Anthony Powell - Soldier's Art

He certainly appeared pale as death. I had thought at first he was merely looking much older than I remembered. Now I accepted as explanation what he had said about lack of make-up. I noticed, too, that his right hand was bandaged. The voice was fainter than usual. He looked uncertainly at me, disguised in uniform. I explained I was Hugo’s brother-in-law; that we had met once or twice the past. Pilgrim took my right hand in his left.

“My dear …”

“How are you?”

“I’ve been having a most unenjoyable evening,” he said.

He did not at once release my hand. For some reason I felt a sudden lack of ease, an odd embarrassment, even apprehension, although absolutely accustomed to the rather unduly fervent social manner he was employing. I tried to withdraw from his grasp, but he held on tenaciously, almost as if he were himself requiring actual physical support.

“We hoped you were coming on from the Madrid to join us at dinner,” I said. “Hugh tells me you were doing some of the real old favourites there.”

“I was.”

“Did you leave the Madrid too late?”

Then Max Pilgrim let go my hand. He folded his arms. His eyes were fixed on me. Although no longer linked to him by his own grasp, I continued to feel indefinably uncomfortable.

“You knew the Madrid?” he asked.

“I’ve been there — not often.”

“But enjoyed yourself there?”

“Always.”

“You’ll never do that again.”

“Why not?”

‘The Madrid is no more,” he said.

“Finished?”

“Finished.”

The season or just your act?”

The place — the building — the tables and chairs — the dance-floor — the walls — the ceiling — all those gold pillars. A bomb hit the Madrid full pitch this evening.”

“Max …”

Mrs. Maclintick let out a cry. It was a reasonable moment to give expression to a sense of horror. Moreland had come into the passage from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of beer and three glasses. He stood for a moment, saying nothing; then we all went into the sitting-room. Pilgrim at once took the arm-chair. He nursed his bound hand, rocking himself slowly forward and back.

“In the middle of my act,” he said. “It was getting the bird in a big way. Never experienced the like before, even on tour.”

“So there was a blitz earlier in the evening,” said Moreland.

“There was,” said Pilgrim. “There certainly was.”

No one spoke for some seconds. Pilgrim continued to sit in the chair, looking straight in front of him, holding his wounded hand with the other. I knew there was a question I ought to ask, but felt almost physically inhibited from forming the words. In the end, Mrs. Maclintick, not myself, put the enquiry.

“Anybody killed?”

Pilgrim nodded.

“Many?”

Pilgrim nodded again.

“Helped to get some of them out,” he said.

“There were a lot?”

“Of course it’s a ghastly muddle on these occasions,” he said. “Frenzied. Like Dante’s Inferno. All in the black-out too. The wardens and I carried out six or seven at least. Must have. They’d all had it. I knew some of them personally. Nasty business, I can assure you. I suppose a few got away with it — like myself. They tried to persuade me to go with them and have some treatment, but after I’d had my hand bound up, all I wanted was home, sweet home. It’s only a scratch, so I came back and tucked up. But I’m glad you’re all here. Very glad.”

There was no escape now. So far as possible, certainty had to be established. An effort must be made.

“Bijou Ardglass was there with a party.”

Pilgrim looked at me with surprise.

“You knew that?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Were you asked? If so, you were lucky to have another engagement.”

“They were —”

“Bijou’s table was just where it came through the ceiling.”

“So —”

“I’m afraid it was Bijou’s last party.”

Pilgrim glanced away, quickly passing the bandaged hand across his eyes. It was an instinctive, not in the least dramatised, gesture.

“But the rest of them?”

“No one survived from that corner. That was where the worst of the damage was done. My end of the room wasn’t so bad. That’s why I’m here now.”

“You’re sure all the Ardglass party —”

“They were the ones I helped carry out,” said Pilgrim.

He spoke quite simply.

“Chips Lovell —”

“He’d been at the table.”

Moreland looked across at me. Mrs. Maclintick took Pilgrim’s arm.

“How did you get back yourself, Max?” she asked.

“I got a lift on one of the fire-engines. Can you imagine?”

“Here,” said Moreland. “Have some beer.”

Pilgrim took the glass.

“I’d known Bijou for years,” he said. “Known her when she was a little girl with a plait trying to get a job in the chorus. Wasn’t any good for some reason. Can’t think why, because she had the Theatre in her blood both sides. Do you know, Bijou’s father played Abanazar in Aladdin when my mother was Principal Boy in the same show? Anyway, it all turned out best for Bijou in the end. Did much better as a mannequin than she’d ever have done on the boards. Met richer men, for one thing.”

There was a pause. Moreland cleared his throat uncomfortably. Mrs. Maclintick sniffed. In the far distance, unexpectedly soon, the All Clear droned. It was followed, an instant later, by a more local siren.

“That one didn’t take long,” Moreland said.

“Another tip-and-run raider,” said Pilgrim. “The fashion of the moment.”

“It was a single plane caught the Madrid?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll make some tea,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Do us good.”

“Just what I need, Audrey, my dear,” said Pilgrim, sighing. “I couldn’t think what it was. Now I know it’s tea — not beer at all.”

He drank the beer all the same. Mrs. Maclintick went off to the kitchen. It became clear that an unpleasant duty must be performed. There was no avoiding it. Priscilla would have to be told about the Madrid as soon as possible. If I called up the Jeavonses’ house right away, the telephone, with any luck, would be answered by Molly Jeavons herself. I could tell her what had happened. She could break the news. So far as that went, even to make the announcement to Molly would be bad enough. It might be hard on her to have to tell Priscilla, but at least Molly was, by universal consent, a person adapted by nature to such harrowing tasks; warm-hearted, not over sensitive, grasping immediately the needs of the bereaved, saying just what was required, emotional yet never incapacitated by emotion. Molly, if I were lucky, would do the job. There was always the chance Priscilla herself flight be at the other end of the line. That was a risk that had to be taken into consideration. In a cowardly way, I delayed action until Mrs. Maclintick had returned with the tea. After finishing a cup, I asked if I might use the telephone.

“By the bed,” said Moreland.

Pilgrim began to muse aloud.

“Strange those young Germans up there trying to kill me,” he murmured to himself. “Ungrateful too. I’ve always had such good times in Berlin.”

The bedroom was more untidy than would ever have been allowed in Matilda’s day. I sat on the edge of the bed and dialled the Jeavons number. There was no buzz. I tried again. After several unsuccessful attempts, none of which even achieved the “number obtainable” sound, I rang the Exchange. There were further delays. Then the operator tried the Jeavons number. That, too, was unproductive. No sound of ringing came. The line was out of order. I gave it up and returned to the sitting-room.