Read Online The Charioteer by Mary Renault - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary Renault
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religion, what they’ve been brought up to, same as what the Catholics are.”
“But if—” began Laurie. His knee, which had been aching dully, like a sprain, had begun to ache fiercely, like a burn. Growing cross, he said, “Don’t look now, but it’s supposed to be our religion too, when there isn’t a war on.”
“If you’ll excuse me saying so, Odell, you’re apt to be a bit too easygoing. Suppose we had Hitler here, and all our kiddies brought up to worship Valhalla and inform on us to the Gestapo. What about religion then?” Laurie perceived in Neames’s sallow face the old stresses of a fierce struggle and hard victory; it gave him, for a moment, almost distinction.
“Yes, that’s a point. Still—”
“Good old Spud,” said Reg with sudden awkward kindness; he had recognized the signs of pain and fatigue around Laurie’s eyes and mouth. “Argue the case for Jack the Ripper, he would.”
“What are you men doing still up?” The Sister, expecting trouble, had scented it from afar. “I know you’ve been helping outside, Odell, and thank you, but get along now. Barker, you’ve been here long enough to know the rule about sitting on beds.”
Laurie’s leg felt worse before it felt better. He lay trying to forget it, thumbing the pages of a dog-eared magazine. The unshaded electric bulbs revealed mercilessly the cement floors, the wooden lockers with their day’s burden of ash, orange peel, paper and foil.
Reg Barker, returning from a trip to the lavatory, jerked the thumb of his good hand at the outer door. “Them sods has moved in.”
“Which?” asked Laurie vaguely. “Oh, yes. Have they?”
“Just been out and seen them come up in a truck and move into the maids’ block. Proper lot of pansies, too.”
“Go on, Reg, it’s been dark for hours, you couldn’t tell if they were Zulus.”
“Wait till tomorrow and you’ll see, then. Same as what they will.”
“You know, Reg, let’s face it, we’re all a bit on edge here. We can do to take things quietly, for our own sakes.”
“Then why do they have to send the muckers here, as if we hadn’t got no feelings?”
“God knows, and some zombie at Whitehall. Still, why make it worse?”
“You know, Spud, it’s right for once what Neames said, you’re too easygoing by half. Why should they get away with it? Sitting safe on their backsides at home and taking our jobs.” A dark flush rose in his forehead. “There’s women that fall for that smarmy sort,” he said, “if they can talk posh.”
“Did you say taking our jobs? They’re welcome to mine in the kitchen. I say, Reg—before you get into bed, would you mind asking Sister if I can have some A.P.C.?”
“Knee playing up?” Reg leaned forward; the shape of his splint made him look as if he were preparing a savage blow. Anxious creases divided his brows.
“Nothing much. You were right, though. I did mess about on it a bit too long.”
“They got no business to have put you on that kitchen fatigue. I said all along.”
“Someone’s got to, with all you lucky people in arm splints.”
“Well,” said Reg with vicious emphasis, “from tomorrow on, those muckers can do it. And like it.”
Laurie looked ingenuously up at him. “So they can. I shan’t be sorry, I must say.”
It was not one of his good nights. He was awake till the Night Sister gave him medinal at two. This sent him soundly off; so that a touch on his shoulder, waking him to light and clatter, filled him with impotent outrage. Dimly aware that the offending hand was not a nurse’s, he burrowed into the pillow and growled, “What the bleeding hell is it?”
“I’m sorry. If I can just take your temperature.”
Sudden recollection jerked Laurie awake. He looked up into a lean, austere face with a short grizzled beard. There was no doubt that the beard had a chin under it.
“Excuse my language,” he said uncomfortably. “I was half asleep.” He suppressed what he had meant to
“But if—” began Laurie. His knee, which had been aching dully, like a sprain, had begun to ache fiercely, like a burn. Growing cross, he said, “Don’t look now, but it’s supposed to be our religion too, when there isn’t a war on.”
“If you’ll excuse me saying so, Odell, you’re apt to be a bit too easygoing. Suppose we had Hitler here, and all our kiddies brought up to worship Valhalla and inform on us to the Gestapo. What about religion then?” Laurie perceived in Neames’s sallow face the old stresses of a fierce struggle and hard victory; it gave him, for a moment, almost distinction.
“Yes, that’s a point. Still—”
“Good old Spud,” said Reg with sudden awkward kindness; he had recognized the signs of pain and fatigue around Laurie’s eyes and mouth. “Argue the case for Jack the Ripper, he would.”
“What are you men doing still up?” The Sister, expecting trouble, had scented it from afar. “I know you’ve been helping outside, Odell, and thank you, but get along now. Barker, you’ve been here long enough to know the rule about sitting on beds.”
Laurie’s leg felt worse before it felt better. He lay trying to forget it, thumbing the pages of a dog-eared magazine. The unshaded electric bulbs revealed mercilessly the cement floors, the wooden lockers with their day’s burden of ash, orange peel, paper and foil.
Reg Barker, returning from a trip to the lavatory, jerked the thumb of his good hand at the outer door. “Them sods has moved in.”
“Which?” asked Laurie vaguely. “Oh, yes. Have they?”
“Just been out and seen them come up in a truck and move into the maids’ block. Proper lot of pansies, too.”
“Go on, Reg, it’s been dark for hours, you couldn’t tell if they were Zulus.”
“Wait till tomorrow and you’ll see, then. Same as what they will.”
“You know, Reg, let’s face it, we’re all a bit on edge here. We can do to take things quietly, for our own sakes.”
“Then why do they have to send the muckers here, as if we hadn’t got no feelings?”
“God knows, and some zombie at Whitehall. Still, why make it worse?”
“You know, Spud, it’s right for once what Neames said, you’re too easygoing by half. Why should they get away with it? Sitting safe on their backsides at home and taking our jobs.” A dark flush rose in his forehead. “There’s women that fall for that smarmy sort,” he said, “if they can talk posh.”
“Did you say taking our jobs? They’re welcome to mine in the kitchen. I say, Reg—before you get into bed, would you mind asking Sister if I can have some A.P.C.?”
“Knee playing up?” Reg leaned forward; the shape of his splint made him look as if he were preparing a savage blow. Anxious creases divided his brows.
“Nothing much. You were right, though. I did mess about on it a bit too long.”
“They got no business to have put you on that kitchen fatigue. I said all along.”
“Someone’s got to, with all you lucky people in arm splints.”
“Well,” said Reg with vicious emphasis, “from tomorrow on, those muckers can do it. And like it.”
Laurie looked ingenuously up at him. “So they can. I shan’t be sorry, I must say.”
It was not one of his good nights. He was awake till the Night Sister gave him medinal at two. This sent him soundly off; so that a touch on his shoulder, waking him to light and clatter, filled him with impotent outrage. Dimly aware that the offending hand was not a nurse’s, he burrowed into the pillow and growled, “What the bleeding hell is it?”
“I’m sorry. If I can just take your temperature.”
Sudden recollection jerked Laurie awake. He looked up into a lean, austere face with a short grizzled beard. There was no doubt that the beard had a chin under it.
“Excuse my language,” he said uncomfortably. “I was half asleep.” He suppressed what he had meant to
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