David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

He read it through twice, wincing at the phrase ‘present difficulties’.

‘Precisely who gave you this?’

‘Oh I couldn’t say, sir.’

Paul nibbled at his lip, unsure if Burkett was being evasive or not. Unable to tell from his response whether the steward actually didn’t know who had delivered the note or whether, through some arcane club rule that governed these things, did know but wasn’t at liberty to disclose the fact.

Paul sighed. ‘Whitehall Court, then. Do you know where that is?’

Burkett’s face registered the merest flicker of recognition.

‘That would be the old Liberator Building, sir. The present home of the Liberal Club.’

Paul supposed his own expression must have betrayed ignorance because Burkett promptly embarked upon one his voyages into the arcane.

‘If I remind the captain that the name “Liberator” most probably derives from the building’s association with the late Mr Jabez Balfour, the former Member for Burnley, would the captain be any further enlightened?’

Paul closed his eyes. ‘No, Burkett, he would not.’

‘The gentleman who had that little difficulty over the failure of the Liberator Building Society? But perhaps the affair occurred before the captain took an interest in such matters.’

‘Before I was born, you mean.’

‘An unpleasant business all round,’ Burkett resumed, suddenly adding with the reverberant boom of an Old Testament prophet that made Paul jump, ‘Ruin!’ He paused portentously then leaned confidentially towards Paul once more. ‘A matter of financial irregularity, I’m sorry to relate.’

Paul blushed. Having just read the phrase ‘present difficulties’ in livid green ink, the implication was obvious. It brought back the still-raw distress of Valentine’s betrayal. He cursed Valentine under his breath again although, having cursed the man so often over the past few days his invective had lost most of its force; what was left of the execration sounded little more than oath by rote.

Meanwhile Burkett, running before some wind of his own, was elaborating on the Member for Burnley and Argentina, something about extra-judicial kidnapping… He had reached the sheltered port of an apparently consequent trial before Paul was able to intervene.

Pre-empting Burkett of the opportunity of launching into a verbatim account of the court proceedings, Paul asked:

‘The Liberal Club?’

‘The turreted building.’

‘Near the War Office?’

Burkett nodded and Paul glanced at the note again. 46 , east turret . He looked at his watch. It wasn’t far and he had plenty of time to get there but wondered why he should. After all, he wasn’t at the beck and call of any stranger who might leave him notes. And any ‘difficulties’ he might be having at the moment were his business, not the concern of others. Besides, it was almost time for lunch and his whole reason for being at the club was so that he could sign for the meal without actual recourse to cash.

Burkett gave a warning cough and began gesturing theatrically towards the stairs. Paul saw the Club Secretary descending and edged further behind the column.

‘And the man actually used the words “something to my advantage”, you say?’

Burkett stepped discretely between Paul and the Secretary who had now reached the lobby.

‘Those very words, sir.’

‘Thank you, Burkett,’ Paul said in an undertone, waving the letter. ‘Perhaps you’ll let the Secretary know I’m attending to that little misunderstanding over my bill?’ Then, with an glance towards the Secretary’s turned back, he made a bolt for the door and down the steps, pushing the letter into his pocket as he went.

It was at this moment that he saw a thickset man wearing a flat cap standing on the other side of the street, and became aware that he had vaguely noticed the fellow a few minutes earlier before going into the club.

The man was standing more or less in the same place as before. Paul stopped on the bottom step and peered at him. The man’s face was half-hidden by the wide cap and the rest of his features were further obscured by a heavy black moustache.

Paul had the impression that a moment before the man had been looking in his direction, although now he appeared to be assiduously examining a pair of ornate Corinthian capitals adorning the entrance of the building opposite. On reflection, Paul doubted if he would have noticed the man at all had he been wearing a uniform and not dressed in civilian clothes that were obviously too heavy for the season. Or carrying an umbrella, come to that, as the sky was of clear unclouded blue.

Even so, there were still plenty of men not in uniform to be seen. Even men within the age of conscription as Paul would have guessed this man to be. Hardly a reason to have attracted his attention at all. No, there was something more. Something about the man looked oddly familiar, although Paul was sure he didn’t know him. He worried at it for a second or two while the man continued to examine the stonework until a passing cab hid him momentarily from view. Then, without the distraction, Paul became acutely aware of the hollowness in his stomach, reminding him that he had not eaten that morning. With a last glance over his shoulder to make sure the Club Secretary was not following him, he strode off down the road, the problem of lunch pressing in upon him once more.

Having to pass up a meal at the club was a nuisance. As his rent was overdue he had missed breakfast, being obliged to slip out of his lodgings early to avoid his landlady. He had been counting on getting at least a meal or two at the club before the matter of his unpaid bill came to a head. Having to leave unfed, though, was preferable to enduring an unpleasant scene. In other circumstances he might have been inclined to have made a stand and faced the Club Secretary down, relying on the assumption that a man in uniform wounded in the service of his country and fresh out of hospital might expect to be allowed a little leeway in the matter of unpaid bills. Ordinarily he might have been able to make a decent case out of that sort of thing. As it was, however, at the moment the streets of London were thronged with men in uniform wounded in the service of their country. He suspected that whether in or out of hospital he — along with the rest of them — were becoming the norm. In fact, if things didn’t improve, he imagined that in a year or two he might very well find the same men standing on the same street-corners selling bootlaces. And all be thought of as nothing but a damned nuisance on top of it.

At least he could console himself with the thought that he was better off than most. He still had all his limbs; he continued to possess his full complement of faculties. He remained unscarred by his experiences, if one didn’t count the puckered skin at his temple where the fragment of shell had hit him, that was. Yet he was aware that taking a philosophical view of his situation didn’t put grub in his stomach. Despite what others might regard as good fortune, he still couldn’t help feeling just a little hard done by. Granted, he was prepared to acknowledge that at least to some degree part of the position he now found himself in was of his own making. He had been too naive. But this didn’t absolve Valentine of any of his richly deserved opprobrium. That still remained, even if it did smart to realise that Paul’s downfall had mostly been occasioned by his own, too trusting, nature.

Wandering fruitlessly in this barren wasteland of self-examination was not, however, filling his empty stomach. Forced to reconsider his options, since his pay wasn’t due for another week, he was reluctantly beginning to wonder whether he had any other recourse but the final one of having to visit his mother. The only alternative to that last ditch measure was to go without eating, sustaining himself, he supposed, with the Micawberish hope that something might turn up.