Sword of Honor by Evelyn Waugh
“I suppose in wartime it’s only fair to share things equally.”
“Why? Less in wartime than ever I should have thought. As you say, the boy may be really hungry. If he wants ‘Glucose D’ why can’t I send it to him? Why can’t my son-in-law get foreigners to help? There’s a man in Switzerland who used to come and stay at Broome year after year. I know he’d like to help Tony. Why shouldn’t he? I don’t understand.”
Mrs. Tickeridge saw the gentle, bewildered old man gaze earnestly at her, seeking an answer she could not give. He continued:
“After all, any present means that you want someone to have something someone else hasn’t got. I mean even if it’s only a cream-jug at a wedding. I shouldn’t wonder if the Government didn’t try and stop us praying for people next.” Mr. Crouchback sadly considered this possibility and then added: “Not that anyone really needs a cream-jug and apparently Tony needs these things he asks for. It’s all wrong. I’m not much of a dab at explaining things, but I know it’s all wrong.”
Mrs. Tickeridge was mending Jenifer’s jersey. She darned silently. She was not much of a dab herself at explaining things. Presently Mr. Crouchback spoke again, from the tangle of his perplexities.
“And what is Brisko?”
“Brisko?”
“And Yumcrunch? Both these things are in my room at the moment and I don’t for the life of me know what to do with them. They’re American.”
“I know just what you mean. I’ve seen them advertised in a magazine. Yumcrunch is what they eat for breakfast instead of porridge.”
“Would it suit Felix? Wouldn’t blow him up?”
“He’d love it. And the other thing is what they use instead of lard.”
“Pretty rich for a dog?”
“I’m afraid so. I expect Mrs. Cuthbert will be very grateful for it in the kitchen.”
“There’s nothing you don’t know.”
“Except Trumper’s whatever-it-was.”
Presently Mr. Crouchback took his leave, fetched Felix and let him out into the darkness. He brought down with him the tin of Brisko and carried it to the proprietress of the hotel in her “Private Parlor.”
“Mrs. Cuthbert, I have been sent this from America. It is lard. Mrs. Tickeridge seems to think you might find it useful in the kitchen.”
She took it and thanked him rather awkwardly.
“There was something Mr. Cuthbert wanted to see you about.”
“I am here.”
“Everything is getting so difficult,” she said; “I’ll fetch Mr. Cuthbert.”
Mr. Crouchback stood in the Private Parlor and waited. Presently Mrs. Cuthbert returned alone.
“He says, will I speak to you. I don’t know quite how to begin. It’s all because of the war and the regulations and the officer who came today. He was the quartering commandant. You know it’s nothing personal, don’t you, Mr. Crouchback? I’m sure we’ve always done all we can to oblige, making all sorts of exceptions for you, not charging for the dog’s meals and your having your own wine sent in. Some of the guests have mentioned it more than once how you were specially favored.”
“I have never made any complaint,” said Mr. Crouchback. “I am satisfied that you do everything you can in the circumstances.”
“That’s it,” said Mrs. Cuthbert, “circumstances.”
“I think I know what you wish to say to me, Mrs. Cuthbert. It is really quite unnecessary. If you fear I’ll desert you now when you are going through difficult times, after I have been so comfortable for so many years, you may put your mind quite at rest. I know you are both doing your best and I am sincerely grateful.”
“Thank you, sir. It wasn’t quite that… I think Mr. Cuthbert had better speak to you.”
“He may come to me whenever he likes. Not now. I am just going to take Felix off to bed. Good night, I hope that tin will be of help.”
“Good night and thank you, sir.”
Miss Vavasour met him on the stairs.
“Oh, Mr. Crouchback, I couldn’t help seeing you go into the Private Parlor. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I think so. I had a tin of lard for Mrs. Cuthbert.”
“They didn’t say anything about what I told you about?”
“The Cuthberts seemed to be worried about the falling off of the service. I think I was able to reassure them. It is a difficult time for both of them—for all of us. Good night, Miss Vavasour.”
IV
Meanwhile the talk in Bellamy’s had drifted irresistibly upward. That very morning in a deep bed in a deep shelter a buoyant busy personage had lain, apportioning the day’s work of an embattled empire in a series of minutes.
