“Actually it’s Tuesday,” Paxton told him, and put a lot of venom into it.
“Well, it’s still mutton,” O’Neill said, scratching.
The mess anteroom was a wooden hut with a big stone fireplace, a bar, a few sagging armchairs and sofas, and a table with a torn ping-pong net fixed to it. When Paxton went in, five officers were playing poker at this table. They ignored him until the hand had been played out; then one asked: “Bring any new records?”
Paxton, hands in pockets, balancing on the outside edges of his shoes, was looking at a piece of tailplane with a bullet holed German cross on it. The walls were hung with bits of aeroplane, and tattered posters from London theatres, a rugby ball dangling by its lace, a zebra skin, magazine pictures of can-can dancers, photographs of crashed aircraft already sepia with age. When nobody answered he turned and saw that the question was meant for him. “Records?” he said.
“For the gramophone, fathead.”
“Oh. No. No, I’m afraid not.”
A flicker of an eyebrow showed what the other man thought of that. Paxton went and sat in a corner and turned the pages of a magazine while he wondered how on earth he was supposed to bring gramophone records in a Quirk, and how on earth he was supposed to know that he ought to bring records in the first place.
More people came in. The bar got busy. Eventually someone tapped him on the knee. “Guess who’s turned up,” the adjutant said. He had shaved, and his face was shining with goodwill.
“Not Dexter,” Paxton said. “That would be a miracle.”
“No, no. The other chap. Chap you lost. Thought you lost. He’s turned up. Not lost at all.” Appleyard beamed. “Good news, isn’t it? Certainly deserves a drink.”
Paxton stood up. “It can’t be Wilkins. Wilkins is in hospital. It must be…” Paxton fished out a scribbled list of pilots’ names. “Must be Ross-Kennedy.”
“That’s the chap! He’ll be flying here tomorrow. Good news, isn’t it? I knew you were worried. Only natural.” They had reached the bar. “What’U you have, old boy?”
“But I saw him turn over.”
“Two whisky-sodas,” the adjutant ordered.
“He did a cartwheel, adj.” Paxton saw the light of cheerful ignorance in Appleyard’s eyes. “You know: the plane somersaulted, it went…” He demonstrated, rolling his hands around each other. “It must have been bust. He must have been bust. How can he fly it here tomorrow?”
“Beats me, old boy. I know absolutely damn-all about flying-machines. Simple soldier, me.” He gave Paxton his drink. “Cheers.” Half the adjutant’s whisky-soda disappeared. He sighed, and shut his eyes for a second. “There are twenty-six tropical diseases you can catch in the Gold Coast, did you know that? Twenty-six. The little bastards are still inside me, all twenty-six of them, all fighting each other for the privilege of laying me low, and the only medicine that keeps them at bay is this. My bloodstream is a battlefield that makes Gallipoli look like a football match.”
“It can’t be Ross-Kennedy, adj. Impossible.”
“See for yourself, old boy.” Appleyard took out a signal and showed him.
“Kellaway,” Paxton said. He pointed. “This says Kella-way’s coming.”
“So it does.” Appleyard took Paxton’s piece of paper and compared them. “Well, that settles it. I don’t know where you got your information but it looks pretty dud to me.”
Paxton took a swig of whisky-soda. It had been a strange and wearing day, and now everything felt unreaclass="underline" this junk-shop of an anteroom, these men who ignored him, the adjutant who made no sense. “I give up,” he said. “Ross-Kennedy was the chap we lost. What I mean is, he’s the chap we couldn’t find.”
Appleyard finished his drink. “It doesn’t say anything about that here,” he said, and winked confidentially. “Take it from me, old boy: the Army may not always get everything absolutely right but we rarely get anything completely wrong.”
A gong boomed. There was a general buttoning-up of tunics and finishing of drinks. Paxton went with the adjutant into the mess. This was simply a larger version of the anteroom, with a T-shaped table taking up most of the space. Appleyard, happily waving and calling greetings, went to the top of the T. Paxton almost followed him, but then had the sense to select a chair halfway up the longer table, the stem of the T. He stood behind the chair, uncertain whether grace would be said. Someone poked him in the ribs. “Your place, chummy,” said O’Neill, “is down there.” He pointed to the bottom of the table.
Paxton refused to turn his head. “I hope you’ve washed your hands,” he said stiffly. “You never know where they’ve been.” He found himself looking at Goss, standing opposite. “New boys start at the bottom,” Goss said. “Push off, quick.”
The squadron commander was coming in, chatter was subsiding. Paxton moved. He was partly numb with embarrassment and partly twitching with rage. Someone stuck out a foot and he stumbled. Stifled laughter. When he reached his place at the foot of the table he gripped the chairback and squeezed it like a strangler while the padre said grace.
Only one man spoke to him during the meal. “See any good shows in London?”
“No,” Paxton said. “Pass the cheese.”
After dinner he went back to his billet. The sky was still light but he went to bed. At three o’clock he woke up. O’Neill was snoring. Paxton glared into the blackness for the best, or worst, part of an hour. He felt lonely and miserable, and he was not looking forward to tomorrow, except that it would put an end to O’Neill’s snoring. He drifted into fantasies of putting an end to O’Neill, all of them brutal and bloody and hugely satisfying.
Fidler woke him at seven with a mug of tea. O’Neill’s bed was empty.
“I forgot to tell you about the mess table, sir,” Fidler said. “You come in at the bottom and you work your way up. That’s how it’s done here, sir. Don’t worry, it doesn’t take very long. You’ll be halfway up that table before you know it, sir.”
Paxton buried his nose in the mug and watched Fidler busying himself. He thought about moving up the mess table. Moving up quickly. “Why doesn’t it take very long?” he asked.
“Some people get posted. Other gentlemen sort of… drop out, sir.”
Paxton thought about that. “And how long has Mr. O’Neill been here?”
Oh… two months, sir.”
Paxton finished his tea and went off to shave. Now that he knew that nothing was permanent he felt better. Perhaps even O’Neill might drop out soon. Anything was possible. That was the great thing about war. The sun was bright, he had a marvellous appetite for breakfast. He felt much better. Soon he would go up and pot a Hun. That would show them.
Chapter 3
There were only four officers at breakfast, and O’Neill was not among them.
One man was in a dressing gown, the other three in shirt sleeves and tieless. Paxton, in tunic and tie, felt very dressed-up. They ignored him, each half-hidden behind a newspaper. He hesitated, wondering where to sit; then took a chance and sat opposite them. He recognised them from the previous night. The dressing-gowned man was a captain called Frank, the others were lieutenants known as Charlie, Spud and James.
The newspapers, he saw, were all yesterday’s editions. While he had taken five days to reach Pepriac, the Daily Mirror and Morning Post made the journey in one.