Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“The girl’s Nick’s sister-in-law,” he said. “You seem to have forgotten that. I don’t know who the army type is.”

“Oh, yes, she’s your sister-in-law, isn’t she,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Now I remember. Not bad looking. Got herself up for the occasion too, hasn’t she?”

Mrs. Maclintick did not elaborate why she thought Priscilla’s clothes deserved this comment, though they were certainly less informal than her own outfit. Priscilla’s appearance, at its most striking, made her not far short of a “beauty.” She looked striking enough now, though not in the best of humours. Her fair hair was longer than at Frederica’s, her face thinner. There was about her that taut, at the same time supple air, the yielding movement of body women sometimes display when conducting a love affair, like the physical pose of an athlete observed between contests. She had a high colour. Stevens, apparently in the best of spirits, was talking noisily. No escape was offered, even though they were the last people I wanted to run into at that moment. It seemed wise to prepare the ground with some explanation of why these two might reasonably be out together. This was perhaps instinctive, rather than logical, because Lovell himself had spoken as if the whole world knew about the affair.

“The man’s called Odo Stevens. I was on a course with him.”

“Oh, you know him, do you?” said Mrs. Maclintick. “He looks a bit…”

She did not finish the sentence. Although her comment was never revealed, one had the impression she grasped pretty well the essential aspects of Odo Stevens, even if only the superficial ones. No great psychological powers were required to make a reasonably accurate guess at these, anyway for immediate practical purposes, whatever might be found deeper down. At that moment Stevens caught sight of us. He waved. Then, at once, he spoke to Priscilla, who herself looked in our direction. She too waved, at the same time began to say something to Stevens. Whatever that was, he disregarded it. Jumping up, he came towards our table. The only hope now was that Mrs. Maclintick’s uncompromising manner might save the situation by causing Stevens to feel himself unwelcome; if not drive him off entirely, at least discourage a long conversation. She could easily make matters more bizarre than embarrassing. I felt suddenly grateful for her presence. However, as things fell out, Mrs. Maclintick was not placed in the position of exercising an active role. This was on account of Stevens himself. I had completely underestimated the change that had taken place in him. Never lacking in self-confidence, at Aldershot he had at the same time been undecided how best to present himself; how, so to speak, to maximum value from his own personality. He held various cards in his hand — as I had tried to explain to Lovell — most of them good ones. At different times he would vary the line he took: rough diamond: ambitious young provincial salesman: journalist on the make: soldier of fortune: professional womaniser. Those were just a few of them, all played with a reasonable lightness of touch. Stevens was certainly aware, too, of possibility to charm by sheer lack of any too exact a definition of personality or background. Some of this vagueness of outline may have had a fascination for Priscilla. Now, however, he had enormously added to the effectiveness of his own social attack, immediately giving the impression, as he approached our table, that he was prepared to take on this, or any other party of people, off his own bat. He himself was going to do the entertaining. No particular co-operation from anyone else was required. He had put up an additional pip since we last met, but, although still only a lieutenant, he wore the mauve and white ribbon of an M.C., something of a rarity in acquisition at this comparatively early stage of the war.

“Well, old cock,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. This is a bit of luck. What are you up to? On leave, or stationed in London?”

Before I could answer, Priscilla herself came up to the table. She had followed Stevens almost at once. There was not much else for her to do. Even if she might have preferred to postpone a meeting, in due course inevitable, or, like myself, hoped to reduce contacts to no more than a nod or brief word at the end of the evening, Stevens had given her no chance to impede his own renewal of acquaintance. His principle was to work on impulse. Nothing could have prevented him from making the move he had. Now that had taken place, she no doubt judged the best tactical course was to ally herself with this explosive greeting; as good a way of handling the situation as any other, if it had to be handled at all. Besides, Priscilla may have felt that, by joining us, she could keep an eye on Stevens; modify, if necessary, whatever he might say.

“Yes, why are you here, Nick?” she asked, speaking challengingly, as if I, rather than her, found myself in doubtful company. “I thought you were miles away across the sea. And Hugh — how marvellous to see you again after so long. I was listening to something of yours in a B.B.C. programme last week.”

She was perfectly self-possessed. If aware of rumours afloat about herself and Stevens — of which she could hardly be ignorant, had she bothered to give a moment’s thought to the matter — Priscilla was perfectly prepared to brazen these out. The two of them could not know, of course, how narrowly they had missed Lovell himself. Perhaps, again, neither cared. Lovell’s taste for drama would certainly have been glutted, had they arrived an hour or so earlier. In the group we now formed, Moreland was the one who seemed most embarrassed. Conventionally speaking, he had not risen to the occasion very successfully. His highly developed intuitive faculties had instantly registered something was amiss; while the mere fact he had himself once been in love with Priscilla was, in any case, enough to agitate him, when unexpectedly confronted with her. No doubt he was also piqued at her coming on him in circumstances which must reveal sooner or later he and Mrs. Maclintick were making a life together. He muttered something or other about whatever composition Priscilla had heard on the radio, but seemed unable to pursue any coherent conversation. Mrs. Maclintick stared at Stevens without friendliness, though a good deal of curiosity, a reception that seemed perfectly to satisfy him.

“Look here,” he said. “Are you all having a very special private party? If not, couldn’t we come and sit with you? This is the chance of a lifetime to make a jolly evening of my last night in London for a long time — who knows, perhaps for ever. I’m on embarkation leave, you know, have to catch a train back to my unit to-night.”

He began addressing this speech to me, but, half-way through, turned towards Mrs. Maclintick, as if to appeal to her good nature. She did not offer much encouragement; at the same time issued no immediate refusal.

“Anything you like,” she said. “I’m too tired to care much what happens. Been on my feet all day doling out shepherd’s pie made of sausage meat and stale swiss roll all minced up together. But don’t expect Moreland to pay. I’ve let him have enough out of the house-keeping money to cover our share of dinner — and an extra round of drinks if we can get that.”

Moreland made some sort of protest at this, half amused, half ashamed. Stevens, obviously assessing Mrs. Maclintick’s measure at a glance (just as Stringham had, at the party years before after Moreland’s symphony), laughed loudly. She glared at him for treating her self-pity so lightly, but, although fierce in expression, her stare was not entirely one of dislike.

“We’ll be absolutely self-supporting, I promise that,” said Stevens. “I’ve only got a quid or two left myself, but Priscilla cashed a cheque earlier in the day, so we’ll have to prise it out of her if necessary.”