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Authors: Alan Hackney
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said to Stanley. “He’s in with those appalling queers again.”
“Which one is Gilbert?” asked Stanley.
“That one, the musical one,” said Catherine.
“But he’s indistinguishable from the others.”
“ They don’t play the ’cello,” explained Catherine.
Gilbert came over and gave them a very large gin each.
“Catherine, how marvellous !” he said. “Who is this cute soldier? Stanley? Hullo, Stanley. That lovely rough material! So bold. So martial . I bet you have a wonderful time with all those other soldiers. Catherine, my dear, it’s been appalling . An absolute dégringolade. I’ve been chucked from the Central Symphony. Imagine! And what next but that that simply leprous Adrian broke my ’cello. Yes, broke it. Cut it up with a chopper and then simply vanished . Jealousy, of course. As you can imagine, he was livid over that sweet Pole.”
“Poor Gilbert!” said Catherine.
“It’s sweet of you,” said Gilbert, laying a hand on her arm, “but I’m resilient .”
“I don’t much care for it here, Kat,” said Stanley when Gilbert had gone. “Isn’t there anywhere else to go?”
“It’s exactly like this anywhere else, darling,” said Catherine.
*
When they got back to the flat a small party seemed to be in progress.
Herbert and his friend were filling up each other’s glasses with gin; two Canadian officers were singing quietly in one corner, while in another sat a genial middle-aged man repeating to himself in a puzzled tone: “Mr. Chairman—gentlemen. Mr. Chair man—gen’lemen.”
“Come in, come in,” said Herbert, handing Catherine a glass. “Meet my friend. He’s celebrating.”
“How do you do again,” said Catherine. “Who is he?”
“College Sid,” said Herbert. “These three other chaps were outside so we asked them in.”
“I’m completely charmed,” said College Sid, offering another glass. “And who is Fly-fornication Foster here, may I ask?”
“My brother Stanley,” said Catherine.
“Good evening,” said College Sid, flashing his spectacles at Stanley. “Where are you stationed, my dear chap? Foreign parts?”
“Gravestone,” said Stanley. “About forty miles away.”
“Grand,” said College Sid. “How are the Wogs? Friendly? I was in the Army once,” he added, toeing a bottle tidily under the sofa. “I finished up in the glasshouse . It all started with being on jankers. I really couldn’t be bothered answering that blessed trumpet thing they kept blowing.”
The middle-aged man in the corner raised his voice.
“Mr. Chairman—gen’lemen. I now propose a song. A song which will remind us all of the happy days of our childhood. It is entitled, I think, ‘Kelly Put the Bottle On’.”
He stared glassily for a second and then abruptly fell asleep.
“This is all very nice,” said Catherine to Stanley. “But I am going to bed.”
Within the hour the gin had run out and College Sid and Desmond were arguing fiercely about private property. The two Canadian officers had gone out to fight each other, and the middle-aged man had vanished.
Stanley found an iron bedstead in one of the rooms, assembled it and slept on it.
He woke suddenly at twenty-past five. All was quiet.
In the kitchen, however, sat College Sid, one trouser leg rolled up.
“Hullo, old boy,” he said, dabbing at a gash in his calf.
“What on earth’s that?” asked Stanley, alarmed at the size of it and the sight of blood.
“Some negro, old boy,” said College Sid. “I think I was on a table at the time. Extraordinary business.Are you looking for breakfast? What would you like?” He gazed round the shelves. “Cocoa? Oxydol? Robin starch? There doesn’t seem to be any food.”
“Are you staying here, then?” asked Stanley. “No, I’ll just have some orange juice. I’m having breakfast in the cookhouse at Woolwich.”
“Chacun à son gout,” said College Sid.
*
At Woolwich, Stanley’s corporal got out of the same train, and
“Which one is Gilbert?” asked Stanley.
“That one, the musical one,” said Catherine.
“But he’s indistinguishable from the others.”
“ They don’t play the ’cello,” explained Catherine.
Gilbert came over and gave them a very large gin each.
“Catherine, how marvellous !” he said. “Who is this cute soldier? Stanley? Hullo, Stanley. That lovely rough material! So bold. So martial . I bet you have a wonderful time with all those other soldiers. Catherine, my dear, it’s been appalling . An absolute dégringolade. I’ve been chucked from the Central Symphony. Imagine! And what next but that that simply leprous Adrian broke my ’cello. Yes, broke it. Cut it up with a chopper and then simply vanished . Jealousy, of course. As you can imagine, he was livid over that sweet Pole.”
“Poor Gilbert!” said Catherine.
“It’s sweet of you,” said Gilbert, laying a hand on her arm, “but I’m resilient .”
“I don’t much care for it here, Kat,” said Stanley when Gilbert had gone. “Isn’t there anywhere else to go?”
“It’s exactly like this anywhere else, darling,” said Catherine.
*
When they got back to the flat a small party seemed to be in progress.
Herbert and his friend were filling up each other’s glasses with gin; two Canadian officers were singing quietly in one corner, while in another sat a genial middle-aged man repeating to himself in a puzzled tone: “Mr. Chairman—gentlemen. Mr. Chair man—gen’lemen.”
“Come in, come in,” said Herbert, handing Catherine a glass. “Meet my friend. He’s celebrating.”
“How do you do again,” said Catherine. “Who is he?”
“College Sid,” said Herbert. “These three other chaps were outside so we asked them in.”
“I’m completely charmed,” said College Sid, offering another glass. “And who is Fly-fornication Foster here, may I ask?”
“My brother Stanley,” said Catherine.
“Good evening,” said College Sid, flashing his spectacles at Stanley. “Where are you stationed, my dear chap? Foreign parts?”
“Gravestone,” said Stanley. “About forty miles away.”
“Grand,” said College Sid. “How are the Wogs? Friendly? I was in the Army once,” he added, toeing a bottle tidily under the sofa. “I finished up in the glasshouse . It all started with being on jankers. I really couldn’t be bothered answering that blessed trumpet thing they kept blowing.”
The middle-aged man in the corner raised his voice.
“Mr. Chairman—gen’lemen. I now propose a song. A song which will remind us all of the happy days of our childhood. It is entitled, I think, ‘Kelly Put the Bottle On’.”
He stared glassily for a second and then abruptly fell asleep.
“This is all very nice,” said Catherine to Stanley. “But I am going to bed.”
Within the hour the gin had run out and College Sid and Desmond were arguing fiercely about private property. The two Canadian officers had gone out to fight each other, and the middle-aged man had vanished.
Stanley found an iron bedstead in one of the rooms, assembled it and slept on it.
He woke suddenly at twenty-past five. All was quiet.
In the kitchen, however, sat College Sid, one trouser leg rolled up.
“Hullo, old boy,” he said, dabbing at a gash in his calf.
“What on earth’s that?” asked Stanley, alarmed at the size of it and the sight of blood.
“Some negro, old boy,” said College Sid. “I think I was on a table at the time. Extraordinary business.Are you looking for breakfast? What would you like?” He gazed round the shelves. “Cocoa? Oxydol? Robin starch? There doesn’t seem to be any food.”
“Are you staying here, then?” asked Stanley. “No, I’ll just have some orange juice. I’m having breakfast in the cookhouse at Woolwich.”
“Chacun à son gout,” said College Sid.
*
At Woolwich, Stanley’s corporal got out of the same train, and
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