round the paddock.
“So-let-each-cavalier-who-loves-honour-and-me
Come-follow-the-bonnets-of-Bonny-Dundee …”
He curled his
wrists slightly, lifting them in the air as if holding reins. He seemed far
away, to have forgotten completely that we were talking. I wondered how sane he
remained. Then he came suddenly back to himself.
“… What was I
saying? Oh, yes, A. E. Housman, of course … not my favourite poet, as a matter
of fact, but that was just what happened … though I hasten to add I sleep with
the brave only in the sense of dormitory accommodation. To tell the truth,
Nick, I had the greatest difficulty in extracting the metaphorical shilling
from an equally metaphorical Recruiting Sergeant. No magnificent figure with a
bunch of ribbons in his cap, but several rather seedy characters in a stuffy
office drinking cups of tea. Even so, they wouldn’t look at me when I first
breezed in. Then the war took a turn for the worse, in Norway and elsewhere, and
they saw they’d need Stringham after all. One of the reasons I left the
R.A.O.C. is that they have a peculiarly trying warrant rank called Conductor – just
as if you were on a bus – so I made the exchange I spoke of. What a fascinating
place the army is. Before I joined, I thought all you had to do when you fired
a rifle was to get your eye and the sights and the target all in one line and
then blaze away. The army has produced a whole book about it, a fat little
volume. But my egotism is insufferable, Nick. Tell me about yourself. What have
you been doing? How are you reacting to it all? You look a trifle harassed, if
I may say so. Not surprising, working with Widmerpool.”
Stringham
himself looked ill, though not in the least harassed.
“On top of
everything else,” he said, “one’s getting frightfully old. Do you think I shall
qualify as a Chelsea pensioner after the war? I’d like one of those red
frockcoats, though I’ve never cared for Chelsea as a neighbourhood. No leanings
whatever towards bohemian life. However, one may come to both before one’s
finished – residence in Chelsea and a bohemian to boot. You know I’ve been
thinking a lot about myself lately, when scrubbing the floors and that sort of
thing – an activity for some reason I often find myself quite enjoying – and I’ve
come to the conclusion I’m narcissistic, mad about myself. That’s why my
marriage went wrong. I really was awfully glad when it was over.”
“Do you do
anything about girls now?”
“Seem to have
lost all interest. Isn’t that strange? You know how it is. My great amusement
now is trying to get things straight in my own mind. That takes me all my time,
as you can imagine. The more I think, the less I know. Funny, isn’t it? Talking
of girls, what happened to our old pal, Peter Templer? Do you remember how he
used to go on about girls?”
“Peter’s said
to have some government job to do with finance.”
“Not in the
army?”
“Not as far as
I know.”
“How like
Peter. Always full of good sense, in his own way, though many people never
guessed that at first. Married?”
“First wife
ran away – second one, he appears to have driven mad.”
“Has he?” said
Stringham. “Well, I daresay I might have driven Peggy mad, had we not gone our
separate ways. Talking of separate ways, I’ll have to be getting back to my
cosy barrack-room, or I’ll be on a charge. It’s late.”
“Won’t you
really dine one night?”
“No, Nick, no.
Better not, on the whole. I won’t salute, if you’ll forgive such informality,
as no one seems to be about. Nice to have had a talk.”
He moved away
before there was time even to say good night, walking quickly up the path
leading to the main thoroughfare. I followed at less speed. By the time I
reached the road at the top of the alley, Stringham was already out of sight in
the gloom. I turned again in the direction of F Mess. This reunion with an old
friend had been the reverse of enjoyable,
“So-let-each-cavalier-who-loves-honour-and-me
Come-follow-the-bonnets-of-Bonny-Dundee …”
He curled his
wrists slightly, lifting them in the air as if holding reins. He seemed far
away, to have forgotten completely that we were talking. I wondered how sane he
remained. Then he came suddenly back to himself.
“… What was I
saying? Oh, yes, A. E. Housman, of course … not my favourite poet, as a matter
of fact, but that was just what happened … though I hasten to add I sleep with
the brave only in the sense of dormitory accommodation. To tell the truth,
Nick, I had the greatest difficulty in extracting the metaphorical shilling
from an equally metaphorical Recruiting Sergeant. No magnificent figure with a
bunch of ribbons in his cap, but several rather seedy characters in a stuffy
office drinking cups of tea. Even so, they wouldn’t look at me when I first
breezed in. Then the war took a turn for the worse, in Norway and elsewhere, and
they saw they’d need Stringham after all. One of the reasons I left the
R.A.O.C. is that they have a peculiarly trying warrant rank called Conductor – just
as if you were on a bus – so I made the exchange I spoke of. What a fascinating
place the army is. Before I joined, I thought all you had to do when you fired
a rifle was to get your eye and the sights and the target all in one line and
then blaze away. The army has produced a whole book about it, a fat little
volume. But my egotism is insufferable, Nick. Tell me about yourself. What have
you been doing? How are you reacting to it all? You look a trifle harassed, if
I may say so. Not surprising, working with Widmerpool.”
Stringham
himself looked ill, though not in the least harassed.
“On top of
everything else,” he said, “one’s getting frightfully old. Do you think I shall
qualify as a Chelsea pensioner after the war? I’d like one of those red
frockcoats, though I’ve never cared for Chelsea as a neighbourhood. No leanings
whatever towards bohemian life. However, one may come to both before one’s
finished – residence in Chelsea and a bohemian to boot. You know I’ve been
thinking a lot about myself lately, when scrubbing the floors and that sort of
thing – an activity for some reason I often find myself quite enjoying – and I’ve
come to the conclusion I’m narcissistic, mad about myself. That’s why my
marriage went wrong. I really was awfully glad when it was over.”
“Do you do
anything about girls now?”
“Seem to have
lost all interest. Isn’t that strange? You know how it is. My great amusement
now is trying to get things straight in my own mind. That takes me all my time,
as you can imagine. The more I think, the less I know. Funny, isn’t it? Talking
of girls, what happened to our old pal, Peter Templer? Do you remember how he
used to go on about girls?”
“Peter’s said
to have some government job to do with finance.”
“Not in the
army?”
“Not as far as
I know.”
“How like
Peter. Always full of good sense, in his own way, though many people never
guessed that at first. Married?”
“First wife
ran away – second one, he appears to have driven mad.”
“Has he?” said
Stringham. “Well, I daresay I might have driven Peggy mad, had we not gone our
separate ways. Talking of separate ways, I’ll have to be getting back to my
cosy barrack-room, or I’ll be on a charge. It’s late.”
“Won’t you
really dine one night?”
“No, Nick, no.
Better not, on the whole. I won’t salute, if you’ll forgive such informality,
as no one seems to be about. Nice to have had a talk.”
He moved away
before there was time even to say good night, walking quickly up the path
leading to the main thoroughfare. I followed at less speed. By the time I
reached the road at the top of the alley, Stringham was already out of sight in
the gloom. I turned again in the direction of F Mess. This reunion with an old
friend had been the reverse of enjoyable,
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