Dagner insisted they arrive at the Carlton well ahead of the time Ranklin thought was politely early. But this was typical of Dagner’s manner generally, and – Ranklin recalled – most Indian society. Out there, they clung to the manners and slang of twenty years ago, convinced that England had Gone To The Dogs and was gripped by fads and fashions that Ranklin had noticed, if at all, as mere ripples.
They ordered tea and Dagner insisted that a fresh pot be brought the moment Mrs Finn arrived. The tables were spaced for privacy even without the potted-palm jungle waving around them in the blast of fans that countered the unseasonable warmth.
Dagner said abruptly: “Am I right in thinking that the contract for Mr Sherring’s aeroplane has been agreed?”
“I think it gets signed tomorrow. Mrs Finn’s been handling the financial end.”
“I believe she understands money.” But Dagner said it without any implications; perhaps wives running an Indian household were also expected to understand money – though not in freight-car lots, as Corinna herself might have put it.
“And,” Ranklin said sombrely, “I presume the Senator now goes home to start his sabotage strike in Trieste.”
Dagner wore a smile of curiosity. “Are you concerned that he won’t be able to do it – or that he will, and it’ll get out of hand?”
“Getting out of hand.”
“Oh, I think Europe can absorb a little local squabbling.”
“Less than a year ago, I was tramping around the Greek mountains with a brigade of French 75’s.”
“But that was only a local war,” Dagner pointed out. “Though I know no war seems local when you’re fighting it. The Great Powers, led by ourselves, kept it so – and imposed a peace.”
“It brewed up again within weeks.”
“And again it was stopped from spreading. Perhaps you were too close to see how remarkable that was: after all these centuries, Europe realised it had the power to stop wars as well as start them. The Pax Britannica became a Pax Europa. I doubt we’ll ever stop local wars any more than we’ll stop crime. But a mature society can contain crime, not be destroyed by it.”
Ranklin was hunched over his teacup, brooding back to the winter roads of Greece. But the memory was useless; the front line taught you nothing about diplomacy and Big Causes. You were too concerned about where the next shell would land.
He sighed. “Perhaps. I still feel there’s a risk . . . Here she comes: we might ask her, she travels more than I do.”
Corinna had felt untypically self-conscious about meeting Ranklin’s new boss – of whom she’d only just heard anyway. She guessed that her suitability was on trial, which gave her the choice of being infuriated by their gall, or meekly going along with it for Ranklin’s sake. So she got privately furious in a speech which almost melted her dressing-table mirror, then put on a demure tea gown of pastel silk (she liked stronger colours) and a stupid little flowerpot hat (with her height, she preferred wide hats). She already had such clothes because she sometimes had to be demure as the daughter of Reynard Sherring. But this wasn’t helping any million-dollar deal, this was being demure as herself. Grrr.
At least the Carlton itself was familiar ground since she dropped in once or twice a week to see what other Americans were in town. The war scares of that summer had brought quite a turnover, sending some rushing home, bringing others rushing across to sniff the air for themselves. So she didn’t feel out of place, only out of sorts. But having gone so far, she warned herself, for God’s sake remember to behave as well. And as Ranklin and what must be Dagner rose to meet her, she switched on her smile.
The new man was tall – few men were much taller than herself – dark-eyed and with the hawk profile the English liked in their public men and heroes. His manner was somehow both shy and self-assured, as old-fashioned as his suit was brand new.
“Delighted to meet you, Major Dagner.” And hastening to reassure him: “Matt’s told me so little about you.” She realised that was wrong, got flustered, and made it worse with: “And of course he hasn’t told me what you do.”
She looked longingly at her cup of tea but daren’t touch it. It would rattle like dice.
Dagner’s polite smile was undisturbed. “Just potter about the War Office shuffling papers, along with Captain Ranklin. He’s been showing me the ropes.”
“Oh, yes. You’re, ah-” Was she even supposed to know he’d come from India? “-new to London. Are you settling down okay? I’m sorry – I don’t even know if you’re married?”
Damn, Ranklin thought, I should have warned her that his wife’s dead. But Dagner said calmly. “Yes, but my wife’s still on her way home. My posting was rather sudden: they shot me off on the first boat and left her to pack up our kit. The Army’s a very primitive society: we still let the women do all the work.”
Corinna laughed rather too loudly; Ranklin sat expressionless, but nobody seemed to notice. Then he thought: Of course, he must have married again, seven years is quite long enough. So he smiled too late, but luckily nobody noticed that, either. Corinna picked up her cup with a steady hand, sipped, and said: “So you’ve been with the Army in India. I remember now that Matt said.”
“I hope he didn’t say quite that. I belong to the Indian Army, the army raised there. The Army in India is just regular British units posted out there for a few years at a time. I believe Captain Ranklin – Matt – himself had a posting there.”
“All those Indian soldiers look terribly grand in the pictures.” She knew she was babbling, but now had to go on. “Was that what attracted you? – when you were younger, of course.”
“I just joined my Army, Mrs Finn – as Captain Ranklin did his. My family’s been in India for four generations. My great-grandfather fought at Mysore. But he reckoned Wellesley wouldn’t need his help tackling Napoleon so stayed out there. And as for it being grand, I’m afraid the British Army looks on us as poor relations. We’re even expected to live on our pay – the ultimate insult. So we don’t get the young sprigs of aristocracy, not in garrisons six weeks’ voyage from Piccadilly.”
“Do you miss them that much?”
“Somehow,” Dagner smiled, “we stumble on without. They’re prepared to accept our hospitality on attachment when some-thing’s happening, as it usually is in India, but they aren’t too keen on us cropping up in London to renew the acquaintance.”
Feeling quite at home now, Corinna frowned at Ranklin. “Did you behave like that?”
Before he could answer, Dagner said: “No, I absolve Gunners: they despise everybody quite indiscriminately. They see themselves as an oblique aristocracy quite on their own.”
“Not aristocracy,” Ranklin said. “Gods.”
She laughed freely, then said: “Yet for all that, you still talk of ‘coming home’. Which do you think of as home? – England or India?”
Dagner sat back to think, throwing one long leg over the other. He still wears boots, she noted, well made and beautifully polished, but not shoes. And although he was nowhere near old enough, she placed him in her father’s generation with its solid, dated manners and values. Of course, her father was really a buccaneer – but surely Dagner must also be one, in his own world.
He was saying: “D’you know? – it isn’t easy to say. Perhaps it should be the same thing, but it isn’t. When I’m here, I’m always startled at how seldom people think of India, compared with how much India thinks of England. And I confess that makes me feel a bit of a stranger. And, as it were, as one stranger to another, may I ask a question? Captain Ranklin and I were talking about war, a European war-”