The military philosophers by Anthony Powell Page B

’em in the house – a very different matter. Look what they do to your clothes, apart from anything else. I started without butlers and I’ll die without butlers, no less a happy man. There’s the bell. No butler, so I’ll answer it myself. Probably some of the pals from my ARP dump.’
    He went off down the stairs. After the bomb damage, the house had been shored up to prevent collapse, but no interior renovation had taken place. A long, jagged crack still zigzagged across one of the walls, which were in many places covered with large brown patches, like maps showing physical features, or the rather daring ornamental designs of a modernistic decorator. All the pictures, even the Moroccan pastels, had been removed, as well as the Oriental bowls and jars that used to clutter the drawing-room. A snapshot of Molly, wearing a Fair Isle jumper and holding Maisky in her arms like a baby, stood on the mantelpiece, curled and yellowing. Maisky, heedless of mortality, looked infinitely self-satisfied. Jeavons returned, bringing with him several ARP colleagues, male and female.
    ‘Room’s not looking very smart for a party,’ he said.
    A minute or two later Norah Tolland arrived. Her companion –  ‘girl-friend’, as Jeavons had termed her – turned out to be Pamela Flitton. Norah was in uniform, which suited her. She was, in general, more settled, more sure of herself than when younger, though on this particular occasion the presence of Pamela seemed to make her both elated and nervous.
    ‘Ted, I felt sure you wouldn’t mind my bringing Pam,’ she said. ‘She’s having dinner with me tonight. It seemed so much easier than meeting at the restaurant.’
    ‘Most welcome,’ said Jeavons.
    He looked Pamela over. Jeavons examining a woman’s points was always in itself worth observing. If good-looking, he stared at her as if he had never before seen anything of the kind, though at the same time determined not to be carried away by his own astonishment. Pamela justified this attention. She was wearing a neat black frock, an improvement on her battledress blouse. It was clear she had established over Norah an absolute, even if only temporary, domination. Norah’s conciliatory manner showed that
    ‘Have a drink?’ said Jeavons.
    ‘What have you got?’
    Pamela glanced aggressively round the room, catching my eye, but making no sign of recognition.
    ‘Gin-and-orange.’
    ‘No whisky?’
    ‘Sorry.’
    ‘I’ll have gin-and-water – no, neat gin.’
    I went across to her.
    ‘Escaped from the ATS?*
    ‘Got invalided.’
    ‘A lady of leisure?’
    ‘My job’s a secret one.’
    Jeavons took her lightly by the arm and began to introduce her to the other guests. She shook his hand away with her elbow, but allowed him to tell her the names of two or three persons who worked with him. When introductions were over, she picked up a paper from the table – apparently some not very well printed periodical – and took it, with her glass of gin, to the furthest corner of the room. There she sat on a stool, listlessly turning the pages. Norah, talking to Isobel, gave an anxious glance, but did not take any immediate steps to join Pamela, or try to persuade her to be more sociable. A talkative elderly man with a red face, one of the ARP guests, engaged me in conversation. He said he was a retired indigo planter. Jeavons himself went across the room and spoke to Pamela, but he must have received a rebuff, because he returned a second or two later to the main body of the guests.
    ‘She’s reading our ARP bulletin,’ he said.
    He spoke with more surprise than disapproval; in fact almost with admiration.
    ‘Read the poem in this number?’ asked the indigo planter. ‘Rather good. It begins “What do you carry, Warden dear?” Gives a schedule of the equipment – you know, helmet, gas-mask, First Aid, all that – but leaves out one item. You have to guess. Quite clever.’
    ‘Jolly good.’
    Norah, evidently not happy