Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“You may not find that so easy,” said Priscilla, laughing too, though perhaps not best pleased at this indication of being permanently in the company of Stevens. “In the end Nick will probably have to fork out, as a relation. Will if really be all right if we join you, Nick?”

Although she said this lightly, in the same sort of vein used by Stevens himself, she spoke now with less assurance than he. Certainly she would, in any case, have preferred no such suggestion to be made. Once put, she was not going to run counter to it. She was determined to support her lover, show nothing was going to intimidate her. No doubt she had hoped to spend the evening tête-à-tête with him, especially if this were his last night in England. Even apart from that, there was, from her own point of view, nothing whatever to be said for deliberately joining a group of people that included a brother-in-law. On the other hand, she had perhaps already learnt the impossibility of dissuading Stevens from doing things the way he wanted them done. Perhaps, again, that was one of the attractions he exercised, in contrast with Lovell, usually amenable in most social matters. Stevens clearly possessed one of those personalities that require constant reinforcement for their egotism and energy by the presence and attention of other people round them, an audience to whom they can “show off.” Such men are attractive to women, at the same time hard for women to keep at heel. For my own part, I would much rather have prevented the two of them from sitting with us, but, short of causing what might almost amount to a “scene,” there seemed no way of avoiding this. Even assuming I made some more or less discouraging gesture, that was likely to prove not only rather absurd, but also useless from Lovell’s point of view; perhaps even undesirable where Lovell’s interests were in question.

“I mean you look a bit uncertain, Nick?” said Priscilla, laughing again.

Obviously the thoughts going through my head were as clear as day to her.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Half a minute,” said Stevens. “I’ll try and find a waiter and get another chair. We can’t all cram together on the banquette.”

He went off. Mrs. Maclintick began some complicated financial computation with Moreland. This was going to hold the attention of the pair of them for a minute or two. Priscilla had sat down, and, perhaps because she felt herself more vulnerable without Stevens, had her head down, fumbling in her bag, as if she wanted to avoid my eye. I felt some statement should be made which might, at least to some small extent, define my own position. It was now or never. Any such “statement” was, I thought, to be conceived of as the term is made use of by the police, for the description of an accident or crime, a brief summary of what happened, how and why it took place or was committed.

“I had a drink with Chips this evening.”

She looked up.

“ Chips ?”

“Here — just before dinner. He thought he might see you at Bijou Ardglass’s party at the Madrid.”

That information would at least prevent her from taking Stevens to the restaurant, had the thought been in her mind, though, at the same time, could prejudice any faint chance of herself looking in at the Ardglass party after Stevens had left to catch his train. Such a possibility had to be faced. A chance must be taken on that. It was, in any case, unlikely she would go later to the Madrid. Everything would close down by midnight at the latest, probably before that.

“Oh, but is Chips in London?”

She was plainly surprised.

“At Combined Ops.”

“On the Combined Ops staff?”

“Yes.”

“That was only a possibility when I last heard.”

“It’s happened.”

“Chips thought the move wouldn’t be for a week or two, even if it came off. His last letter only reached me this morning. It chased all over the country after me. I’m at Aunt Molly’s.”

“I’ll give you the Combined Ops number and extension.”

“I had to put Bijou off,” she said quite calmly. “I’ll get in touch with Chips to-morrow.”

“He thought you might be at the Jeavonses’.”

“Why didn’t he ring up then?”

“He hoped he was going to see you at the Madrid — make a surprise of it.”

She did not rise to that.

“The Jeavons house is more of a shambles than ever,” she said. “Eleanor Walpole-Wilson is there — Aunt Molly usen’t to like her, but they’re great buddies now — and then there are two Polish officers whose place was bombed and had nowhere to go, and a girl who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor.”

“Who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor?” asked Stevens. “No one we know, I hope.”

He had come back to the table at that moment. Such as it was, my demonstration had been made, was now, of necessity, over. There was nothing more to be said. The situation could only be accepted, until, in one field or another, further action might be required. That, at least, was so far as I myself was concerned. Recognition of this as a fact seemed unavoidable. The return of Stevens brought about a reshuffle of places, resulting in Mrs. Maclintick finding herself next him on the banquette with me on the other side of her. Priscilla and Moreland were opposite. This seating had been chiefly organised by Stevens himself, possibly with no more aim than a display of power. I congratulated him on his M.C.

“Oh, that?” he said. “Pretty hot stuff to have one of those, isn’t it? I really deserved it — we both did — for putting up with that Aldershot course when we first met. It was far more gruelling than anything expected of me later — those lectures on the German army. Christ, I dream about them. Are you at the War House or somewhere?”

“On leave — going down to the country tomorrow.”

“Hope you have as much fun on it as I’ve had on mine,” he said.

He seemed totally unaware that, among members of Priscilla’s family — myself, for example — conventional reservations might exist regarding the part he was at that moment playing; that at least they might not wish to hear rubbed in what an enjoyable time he had been having as her lover. All the same, shamelessness of any kind, perhaps rightly, always exacts a certain respect. Lovell himself was no poor hand at displaying cheek. As usual, a kind of poetic justice was observable in what was happening.

“I suppose your destination is secret?”

“Don’t quote me, but there’s been a tropical issue.”

“Middle East?”

“That’s my opinion.”

“Might be the Far East.”

“You never know. I think the other myself.”

Until then Moreland had been sitting in silence, apparently unable, or unwilling, to cope with the changed composition of the party at the table. This awkwardness with new arrivals had always been a trait of his, and probably had little or nothing to do with the comparatively unfamiliar note struck by the personality and conversation of Stevens. A couple of middle-aged music critics he had known all his life might have brought about just the same sort of temporary stoppage in Moreland’s conversation. Later, he would recover; talk them off their feet. Now, this change took place, he spoke with sudden animation.

“My God, I wish I could be transplanted to the Far East without further delay,” he said. “I’d be prepared to be like Brahms and play the piano in a brothel — even play Brahms’s own compositions in a brothel, part of the Requiem would be very suitable — if I could only be somewhere like Saigon or Bangkok, leave London and the blackout behind.”

“A naval officer I talked to on a bus the other day, just back from Hong Kong, reported life there as bloody amusing,” said Stevens. “But look, Mr. Moreland, there’s something I must tell you before we go any further. Of course, I wanted to see Nicholas again, that was why I came over, but another pretty considerable item was that I had recognised you. I saw a chance of telling you personally what a fan of yours I am. Hearing your Tone Poem Vieux Port performed at Birmingham was one of the high spots of my early life. I was about sixteen, I suppose. You’ve probably forgotten Birmingham ever had a chance of hearing it, or you yourself ever came there. I haven’t. I’ve always wanted to meet you and say how much it thrilled me.”