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Authors: Anthony Price
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so much to gain ground as to win time in which to let the defenders get in position.
“David Audley was in the war, wasn’t he?” As of now, if the dialogue was going to go off at a tangent, it would be David Roche’s tangent.
“The last half, yes,” agreed Willis coolly, taking the change in his stride, his defenders ready. “He was in Normandy about the same time as I was, actually.”
“In an armoured regiment?”
“Yes. Yeomanry lot, dashing about the place in Cromwells, to the west of us—we were poor bloody infantry.”
“He did quite well, I gather?”
“He didn’t let the side down, no,” agreed Willis. “And they did have a pretty rugged time in that neck of the woods, the tank chaps—bad country for them, that bocage. Good anti-tank country—we’d have loved it. Badger had a bloody field day in it, with his PIAT! But of course they were on the receiving end, trying to push south, past Caumont towards Flers and Conde, to take the heat off the Yanks at the time of the break-out.” He smiled at Roche. “Lovely place for a holiday—marvellous food—but a rotten place from which to winkle hard-bitten Jerries with the Fuehrer’s stand-fast order in their pockets.” He paused, and nodded to emphasise his military judgement. “He did all right, did young David, even if he was a bit over-sized for his tank—he performed satisfactorily, anyway … And, more to the point, he survived, which in itself indicates a certain skill. Mere longevity is a considerable virtue, in peace as well as war, don’t you think?”
Stripped of all its verbiage, and allowing for the fact that the schoolmaster had a tongue like a cow-bell, there was more there than old soldierly memories. Willis had known exactly where his ward had gone into battle, and the long odds against his survival unscathed; and if it was all a gentle joke now, casually thrown off, it wouldn’t have been a joke then—no joke at all.
“There’s a lot to say for surviving, I agree.” He returned Willis’s smile. “But his father didn’t do so well there, did he!”
“Ah …” For one fraction of a second the change in direction caught Willis unprepared. “Yes … that is to say, no—he didn’t—“ The eyes clouded as the defences were adjusted “—though, again, perhaps it wasn’t altogether ill-timed, in so far as being killed can ever be considered well-timed—but Tacitus did say it of Agricola, after all— felix opportunitate mortis , and all that, eh?”
“What?” exclaimed Roche, totally outflanked.
“A charming fellow, Nigel Audley—quite delightful … manners, breeding, grace—and guts … everyone liked him, everyone admired him. Good-looking, and clever with it— the expectancy and rose of the fair state —he had that rare quality of perfection which prevented lesser mortals envying him his silver spoon, he was too far above the rest of us for that, we were simply grateful for knowing him—that’s the simple fact of it, David Roche.”
Roche was struck speechless by this panegyric: David Audley’s father was too impossibly good to be true.
Willis regarded him tolerantly. “Ah—I know what you’re thinking: de mortuis nil nisi bonum , and all that. But it’s not true, you can ask anyone who knew him, and every man-jack of them—and every woman too—will bear me out.”
Roche waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have run out of steam with surprising suddenness.
“He was killed in 1940, wasn’t he?”
“What?” Willis turned towards him, frowning. “Why do you persist in asking me questions to which you already know the answers?” he asked sharply.
And that was uncharacteristic too, thought Roche, taken aback by the sharpness. If the defences around David Audley were well-sited, those protecting his father were in even greater depth, and suspiciously so for such a paragon.
“Do you always ask your pupils questions they’re not sure of—or do you lead them from what they know
“David Audley was in the war, wasn’t he?” As of now, if the dialogue was going to go off at a tangent, it would be David Roche’s tangent.
“The last half, yes,” agreed Willis coolly, taking the change in his stride, his defenders ready. “He was in Normandy about the same time as I was, actually.”
“In an armoured regiment?”
“Yes. Yeomanry lot, dashing about the place in Cromwells, to the west of us—we were poor bloody infantry.”
“He did quite well, I gather?”
“He didn’t let the side down, no,” agreed Willis. “And they did have a pretty rugged time in that neck of the woods, the tank chaps—bad country for them, that bocage. Good anti-tank country—we’d have loved it. Badger had a bloody field day in it, with his PIAT! But of course they were on the receiving end, trying to push south, past Caumont towards Flers and Conde, to take the heat off the Yanks at the time of the break-out.” He smiled at Roche. “Lovely place for a holiday—marvellous food—but a rotten place from which to winkle hard-bitten Jerries with the Fuehrer’s stand-fast order in their pockets.” He paused, and nodded to emphasise his military judgement. “He did all right, did young David, even if he was a bit over-sized for his tank—he performed satisfactorily, anyway … And, more to the point, he survived, which in itself indicates a certain skill. Mere longevity is a considerable virtue, in peace as well as war, don’t you think?”
Stripped of all its verbiage, and allowing for the fact that the schoolmaster had a tongue like a cow-bell, there was more there than old soldierly memories. Willis had known exactly where his ward had gone into battle, and the long odds against his survival unscathed; and if it was all a gentle joke now, casually thrown off, it wouldn’t have been a joke then—no joke at all.
“There’s a lot to say for surviving, I agree.” He returned Willis’s smile. “But his father didn’t do so well there, did he!”
“Ah …” For one fraction of a second the change in direction caught Willis unprepared. “Yes … that is to say, no—he didn’t—“ The eyes clouded as the defences were adjusted “—though, again, perhaps it wasn’t altogether ill-timed, in so far as being killed can ever be considered well-timed—but Tacitus did say it of Agricola, after all— felix opportunitate mortis , and all that, eh?”
“What?” exclaimed Roche, totally outflanked.
“A charming fellow, Nigel Audley—quite delightful … manners, breeding, grace—and guts … everyone liked him, everyone admired him. Good-looking, and clever with it— the expectancy and rose of the fair state —he had that rare quality of perfection which prevented lesser mortals envying him his silver spoon, he was too far above the rest of us for that, we were simply grateful for knowing him—that’s the simple fact of it, David Roche.”
Roche was struck speechless by this panegyric: David Audley’s father was too impossibly good to be true.
Willis regarded him tolerantly. “Ah—I know what you’re thinking: de mortuis nil nisi bonum , and all that. But it’s not true, you can ask anyone who knew him, and every man-jack of them—and every woman too—will bear me out.”
Roche waited for him to continue, but he seemed to have run out of steam with surprising suddenness.
“He was killed in 1940, wasn’t he?”
“What?” Willis turned towards him, frowning. “Why do you persist in asking me questions to which you already know the answers?” he asked sharply.
And that was uncharacteristic too, thought Roche, taken aback by the sharpness. If the defences around David Audley were well-sited, those protecting his father were in even greater depth, and suspiciously so for such a paragon.
“Do you always ask your pupils questions they’re not sure of—or do you lead them from what they know
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