indeed upsetting, painful to a
degree. I tried to imagine what Stringham’s present existence must be like, but
could reconstruct in the mind only superficial aspects, those which least
disturbed, probably even stimulated him. I felt more than ever glad a week’s
leave lay ahead of me, one of those curious escapes that in wartime punctuate
army life, far more than a ‘holiday,” comparable rather with brief and magical
entries into another incarnation.
Widmeroool did not like anyone going
on leave, least of all his own subordinates. In justice
to this attitude, he appeared to treat his own leaves chiefly as opportunities
for extending freedom of contact with persons who might further his military
career, working scarcely less industriously than when on duty. I should be in
no position to criticise him in that respect, if General Liddament fulfilled
his promise in relation to this particular leave, during which I too hoped to
better my own condition. However, it was probable the General had forgotten
about his remarks during the exercise. The tactical upheaval which immediately
followed our talk would certainly have justified that. I had begun to wonder
whether I ought to remind him, and, if so, how this should be effected.
However, by the morning after the encounter with Stringham, I had still taken
no step in that direction; nor had I mentioned the meeting to Widmerpool, who
was, as it happened, in a peevish mood.
“When do you
begin this leave of yours?” he asked.
“To-morrow.”
“I thought it
was the day after.”
“To-morrow.”
“If you see
your relations, the Jeavonses, it’s as well for you to know their sister-in-law
staying as a paying guest in my mother’s cottage wasn’t a success. My mother
decided she’d rather have evacuees.”
“Has she got
evacuees?”
“She had some
for a short time,” said Widmerpool, “then they went back to London. They were
absolutely ungrateful.”
He talked of
his mother less than formerly, even giving an impression from time to time that
Mrs. Widmerpool’s problems had begun to irritate him, that he felt she was
becoming a millstone round his neck. Widmerpool had been on edge for several
days past owing to the Diplock affair turning out to be so
much more complicated than appeared on first examination. Diplock had brought
all his own notable powers of causing confusion to bear, darkening the waters
round him like a cuttlefish, so that evidence was hard to collect. Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson, for his part, made no secret of regarding Widmerpool’s attempted impeachment
of his chief clerk as nothing more nor less than a personal attack on himself.
Indeed, Widmerpool
could not have hit on a more wounding
method of revenging
himself on the Colonel, if his suspicions about Diplock were in due
course to be substantiated. On the other hand, there was likely to be trouble
if nothing more could be proved than that Diplock had been in the habit of keeping rather
muddled accounts. Greening, the General’s A.D.C., came into the D.A.A.G.’s room
at that moment. He
handed me a small slip of paper.
“His Nibs says
you know about this,” he said.
Greening,
although he blushed easily, was otherwise totally unselfconscious. He was
inclined to express himself in a curious, outdated schoolboy slang that sounded
as if it had been picked up from some favourite book in childhood. Probably
this habit appealed to General Liddament’s taste for a touch of the exotic in
his entourage. He may even have encouraged Greening in vagaries of speech, an
extension of his own Old English. The piece of paper was inscribed with the
typewritten words “Major L. Finn, V.C.,” followed by the name of a Territorial
regiment and a telephone number. I saw I had underrated General Liddament’s
capacity for detail.
“Not much he forgets
about,” said Greening, with artless curiosity. “What is it?”
A.D.C.s are a
category of officer usually disparaged in Popular scrutiny of military
degree. I tried to imagine what Stringham’s present existence must be like, but
could reconstruct in the mind only superficial aspects, those which least
disturbed, probably even stimulated him. I felt more than ever glad a week’s
leave lay ahead of me, one of those curious escapes that in wartime punctuate
army life, far more than a ‘holiday,” comparable rather with brief and magical
entries into another incarnation.
Widmeroool did not like anyone going
on leave, least of all his own subordinates. In justice
to this attitude, he appeared to treat his own leaves chiefly as opportunities
for extending freedom of contact with persons who might further his military
career, working scarcely less industriously than when on duty. I should be in
no position to criticise him in that respect, if General Liddament fulfilled
his promise in relation to this particular leave, during which I too hoped to
better my own condition. However, it was probable the General had forgotten
about his remarks during the exercise. The tactical upheaval which immediately
followed our talk would certainly have justified that. I had begun to wonder
whether I ought to remind him, and, if so, how this should be effected.
However, by the morning after the encounter with Stringham, I had still taken
no step in that direction; nor had I mentioned the meeting to Widmerpool, who
was, as it happened, in a peevish mood.
“When do you
begin this leave of yours?” he asked.
“To-morrow.”
“I thought it
was the day after.”
“To-morrow.”
“If you see
your relations, the Jeavonses, it’s as well for you to know their sister-in-law
staying as a paying guest in my mother’s cottage wasn’t a success. My mother
decided she’d rather have evacuees.”
“Has she got
evacuees?”
“She had some
for a short time,” said Widmerpool, “then they went back to London. They were
absolutely ungrateful.”
He talked of
his mother less than formerly, even giving an impression from time to time that
Mrs. Widmerpool’s problems had begun to irritate him, that he felt she was
becoming a millstone round his neck. Widmerpool had been on edge for several
days past owing to the Diplock affair turning out to be so
much more complicated than appeared on first examination. Diplock had brought
all his own notable powers of causing confusion to bear, darkening the waters
round him like a cuttlefish, so that evidence was hard to collect. Colonel
Hogbourne-Johnson, for his part, made no secret of regarding Widmerpool’s attempted impeachment
of his chief clerk as nothing more nor less than a personal attack on himself.
Indeed, Widmerpool
could not have hit on a more wounding
method of revenging
himself on the Colonel, if his suspicions about Diplock were in due
course to be substantiated. On the other hand, there was likely to be trouble
if nothing more could be proved than that Diplock had been in the habit of keeping rather
muddled accounts. Greening, the General’s A.D.C., came into the D.A.A.G.’s room
at that moment. He
handed me a small slip of paper.
“His Nibs says
you know about this,” he said.
Greening,
although he blushed easily, was otherwise totally unselfconscious. He was
inclined to express himself in a curious, outdated schoolboy slang that sounded
as if it had been picked up from some favourite book in childhood. Probably
this habit appealed to General Liddament’s taste for a touch of the exotic in
his entourage. He may even have encouraged Greening in vagaries of speech, an
extension of his own Old English. The piece of paper was inscribed with the
typewritten words “Major L. Finn, V.C.,” followed by the name of a Territorial
regiment and a telephone number. I saw I had underrated General Liddament’s
capacity for detail.
“Not much he forgets
about,” said Greening, with artless curiosity. “What is it?”
A.D.C.s are a
category of officer usually disparaged in Popular scrutiny of military
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