Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“You’ve dished all this up with her?”

“On my last leave — making it a charming affair.”

“But lately?”

“Since then, we’ve been out of touch more than once. We are at this moment, until I found, quite by chance, she was at the Jeavonses’. I’m hoping to see her to-night. That’s why I can’t dine with you.”

“You and Priscilla are dining together?”

“Not exactly. You remember Bijou Ardglass, that gorgeous mannequin, one-time girl-friend of Prince Theodoric? I ran into her yesterday on my way to Combined Ops. She’s driving for the Belgians or Poles, one of the Allied contingents — an odd female organisation run by Lady McReith, whom Bijou was full of stories about. Bijou asked me to a small party she is giving for her fortieth birthday, about half-a-dozen old friends at the Madrid.”

“Bijou Ardglass’s fortieth birthday.”

“Makes you think.”

“I only knew her by sight, but even so — and Priscilla will be there?”

“Bijou found her at Aunt Molly’s. Of course Priscilla told Bijou I was on the East Coast. I was when we last exchanged letters. I explained to Bijou I’d just been posted to London at short notice — which was quite true — and hadn’t managed to get together with Priscilla yet.”

“You haven’t called up Priscilla at the Jeavonses’?”

“I thought it would be best if we met at Bijou’s party — without Priscilla knowing I was going to be there. I have a reason for that. The Madrid was the place we celebrated our engagement. The Madrid might also be the place where we straightened things out.”

That was just like Lovell. Everything had to be staged. Perhaps he was right, and everything does have to be staged. That is a system that can at least be argued as the best. At any rate, people must run their lives on their own terms.

“I mean it’s worth making an effort to patch things up,” he said, “don’t you think, Nick?”

He asked the question as if he had no idea what the answer would be, possibly even expecting a negative rather than affirmative one.

“Yes, of course — every possible effort.”

“You can imagine what all this is like going on in one’s head, round and round for ever, while you’re trying to sort out a lot of bloody stuff about radios and landing-craft. For instance, if she goes off with Stevens, think of all the negotiations about Caroline, all that kind of thing.”

“Chips — Hugh Moreland has appeared at the door on the other side of the room. Is there anything else you want to say that’s urgent?”

“Nothing. I’ve got it all off my chest now. That was what I needed. You understand?”

“Of course.”

“The point is, you agree it’s worth taking trouble to get on an even keel again?”

“Can’t say it too strongly.”

Lovell nodded several times.

“And you’ll be my executor?”

“Honoured.”

“I’ll write to the solicitors then. Marvellous to have got that fixed. Hallo, Hugh, how are you? Ages since we met.”

Dressed in his familiar old blue suit, looking more than ever as if he made a practice of sleeping in it, dark grey shirt and crimson tie, Moreland, hatless, seemed an improbable survival from pre-war life. He was flushed and breathing rather hard. This gave the impression of poorish health. His face, his whole person, was thinner. The flush increased when he recognised Lovell, who must at once have recalled thoughts of Priscilla. Even after this redness had died down, a certain discoloration of the skin remained, increasing the suggestion that Moreland was not well. There was a moment of awkwardness, in spite of Lovell’s immediate display of satisfaction that they should have met again. This was chiefly because Moreland seemed unwilling to commit himself by sitting at our table; an old habit of his, one of those characteristic postponements of action for which he was always laughing at himself, like his constitutional inability in all circumstances to decide from a menu what he wanted to eat.

“I shall be taken for a spy if I sit with you both,” he said. “Somehow I never expected you’d really be wearing uniform, Nick, even though I knew you were in the army. I must tell you of rather a menacing thing that happened the other day. Norman Chandler appeared on my doorstep to hear the latest musical gossip. He’s also become an officer, and we went off to get some lunch at Foppa’s, where neither of us had been since the beginning of the war. The downstairs room was shut, because the window had been broken by a bomb, so we went upstairs, where the club used to be. There we found a couple of seedy-looking characters who said the restaurant was closed. We asked where Foppa was to be found. They said they didn’t know. They weren’t at all friendly. Positively disagreeable. Then I suddenly grasped they thought we were after Foppa for being an Italian — wanted to intern him or something. An army type and a member of the Special Branch. It was obvious as soon as one thought of it.”

“The Special Branch must have changed a lot if they now dress like you, Hugh.”

“Not more than army officers, if they now look like Norman.”

“Anyway, take a seat,” said Lovell. “What are you going to drink? How’s your war been going, Hugh? Not drearier than mine, I feel sure, if you’ll excuse the self-pity.”

Moreland laughed, now more at ease after telling the story about Chandler and himself; Foppa’s restaurant, even if closed, providing a kind of frame to unite the three of us.

“I seem to have neutralised the death-wish for the moment,” he said. “Raids are a great help in that. I was also momentarily cheered just now by finding the man with the peg-leg and patch over one eye still going. He was behind the London Pavilion this evening, playing ‘Softly Awakes My Heart’. Rather an individual version. One of the worst features of the war is the dearth of itinerant musicians, indeed of vagrants generally. For example, I haven’t seen the cantatrice on crutches for years. As I seem equally unfitted for warlike duties, I’d thought of filling the gap and becoming a street musician myself. Unfortunately, I’m such a poor executant.”

“There’s a former music critic in our Public Relations branch,” said Lovell. “He says the great thing for musicians now is the R.A.F. band.”

“Doubt if they’d take me,” said Moreland, “though the idea of massed orchestras of drum and fife soaring across the sky is attractive. Which is your P.R. man’s paper?”

Lovell mentioned the name of the critic, who turned out to be an admirer of Moreland’s work. The two of them began to discuss musical matters, of which Lovell possessed a smattering, anyway as far as personalities were concerned, from days of helping to write a column. No one could have guessed from Lovell’s manner that inwardly he was in a state of great disturbance. On the contrary, it was Moreland who, after a preliminary burst of talkativeness, reverted to an earlier uneasiness of manner. Something was on his mind. He kept shifting about in his seat, looking towards the door of the restaurant, as if expecting an arrival that might not be exactly welcome. This apparent nervousness brought to mind the unaccustomed tone of his postcard. It looked as if something had happened, which he lacked the will to explain.

“Are you dining with us?” he suddenly asked Lovell.

There was no reason why that enquiry should not be made. The tone was perfectly friendly. All the same, a touch of abruptness added to this sense of apprehension.

“Chips is going to the Madrid — I didn’t realise places like that still functioned.”

“Not many of them do,” said Lovell. “In any case I’m never asked to them. I’ve no doubt it will be a very sober affair compared with the old days. The only thing to be said is that Max Pilgrim is doing a revival of some of his old songs — ’Tess of Le Touquet,’ ‘Heather, Heather, she’s under the weather ,’ all those.”