Read Online The Valley of Bones by Anthony Powell - Free Book Online Page B

entered the Company Office daily was to mark each item with the
date in the inked letters of the Company’s rubber-stamp, himself initialling
the centre of its circular mauve impression. He would treat the most trivial
printed matter in this way, often wryly smiling as he remarked: ‘This becomes a
habit.’ The click of the instrument on an official document, together with his
own endorsement ‘R. G.’ – written with a flourish – seemed to give him a
feeling of having settled that matter once and for all, a faint but distinct
sense of absolute power. If classified as ‘Secret’ or ‘Confidential’, the stuff
was put in a large cashbox, of which Gwatkin himself kept the key. The Company’s
‘Imprest Account’ was locked away in this box, together with all sorts of other
papers which had taken Gwatkin’s fancy as important. The box itself was kept in
a green steel cupboard, the shape of a wardrobe, also locked, though its key
was considered less sacred than that of the cashbox.
    ‘Are you sure I put it in the box?’
    ‘Pretty sure.’
    ‘Codewords are vital.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘I’d better make certain.’
    He put on a greatcoat over his
pyjamas, because the nights were still fairly cold. Then he began fumbling
about with the keys, opening the cupboard and bringing out the cash-box. There
was not much room in the Company Office at the best of time, when both beds
were erected, scarcely any space at all in which to operate, so that the foot
of my own bed was the only convenient ledge on which to rest the box while
Gwatkin went through its contents. He began to sort out the top layer of
papers, arranging them in separate piles over the foot of my bed, all over my
greatcoat, which was serving as eiderdown. I sat up in bed, watching him strew my legs with
official forms and instructional leaflets of one kind or another. He dealt them
out with great care, as if diverting himself with some elaborate form of
Patience, military pamphlets doing duty for playing cards. The deeper he delved
into the cashbox, the more meticulously he arranged the contents. Among other
items, he turned out a small volume bound in faded red cloth. This book, much
tattered, was within reach. I picked it up. Opening at the fly-leaf: I read: R.
Gwatkin, Capt.’, together with the designation of the Regiment. The title-page
was that of a pocket edition of Puck of Pook’s Hill. Gwatkin gave a sudden grunt. He had found whatever he was seeking.
    ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Thank God. I
remember now. I put it in a envelope in a special place at the bottom of the
box.’
    He began to replace the papers, one by
one, in the elaborate sequence he had ordained for them. I handed him Puck of Pook’s Hill. He took the book from me, still apparently
pondering the fearful possibilities consequent on failure to trace the
codeword. Then he suddenly became aware I had been looking at the Kipling
stories. He took the little volume from me, and pushed it away under a Glossary of Military Terms and Organization in the Field. For a
second he seemed a shade embarrassed.
    ‘That’s a book by Rudyard Kipling,’ he
said defensively, as if the statement explained something.
    ‘So I see.’
    ‘Ever read anything by him?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Read this one?’
    ‘Ages ago.’
    ‘What did you think of it?’
    ‘I liked it.’
    ‘You’ve read a lot of books, haven’t
you, Nick?’
    ‘I have to in my profession.’
    Gwatkin locked the tin box and
replaced it in the cupboard.
    ‘Turn the light out,’ he said. ‘And I’ll
take the blackout down again.’
    I switched out the light. He removed
the window boards. I heard him arranging the greatcoat over himself in the bed.
    ‘I don’t expect you remember,’ he
said, ‘but there’s a story in that book about a Roman centurion.’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘That was the one I liked.’
    ‘It’s about the best.’
    ‘I sometimes read it again.’
    He pulled the greatcoat higher over
him.
    ‘I’ve read