He mumbled something and rose, holding out his hand. Exeter stood up also, to clasp it in an awkward grip.
"See you on Friday, old man!” Smedley said, nudging foot on foot.
"Good of you. Damned grateful."
By good luck, the formidable Miss Pimm was absent from her desk, probably having lunch, and Smedley walked away along the hall. He would have to change back into uniform if he expected to eat at the King's expense.
The big hall was almost deserted. Everyone must be in the mess.
Yes, the plan would have to be changed. Stringer was a nark, no question about it. Even if he was not quite low enough for the shot-while-trying-to-escape villainy, he was at least a nark. Exeter caught walking out the gate in a stolen uniform would be exposed as a scrimshanker and the jig would be up. Stringer thought the escape was going to happen on Friday morning, so it must happen sooner. Tonight!
Which was cutting things very fine indeed. Smedley must hare down to the village and phone Ginger to get the chariot fired up right away. How many hours would it take to drive from the West Country to Kent, even supposing the car did not break down completely or have too many bursts?
"Ah, there you are, sir! Been looking for you."
Smedley's eyes came back into focus, seeing the wan face of his roommate Rattray.
"Lieutenant?"
"Couple of visitors for you, sir."
Smedley turned to look, and caught a wave.
Alice Prescott! And Ginger Jones!
Oh, hell! That's torn it!
He put his good arm around Alice and kissed her cheek. Despite her astonishment she did not bite him. He could tell she was tempted, though. Quite a gal, Miss Prescott. He laid his stump across Ginger's shoulders and propelled both visitors toward the door.
"I say, darned good of you to come! You haven't eaten yet, have you? Let's trot down to the Black Dragon and grab a bite.” Then he had them outside.
It was raining and his greatcoat was upstairs. Oh, well.
"What was all that about, Captain Smedley?” Miss Prescott demanded as they walked down the driveway, footsteps crunching on the gravel.
"All what?"
"I have never been thrown out of a pub, but I imagine the sensation would be somewhat similar."
"Edward. He'll be brought through there in a couple of shakes, and seeing you two might rattle him."
"You've talked to him?” Ginger demanded.
"Yes. He's well."
"No amnesia?"
"No, he's in tip-top shape, actually."
What else could Smedley say? He's been to visit another world, where he has magical powers. The magic took him there because it was prophesied it would, and he was tricked into coming back by people who want to kill him, who happen to include the doctors here. And after that, of course, Smedley could explain that he was inclined to believe most of this. You'd look neat upon the seat of a straitjacket built for two....
"He's slinging it, then?” Ginger demanded.
"Ah, yes. Odd thing, though. Stringer, the surgeon, knew who he was! Met him at the Eton match, apparently. He's been covering for him. Old School Tie and all that."
The rain was merely a drizzle. The fresh air smelled wonderful, all leafy and earthy. They walked hurriedly, and Smedley told the Fallow part of the story. He left out the Olympus bit altogether. He was asked, of course. He hedged: “He just dropped a few hints."
By the time he had finished, they had reached the Black Dragon. It was a favorite outing for the walking wounded from Staffles, serving good English ale and quite respectable lunches. The lounge was packed with patients and visitors, of course, with more men waiting hopefully on the sidelines, but luckily a group vacated a small table right under Smedley's nose and he grabbed it. Before his claim could be disputed, Miss Prescott sat down and the challengers angrily withdrew.
"My favorite table!” Smedley said with satisfaction.
"I wish I knew how you do that,” Ginger muttered.
"Do what?"
"Never mind. A drink, Miss Prescott?"
She requested a sherry. Smedley ordered mild and bitter. Ginger went to fetch them.
Alice had changed very little. Her face had always been a little on the horsey side and still was, but not hard to smile at. Edward had been head over heels back in ‘14. She was not wearing a ring. How did she feel about Edward? How had she ever felt about him, for that matter? She was two or three years older. She was even older now, and Edward...
Recalling how oddly youthful Exeter still looked, Smedley suddenly recalled the remark about curing cavities in teeth. Was that why he still seemed young? He was still young? He had not aged at all on his other world. Hell's bells!
"Something wrong, Captain?” Miss Prescott inquired coldly.
He had been staring right through her. “No, nothing..."
Ginger laid a foaming tankard on the table; Smedley grabbed for it, cursed, switched arms, and drank. Son of a bachelor!
The fact was, he believed in Nextdoor and Olympus! That a man of twenty-one still had rosy cheeks was a very flimsy piece of evidence. Lots did, although lately they had been aging much faster than usual. But it was another piece in the puzzle. There had to be some explanation for that tropical tan turning up in Flanders.
"All they have left is the Melton Mowbray pie.” Ginger had brought a beer for himself, but was still standing.
"It's usually pretty fair,” Smedley said.
Alice nodded acceptance. Ginger went off to order lunches. Service was something else that had gone to hell since the war started. Now Smedley had his chance to hobnob with a girl and see how often he could make her smile.
"Having a good war, Miss Prescott?"
"You used to call me Alice."
"Horrid little bounder, wasn't I? You called me Spots, as I recall."
"And now I ought to call you Gongs! Well done! I hear you're going up to the palace for..."
Oh, God! His eye had begun to twitch. He leaned his face on his head to hide it. No good—he was starting a full-fledged attack of the willies. He wanted a drink, but he couldn't lift the beer with his stump, and ... Hell and damnation! He scrambled to his feet and blundered toward the door.
The cool rain helped. When the tears stopped and he could breathe again, he went back inside. The other two were quietly eating pork pie, discussing the terrible price of food in the shops. They did not say a word as he sat down again, ignoring him as if all grown men had hysterical fits all the time, perfectly normal. He did not try to apologize, for that would just set him off again.
What was the use, now? How could they trust anything he said after that performance? He struggled to cut the hard crust with a fork, keeping quiet in his misery. His companions made small talk across him. As they finished eating, the adjoining tables suddenly emptied and stayed that way. So it was time to talk about the business of the meeting, and he wondered if he could do even that much without foaming at the mouth.
"First,” Alice said, as matter-of-factly as if jailbreaks were all in her day's work, “we must get him out of Staffles. Second, we must get him up to London before they bring out the bloodhounds.” She had finished her food, but she was still nursing her drink. “And third we must find him a safe refuge so he can stay at liberty. Have I omitted anything?"
She glanced at Smedley. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"I think that's enough to be going on with.” Ginger was scratching at his beard. His expression suggested that he was wondering how he had ever managed to get himself involved in such lunacy.