Read Online The Chequer Board by Nevil Shute - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nevil Shute
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conscription for women and she had to get a job.” He turned to her. “You remember, we went to see ‘Smile Sweetly, Lady’? The chambermaid—she hadn’t got much to do.”
Mollie nodded. “Irene Morton wore a lovely pyjama suit. You remember them pyjamas? Ever so lovely they were. Silly sort of play, though. We went on and had dinner at Frascati’s. Remember?”
“Aye,” said Mr Turner thoughtfully. “Good evening, that one.”
He glanced at her. “I sort of worried more about Phil Morgan than either of the others,” he said. “He was married to a bitch that didn’t care a sausage for him. But a chap can butt his way through all that sort of trouble.”
He paused. “It was sort of—there was nothing to him, if you get me,” he said. “There he was, twenty-two years old, and not a thought in his head beyond the perishing aeroplanes. Might have been a kid of ten. Got himself in a bloody mess through marrying a bitch like that, and probably go on getting into mess after mess, unless he got killed in an aeroplane first. But I reckon he was too good for that. He was good at flying; the only thing he was good at. I dunno what would have become of a chap like that. He just knew nothing, absolutely nothing at all.”
His wife said, “Well, I dunno. People get more sense as they get older and get settled down in jobs. What about the nigger?”
“Aye,” said Mr Turner, “he was the last one. I wasmuch better when he got up. There was just the two of us left in the ward then, and the guard on the door just the same.” He paused, and then he said, “Funny thing about that chap,” he said. “He didn’t talk like a nigger at all. He talked just like any other Yank soldier—better than most, maybe.”
“Pretty simple, I suppose,” she said. “I mean they don’t know much, do they? I don’t suppose you found much to talk about with him.”
“Well, I dunno,” he said. “We got along all right.”
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Was he a proper nigger, then?”
“Oh yes, he was a nigger all right. Sort of milk chocolate colour, he was, with black kinky hair. He’d got some white blood in him, I should think, but not a lot.” He paused. “Quite young, he was—only about twenty.”
By the time Turner was allowed out of bed, the screen had been taken away from around him and the whole of his face was uncovered. He still had a dressing on the wound, but he was sitting up in bed and taking notice of things. He had spoken once or twice to the Negro before, but their beds were on opposite sides of the room, and that made conversation difficult for Turner with his wounded head and for the Negro with the deep wound in his throat. It was not until Lesurier was up and in a dressing gown that they were able to approach each other sufficiently closely for easy talk.
Turner said, “How does it feel, now you’re up?”
The Negro said, “I don’t feel so good right now. Say,if I’d known that cutting your throat gave you septicaemia, I sure would have made a job of it.”
“Or else not done it at all,” said Turner.
The Negro paused for a moment in abstraction. “Well,” he said at last, “that would have been another way.” He turned to Turner. “Now I’m up and around, if you want anything, Cap’n, just say.”
“Righto,” said Turner, and went on reading his paper.
He could not read continuously at that time, or for very long; it made his eyes ache and he had to stop. The Negro also had a paper and copies of the “Stars and Stripes” and “Yank,” but most of the time he sat in sad, thoughtful abstraction in a wicker chair, or stood in silence looking out of the window at the pleasant, undulating Cornish country scene. In the middle of the afternoon Turner said, “What about a game of draughts? Can you play draughts?”
The other roused himself. “Surely, Cap’n.” He got up and fetched the board and the cardboard box that held the pieces. “You know,” he said, making
Mollie nodded. “Irene Morton wore a lovely pyjama suit. You remember them pyjamas? Ever so lovely they were. Silly sort of play, though. We went on and had dinner at Frascati’s. Remember?”
“Aye,” said Mr Turner thoughtfully. “Good evening, that one.”
He glanced at her. “I sort of worried more about Phil Morgan than either of the others,” he said. “He was married to a bitch that didn’t care a sausage for him. But a chap can butt his way through all that sort of trouble.”
He paused. “It was sort of—there was nothing to him, if you get me,” he said. “There he was, twenty-two years old, and not a thought in his head beyond the perishing aeroplanes. Might have been a kid of ten. Got himself in a bloody mess through marrying a bitch like that, and probably go on getting into mess after mess, unless he got killed in an aeroplane first. But I reckon he was too good for that. He was good at flying; the only thing he was good at. I dunno what would have become of a chap like that. He just knew nothing, absolutely nothing at all.”
His wife said, “Well, I dunno. People get more sense as they get older and get settled down in jobs. What about the nigger?”
“Aye,” said Mr Turner, “he was the last one. I wasmuch better when he got up. There was just the two of us left in the ward then, and the guard on the door just the same.” He paused, and then he said, “Funny thing about that chap,” he said. “He didn’t talk like a nigger at all. He talked just like any other Yank soldier—better than most, maybe.”
“Pretty simple, I suppose,” she said. “I mean they don’t know much, do they? I don’t suppose you found much to talk about with him.”
“Well, I dunno,” he said. “We got along all right.”
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Was he a proper nigger, then?”
“Oh yes, he was a nigger all right. Sort of milk chocolate colour, he was, with black kinky hair. He’d got some white blood in him, I should think, but not a lot.” He paused. “Quite young, he was—only about twenty.”
By the time Turner was allowed out of bed, the screen had been taken away from around him and the whole of his face was uncovered. He still had a dressing on the wound, but he was sitting up in bed and taking notice of things. He had spoken once or twice to the Negro before, but their beds were on opposite sides of the room, and that made conversation difficult for Turner with his wounded head and for the Negro with the deep wound in his throat. It was not until Lesurier was up and in a dressing gown that they were able to approach each other sufficiently closely for easy talk.
Turner said, “How does it feel, now you’re up?”
The Negro said, “I don’t feel so good right now. Say,if I’d known that cutting your throat gave you septicaemia, I sure would have made a job of it.”
“Or else not done it at all,” said Turner.
The Negro paused for a moment in abstraction. “Well,” he said at last, “that would have been another way.” He turned to Turner. “Now I’m up and around, if you want anything, Cap’n, just say.”
“Righto,” said Turner, and went on reading his paper.
He could not read continuously at that time, or for very long; it made his eyes ache and he had to stop. The Negro also had a paper and copies of the “Stars and Stripes” and “Yank,” but most of the time he sat in sad, thoughtful abstraction in a wicker chair, or stood in silence looking out of the window at the pleasant, undulating Cornish country scene. In the middle of the afternoon Turner said, “What about a game of draughts? Can you play draughts?”
The other roused himself. “Surely, Cap’n.” He got up and fetched the board and the cardboard box that held the pieces. “You know,” he said, making
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