seems.”

Richard glanced about him, saw perhaps too few of the youngest but far too many red-tabbed gentlemen in their late twenties and thirties.

“A sufficiency of staff officers, sir. Interesting collection of ribbons between them. I don’t in fact recognise many of them.”

“Russian and Belgian and French decorations, Baker. Commonly the case that the foreign governments leave it up to HQ to determine who should receive the awards for gallantry. The great bulk end up on staff officers’ chests.”

“I am amazed at their effrontery, sir! How many of them have ever seen the front line?”

“Bravery above and beyond the call of duty in tackling the mounds of paper that accumulate on their desks, Baker.”

“Ah! I see, sir! Nasty things those paper cuts can be.”

“Precisely! That is the only blood most of them will spill.”

They snorted and nodded to a waiter, took their glasses of champagne.

“Warm and inferior cru, Baker.”

“Tastes like sparkling wine to me, sir. Not a favourite – must be the peasant in me.”

“Tut! Champagne is the height of refinement, Baker! One is obliged to like it. Can you see any faces you recognise? This dance is coming to an end.”

Richard glanced about him, spotted Primrose Patterson stood awkwardly beside her mother. He made towards her, bowed and requested her hand for the dance.

“With pleasure, Major Baker. You remember the Major, Mama!”

Her voice made it clear that her mother was under the strictest of orders to do so. The lady smiled and focussed on Richard’s chest.

“Is that what it looks like? I did not know… How do you do, Major?”

“Very well, ma’am, thank you.”

They exchanged bows and a vaguely ineffectual gentleman gave a gentle cough.

“My father, Viscount Elkthorn. Major Richard Baker.”

“Ah yes. Heard all about you, Baker. Tell me, are these trench things really necessary ? Costing a lot of money with their barb wire and such, you know? Could we do without them? One good charge and all that?”

“I am afraid that without them all of our men would be killed, sir. They are currently essential. I am sure you will find yourself asked to spend much more on them. We need ten times as many machine guns as we currently have, simply to match the Germans. Add to that, artillery to equal the Krupps guns and vastly more of wire. The German trenches cannot be broken through except by building up our strength to outmatch theirs. That will cost a deal of money, I fear.”

“They all keep saying that, you know, Baker. Taxes are too high already. Don’t know how we shall manage. You must pay a visit one afternoon and explain it all in detail. Shan’t talk here – supposed to be dancing, you know!”

Richard obediently led Miss Patterson out and discovered that she was, as he knew, clever and amusing, but possessed of two left feet, both of which ended up on his toes with some frequency.

“Sorry! I never did quite master the waltz, Major Baker. Or any of the other dances. I am not at all musical, either!”

“Nor me, Miss Patterson. I was forced to learn to dance, by numbers, at Dartmouth with a loud Petty Officer bellowing, ‘One, Two, Three! One, Two, Three! Gentlemen will lead and turn their partner.’ We cadets took it in turn to be the lady – an old naval habit, we were informed.”

“Going with the Rum and the Baccy, is it not, sir?”

“Sh! A young lady should not have heard of such things!” He made no attempt to conceal his delight at her comment.

“Sorry! I keep forgetting what is correct at a ball. I am thirsty – it is hot in here and one must be active. Is it like this in your trenches, a great mob, all pushing and shoving and yelling at each other?”

“There is a little more of artillery fire, I fear, Miss Patterson. Let me lead you to the buffet… Lemonade, is it not?”

They sat out the following dance, distant from her mother who was busy talking scandal with a collection of like-minded dames.

“Will you pay my father a visit, Major Baker?”

“Only if you will be there as well, Miss Patterson.”

“My word! Are you in pursuit of me, sir?”

“Are you supposed to ask that?”

“No. That’s another one of the rules I forgot. Only, it is unexpected – men have not ever pursued me before. They say I am too blue.”

“Intelligence can be a handicap, I believe, Miss Patterson. Shall we say that I should be happy to talk more to you, and in another place than this noisy crush. Oh, Lord – there is that hopeless little tit Wincanton! One of my bugbears, Miss Patterson. A second lieutenant and utterly valueless – bone idle!”

“His father is active in the Lords at the moment. Making a noise so that he may be taken up by government. The simplest way of silencing a nuisance is to make him a minister, you know, Major Baker. Then, having served a year or two he can be given the Order of the Bath or somesuch to make him happy. I do not know the young man, other than in passing. Not a friend of my family. The grandfather made a deal of money in some form of business and bought a peerage, you know.”

“Similar to mine, in fact, Miss Patterson, though my father hopes to come to the peerage on my back now. We are ironfounders and I suspect rich – my father has never confided in me. I do not doubt that he will soon be richer still – a war is good for the iron trades.”

She seemed more amused than shocked to hear that.

“I see. Do you need a well-born wife to make you socially acceptable?”

“Eventually, yes. I am not yet quite twenty-one years old, so that can wait – unless I am given reason to enter the marriage stakes.”

“You look older, sir.”

“Dartmouth beats the boy out of the cadet. The trenches have completed the job. I have little youth left in me, I fear. Add to that, I have to play the severe major – the source of discipline in the battalion. Oh dear! Wincanton has spotted me and is coming to pay his compliments!”

“He must do so – it is only good manners.”

“I am amazed that he ever made the effort to learn them. Here we go!”

He stood to acknowledge Wincanton’s presence.

“You know Miss Patterson, I believe, Wincanton.”

“I should jolly well think so, sir! Known her for years. Didn’t know you were acquainted.”

“We met recently. I did not expect to see you here – not the scene for a man of your age!”

“Not my idea of fun at all, sir! The Pater, you know, insisted that I should be seen in Town. I think he wishes to display me in uniform.”

“Making the most of the fleeting opportunity, one presumes, Wincanton.”

“I say, sir, that is rather harsh! I am utterly determined to turn over a new leaf, you know, sir. I am sure I shall be seen to shine, as is only right.”

“Excellent! The Battalion needs hard-working junior officers. When we reach the trenches you will have every opportunity to get to grips with the Hun – there will be trench raids and no end of such fun!”

“Might be a more interesting form of soldiering, sir. Can’t say that barracks life fills me with martial ardour. Perhaps the trenches will give a chap more to do that is useful.”