Anthony Powell - The Kindly Ones

‘Been left in charge of details consequent on the unit’s move to a training area,’ he said brusquely, as I entered the room. ‘Suppose I shouldn’t have told you that. Security — security — and then security. Everyone must learn that. Well, my lad, what can I do for you? You need not stand. Take a pew.’

I sat on a kitchen chair with a broken back, and outlined my situation.

‘The fact is,’ said Widmerpool, glaring through his spectacles and puffing out his cheeks, as if rehearsing a tremendous blowing up he was going to give some subordinate in the very near future, ‘you ought to have joined the Territorials before war broke out.’

‘I know.’

‘No good just entering your name on the Reserve.’

‘There were difficulties about age.’

‘Only after you’d left it too late.’

‘It was only a matter of months.’

‘Never mind. Think how long I’ve been a Territorial officer. You should have looked ahead.’

‘You said there wasn’t going to be a war after “Munich”.’

‘You thought there was, so you were even more foolish.’

There was truth in that.

‘I only want to know the best thing to do,’ I said.

‘You misjudged things, didn’t you?’

‘I did.’

‘No vacancies now.’

‘How can I put that right?’

‘The eldest of our last intake of commissioned subalterns was twenty-one. The whole lot of them had done at least eighteen months in the ranks — at least.’

‘Even so, the army will have to expand in due course.’

‘Officers will be drawn from the younger fellows coming up.’

‘You think there is nothing for me to do at present?’

‘You could enlist in the ranks.’

‘But the object of joining the Reserve — being accepted for it — was to be dealt with immediately as a potential officer.’

‘Then I can’t help you.’

‘Well, thanks for seeing me.’

‘I will keep an eye out for you,’ said Widmerpool, rather less severely. ‘As a matter of fact, I may be in a position well placed for doing so before many moons have waned.’

‘Why?’

‘I am probably to be sent to the Staff College.’

‘Oh?’

‘Again, for security reasons, that should not be mentioned beyond these four walls.’

He began to gather up his multitudinous papers, stowing some away in a safe, transferring others to a brief-case.

‘I shall be coming back to this office again after dinner,’ he said. ‘Lucky if I get away before midnight. It’s all got to be cleared up somehow, if the war is to be won. I gave my word to the Brigade-Major. He’s a very sharp fellow called Farebrother. City acquaintance of mine.’

‘Sunny Farebrother?’

‘Have you met him?’

‘Years ago.’

Widmerpool gave a semi-circular movement of his arm, as if to convey the crushing responsibility his promise to the Brigade-Major comprehended. He locked the safe. Putting the key in his trouser-pocket after attaching it to a chain hanging from his braces, he spoke again, this time in an entirely changed tone.

‘Nicholas,’ he said, ‘I am going to ask you to do something.’

‘Yes?’

‘Let me explain very briefly. As you know, my mother lives in a cottage not very far from Stourwater. We call it a cottage, it is really a little house. She has made it very exquisite.’

‘I remember your telling me.’

‘Since she lives by herself, there has been pressure — rather severe pressure — applied to her by the authorities to have evacuees there.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Now I do not wish my lady mother to be plagued by evacuees.’

That seemed a reasonable enough sentiment. Nobody wanted evacuees, even if they accepted the fact that evacuees must be endured. Why should they? I could not see, however, in Mrs Widmerpool’s case, that I could help in preventing such a situation from arising. I realised at the same time that Widmerpool had suddenly effected in himself one of those drastic changes of policy in which, for example, from acting an all-powerful tyrant, he would suddenly become a humble suppliant. I understood very clearly that something was required of me, but could not guess what I was expected to do. Some persons, knowing that they were later going to ask a favour, would have made themselves more agreeable when a favour was being asked of them. That was not Widmerpool’s way. I almost admired him for making so little effort to conceal his lack of interest in my own affairs, while waiting his time to demand something of myself.

‘The point is this,’ he said, ‘up to date, my mother has had an old friend — Miss Janet Walpole-Wilson, sister of that ineffective diplomatist, Sir Gavin — staying with her, so the question of evacuees, until now, has not arisen. Now Miss Walpole-Wilson’s work with the Women’s Voluntary Service takes her elsewhere. The danger of evacuees is acute.’

I thought how Miss Janet Walpole-Wilson’s ordinary clothes must have merged imperceptibly into the uniform of her service. It was as if she had been preparing all her life for that particular dress.

‘But how can I help?’

‘Some relation of Lady Molly Jeavons — a relative of her husband’s, to be more precise — wants accommodation in the country. A place not too far from London. Miss Walpole-Wilson heard about this herself. She told us.’

‘Why not ring up the Jeavonses?’

‘I have done so. In fact, I am meeting my mother at Lady Molly’s tonight.’

Widmerpool was still oppressed by some unsolved problem, which he found difficulty about putting into words. He cleared his throat, swallowed several times.

‘I wondered whether you would come along to the Jeavonses tonight,’ he said. ‘It might be easier.’

‘What might?’

Widmerpool went red below his temples, under the line made by his spectacles. He began to sweat in spite of the low temperature of the room.

‘You remember that rather unfortunate business when I was engaged to Mildred Haycock?’

‘Yes.’

‘I haven’t really seen anything of the Jeavonses since then.’

*You came to the party Molly gave for Isobel just before we were married.’

‘I know,’ said Widmerpool, ‘but there were quite a lot of people there then. It was an occasion. It’s rather different going there tonight to discuss something like my mother’s cottage. Lady Molly has never seen my mother.’

‘I am sure it will be all right. Molly loves making arrangements.’

‘All the same, I feel certain embarrassments.’

‘No need to with the Jeavonses.’

‘I thought that, since Molly Jeavons is an aunt of your wife’s, things might be easier if you were to accompany me. Will you do that?’

‘All right.’

‘You will come?’

‘Yes, if you wish.’

I had not visited the Jeavonses for some little time — not since Isobel had gone to stay with Frederica — so that I was quite glad to make this, as it were, an excuse for calling on them. Isobel would certainly enjoy news of the Jeavons household.

‘Very well, then,’ said Widmerpool, now returning at once to his former peremptory tone, ‘we’ll move off forthwith. It is five minutes to the bus. Come along. Party, quick march.’

He gave some final instructions in the adjoining room to a gloomy corporal sitting before a typewriter, surrounded, like Widmerpool himself, with huge stacks of documents. We went out into the street, where the afternoon light was beginning to fade. Widmerpool, his leather-bound stick caught tight beneath his armpit, marched along beside me, tramp-tramp-tramp, eventually falling into step, since I had not taken my pace from his.

‘I don’t know what Jeavons’s relative will be like,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel absolutely confident she will be the sort my mother will like.’