Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

“While-On-Active-Service-Absent-Without-Leave,” said Stevens, characteristically not allowing her even for a second out of his power by disregarding the question. “Oh, come on, Brian, no hurry yet.”

The red-faced captain was firm.

“Got to find a taxi, for one thing. Besides, I’ve baggage to pick up.”

Stevens looked at his watch.

“I’ve got baggage too,” he said, “a valise and a kit bag and some other junk. Perhaps you’re right, Brian, and I’d do well to accompany you. Anyway it would halve the taxi fare.”

He rose from the table.

“Then I’ll be bidding you all good-bye,” he said.

“Do you really have to go?” said Mrs. Maclintick. “We’re just beginning to get to know you. Are you annoyed about something, like the girl you were with?”

In the course of her life she could rarely have gone further towards making an effort to show herself agreeable. It was a triumph for Stevens. He laughed, conscious of this, pleased at his success.

“Duty calls,” he said. “I only wish I could stay till four in the morning, but they’re beginning to shut down here as it is, even if I hadn’t a train to catch.”

We said good-bye to him.

“Wonderful to have met you, Mr. Moreland,” said Stevens. “Here’s to the next performance of Vieux Port on the same programme as your newest work — and may I be there to hear. Good-bye, Nicholas.”

He held out his hand. From being very sure of himself, he had now reverted a little to that less absolute confidence of the days when I had first known him. He was probably undecided as to the most effective note to strike in taking leave of us. It may at last have dawned on him that all the business of Priscilla could include embarrassments of a kind to which he had hitherto given little or no thought. The hesitation he showed possibly indicated indecision as to whether or not he should make further reference to her sudden withdrawal from the party. If, for a second, he had contemplated speaking of that, he must have changed his mind.

“We’ll be meeting again,” he said.

“Good-bye.”

“And Happy Landings.”

“Come on, Odo, you oaf,” said the red-faced captain, “cut out the fond farewells, or there won’t be a cab left on the street. We’ve got to get cracking. Don’t forget there’ll be all that waffle with the R.T.O.”

They went off together, slapping each other on the back.

“He’s a funny boy,” said Mrs. Maclintick.

Stevens had made an impression on her. There could be no doubt of that. The way she spoke showed it. Although his presence that night had been unwelcome to myself — and the other two at first had also displayed no great wish to have him at the table — a distinct sense of flatness was discernible now Stevens was gone. Even Moreland, who had fidgeted when Mrs. Maclintick had expressed regrets at this departure, seemed aware that the conviviality of the party was reduced by his removal. I said I should have to be making for bed.

“Oh, God, don’t let’s break it all up at once,” Moreland said. “We’ve only just met. Those others prevented our talking of any of the things we really want to discuss — like the meaning of art, or how to get biscuits on the black market.”

“They won’t serve any more drink here.”

“Come back to our place for a minute or two. There might be some beer left. We’ll get old Max out of bed. He loves a gossip.”

“All right — but not for long.”

We paid the bill, went out into Regent Street. In the utter blackness, the tarts, strange luminous form of nocturnal animal life, flickered the bulbs of their electric torches. From time to time one of them would play the light against her own face in self-advertisement, giving the effect of candles illuminating a holy picture in the shadows of a church.

“Ingenious,” said Moreland.

“Don’t doubt Maclintick would have found it so,” said Mrs. Maclintick, not without bitterness.

A taxi set down its passengers nearby. We secured it. Moreland gave the address of the flat where he used to live with Matilda.

“I’ve come to the conclusion the characteristic women most detest in a man is unselfishness,” he said.

This remark had not particular bearing on anything that had gone before, evidently giving expression only to one of his long interior trains of thought.

“They don’t have to put up with much of it,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “It’s passed me by these forty years, but perhaps I’m lucky.”

“How their wives must have hated those saintly kings in the Middle Ages,” Moreland said. “Still, as you truly remark, Audrey, one’s speaking rather academically.”

The taxi had already driven off, and Moreland was putting the key in the lock of the front-door of the house, when the Air-raid Warnings began to sound.

“Just timed it nicely,” Moreland said. “That’s the genuine article, not like the faint row when we were at dinner. No doubt at all allowed to remain in the mind. Are the flat’s curtains drawn? I was the last to leave and it’s the sort of thing I always forget to do.”

“Max will have fixed them,” said Mrs. Maclintick.

We climbed the stairs, of which there were a great number, as they occupied the top floor flat.

“I hope Max is all right,” she said. “I never like the idea of him being out in a raid. There’s bound to be trouble if he spends the night in a shelter. He’s always talking about giving the Underground a try-out, but I tell him I won’t have him doing any such thing.”

If Moreland was one of Mrs. Maclintick’s children, clearly Max Pilgrim was another. We entered the flat behind her. Moreland did not turn on the switch until it was confirmed all windows were obscured. In the light, the apartment was revealed as untidier than in Matilda’s day, otherwise much the same in outward appearance and decoration.

“Max …” shouted Mrs. Maclintick.

She uttered this call from the bedroom. A faint answering cry came from another room further up the short passage. Its message was indeterminate, the tone, high and tremulous, bringing back echoes of a voice that had twittered through myriad forgotten night-clubs in the small hours.

“We’ve got a visitor, Max,” shouted Mrs. Maclintick again.

“I hope there’ll turn out to be some beer left,” said Moreland. “I don’t feel all that sure.”

He went into the kitchen. I remained in the passage. A door slowly opened at the far end. Max Pilgrim appeared, a tall willowy figure in horn-rimmed spectacles and a green brocade dressing gown. It was years since I had last seen him, where, I could not even remember, whether in the distance at a party, or, less likely, watching his act at some cabaret show. For a time he had shared a flat with Isobel’s brother, Hugo, but we had not been in close touch with Hugo at that period, and had, as it happened, never visited the place. There had been talk of Pilgrim giving up his performances in those days and joining Hugo in the decorating business. Even at that time, Pilgrim’s songs had begun to “date”, professionally speaking. However, that project had never come off, and, whatever people might say about being old-fashioned, Pilgrim continued to find himself in demand right up to the outbreak of war. Now, of course, he expressed to audiences all that was most nostalgic. Although his hair was dishevelled — perhaps because of that — he looked at this very moment as if about to break into one of his songs. He moved a little way up the passage, then paused.

“Here you are at last, my dears,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. You must forgive what I’m looking like, which must be a perfect sight. I took off my slap before going to bed and am presenting you with a countenance natural and unadorned, something I’m always most unwilling to do.”