for-rt, sir, while I take the man Prayle to the canteen?”
“Duty clerk, too, am I?” protested a voice from the office. “All right. And I’d like to see him when he’s cleaned up and had a drink.”
“A verra good skipper!” said the sergeant. “But he canna see that a man wants his rations at six o’clock and not at the godless hours when he eats himself. Drink, says
he! Well, I gie ye a drink, but it’s food ye’re wanting.”
He injected a swift and powerful whisky into Prayle, and then led him round the back of the building into the Y.M.C.A. canteen.
When Prayle returned to the billet, he found three weary N.C.O.’s sitting around and talking shop. MacKinnon was hammering on his typewriter and joining in the conversation. The kitten was
tearing to pieces a dog-sized joint of beef. The stove was lit and there was a proper army fug, for Jerusalem evenings were cold to those who had come up from the coast or the Dead Sea. Prayle
recognised the authentic, tense and easy atmosphere of his service.
The sergeant entered the C.O.’s office and gave him a cracking regimental salute. It was always best to be on the safe side with unknown officers. Captain Fairfather looked up and grinned
appreciatively, faint amusement in his eyes suggesting that he accepted this tribute from one amateur soldier to another at its full worth as evidence of good manners. He was middle-aged, bald,
with a spare face, deeply lined. He would have given the impression of a lean, regular officer if it had not been for an air of being continuously entertained at finding himself an officer at
all.
“Pull up a chair, Sergeant,” he said, “and tell me all about it. How did you get here?”
“A lift to Ras Naqura, sir, and then on with the Palestine police.”
“Ah! So you know some of our problems already.”
Prayle smiled in silence, not knowing whether he was intended to take this remark in the sense he preferred.
“Well, now—Armande Herne. A soldier’s dream, Sergeant. I don’t say for all of us, but—it’s a long way from home, and we’ve been here a long time. And
when you get an Englishwoman of undoubted charm … Undoubted! Though perhaps a little self-conscious. What do you think?”
“Kensington, sir. She can’t get over it.”
“With long legs like that? You’re unjust, Sergeant Prayle. There’s more than a touch of Mayfair in her. Do you remember,” he added dreamily, “the legs one used to
see in Bond Street between midday and lunch? The feet, of course, enormous, so that one felt that shade of pity which is so dangerous when combined with admiration. And those faces of studied
melancholy. But I suppose, after all, that most of them came from Kensington. We must not abuse Kensington.”
“No hawkers or circulars,” Prayle explained bitterly.
“Nonsense! Really, you don’t understand her a bit. You’re impatient with her just because she cultivates the society of colonels. Some of them are quite intelligent, and they
like to be reminded of those quiet squares of Kensington. She dances beautifully, too. She should with those legs.”
Prayle did not reply. He resented conversation about Armande’s legs.
“Her face,” said Captain Fairfather, “is altogether too spiritual for me. Very hard to live up to. Hard for herself, too, perhaps. Yes, now I see why you find something
artificial in her—” He leaned forward, and his eyes, though they did not cease to twinkle amiably, lit with a hard interest. “Sergeant, if that young woman isn’t straight,
she’s dangerous. She’s just exactly what we all miss.”
“Isn’t she straight, sir?”
“I thought so. But I only have what Captain Wyne told me in his letter—that you know her better than any of us and want to ask her some questions about missing arms. Funny
word—missing. Down here we either steal arms or buy ’em. Which did she do?”
“Just among those present.”
“Well, go easy on her. It’s quite preposterous
“Duty clerk, too, am I?” protested a voice from the office. “All right. And I’d like to see him when he’s cleaned up and had a drink.”
“A verra good skipper!” said the sergeant. “But he canna see that a man wants his rations at six o’clock and not at the godless hours when he eats himself. Drink, says
he! Well, I gie ye a drink, but it’s food ye’re wanting.”
He injected a swift and powerful whisky into Prayle, and then led him round the back of the building into the Y.M.C.A. canteen.
When Prayle returned to the billet, he found three weary N.C.O.’s sitting around and talking shop. MacKinnon was hammering on his typewriter and joining in the conversation. The kitten was
tearing to pieces a dog-sized joint of beef. The stove was lit and there was a proper army fug, for Jerusalem evenings were cold to those who had come up from the coast or the Dead Sea. Prayle
recognised the authentic, tense and easy atmosphere of his service.
The sergeant entered the C.O.’s office and gave him a cracking regimental salute. It was always best to be on the safe side with unknown officers. Captain Fairfather looked up and grinned
appreciatively, faint amusement in his eyes suggesting that he accepted this tribute from one amateur soldier to another at its full worth as evidence of good manners. He was middle-aged, bald,
with a spare face, deeply lined. He would have given the impression of a lean, regular officer if it had not been for an air of being continuously entertained at finding himself an officer at
all.
“Pull up a chair, Sergeant,” he said, “and tell me all about it. How did you get here?”
“A lift to Ras Naqura, sir, and then on with the Palestine police.”
“Ah! So you know some of our problems already.”
Prayle smiled in silence, not knowing whether he was intended to take this remark in the sense he preferred.
“Well, now—Armande Herne. A soldier’s dream, Sergeant. I don’t say for all of us, but—it’s a long way from home, and we’ve been here a long time. And
when you get an Englishwoman of undoubted charm … Undoubted! Though perhaps a little self-conscious. What do you think?”
“Kensington, sir. She can’t get over it.”
“With long legs like that? You’re unjust, Sergeant Prayle. There’s more than a touch of Mayfair in her. Do you remember,” he added dreamily, “the legs one used to
see in Bond Street between midday and lunch? The feet, of course, enormous, so that one felt that shade of pity which is so dangerous when combined with admiration. And those faces of studied
melancholy. But I suppose, after all, that most of them came from Kensington. We must not abuse Kensington.”
“No hawkers or circulars,” Prayle explained bitterly.
“Nonsense! Really, you don’t understand her a bit. You’re impatient with her just because she cultivates the society of colonels. Some of them are quite intelligent, and they
like to be reminded of those quiet squares of Kensington. She dances beautifully, too. She should with those legs.”
Prayle did not reply. He resented conversation about Armande’s legs.
“Her face,” said Captain Fairfather, “is altogether too spiritual for me. Very hard to live up to. Hard for herself, too, perhaps. Yes, now I see why you find something
artificial in her—” He leaned forward, and his eyes, though they did not cease to twinkle amiably, lit with a hard interest. “Sergeant, if that young woman isn’t straight,
she’s dangerous. She’s just exactly what we all miss.”
“Isn’t she straight, sir?”
“I thought so. But I only have what Captain Wyne told me in his letter—that you know her better than any of us and want to ask her some questions about missing arms. Funny
word—missing. Down here we either steal arms or buy ’em. Which did she do?”
“Just among those present.”
“Well, go easy on her. It’s quite preposterous
Similar Books