“Pray inform me today on one half sheet of paper why Brig. Ritchie-Hook has been relieved of the command of his Brigade.”
And twenty-four hours later, almost to the minute, while Mr. Crouchback’s form was beginning to construe the neglected passage of Livy, from the same heap of pillows the ukase went out:
P.M. to Secretary of State for War.
I have directed that no commander be penalized for errors in discretion towards the enemy. This directive has been flouted in a grievous and vexatious manner in the case of Col. late Brig. Ritchie-Hook, Royal Corps of Halberdiers. Pray assure me that suitable employment has been found for this gallant and resourceful officer as soon as he is passed fit for active service.
Telephones and typewriters relayed the trumpet note. Great men called to lesser men, and they to men of no consequence at all. Somewhere on the downward official slope Guy’s name too appeared, for Ritchie-Hook, in his room at Millbank Hospital, had not forgotten his companion in guilt. Papers marked “Passed to you for immediate action” went from “In” tray to “Out” tray, until at length they found sea level with the adjutant of the Halberdier barracks.
“Sergeant-major, we have Mr. Crouchback’s leave address?”
“Marine Hotel, Matchet, sir.”
“Then make out a move order for him to report forthwith to H.O.O. H.Q.”
“Am I to give the address, sir?”
“That wouldn’t do. It’s on the Most Secret list.”
“Sir.”
Ten minutes later the adjutant remarked: “Sergeant-major, if we withhold the address, how will Mr. Crouchback know where to report?”
“Sir.”
“We could refer it back to H.O.O. H.Q.”
“Sir.”
“But it is marked ‘Immediate Action.’ ”
“Sir.”
These two men of no consequence at all sat silent and despairing.
“I take it, sir, the correct procedure would be to send it by hand of officer?”
“Can we spare anyone?”
“There’s one, sir.”
“Colonel Trotter?”
“Sir.”
“Jumbo” Trotter, as his nickname suggested, was both ponderous and popular; he retired with the rank of full colonel in 1936. Within an hour of the declaration of war he was back in barracks and there he had sat ever since. No one had summoned him. No one cared to question his presence. His age and rank rendered him valueless for barrack duties. He dozed over the newspapers, lumbered round the billiard-table, beamed on his juniors’ scrimmages on guest nights, and regularly attended Church Parade. Now and then he expressed a wish to “have a go at the Jerries.” Mostly he slept. It was he whom Guy had disturbed in the billiard-room on his last visit to the barracks.
Once or twice a week the captain-commandant, in his new role of martinet, resolved to have a word with Jumbo, but the word was never spoken. He had served under Jumbo in Flanders and there learned to revere him for his sublime imperturbability in many dangerous and disgusting circumstances. He readily gave his approval to the old boy’s outing and left him to make his own arrangements.
It was a hundred and fifty miles to Matchet. Jumbo’s few indispensable possessions could be contained in one japanned-tin uniform case and a pig-skin Gladstone. But there was his bedding. Never move
Early next day, in that epoch of mounting oppression, it stood at the steps of the Officers’ House. The luggage was strapped behind. Driver and servant stood beside it. Presently Jumbo emerged, well buttoned up against the morning chill, smoking his after-breakfast pipe, carrying under his arm the ante-room’s only copy of The Times. The men jumped to the salute. Jumbo beamed benignantly on them and raised a fur-lined glove to the peak of his red hat. He conferred briefly with the driver over the map, ordering a detour which would bring him at lunch-time to a friendly mess, then settled himself in the rear-seat. Burns tucked in the rug and leapt to his place beside the driver. Jumbo glanced at the Deaths in the paper before giving the order to move.
The adjutant, watching these sedate proceedings from his office window, suddenly said: “Sergeant-major, couldn’t we have recalled Mr. Crouchback here and given him the address ourselves?”
“Sir.”
“Too late to change now. Order, counter order, disorder, eh?”
“Sir.”
The car moved across the gravel towards the guard-house. It might have been carrying an elderly magnate from a London square to a long week-end in the Home Counties, in years before the Total War.
Mrs. Tickeridge knew Colonel Trotter of old. She found him dozing in the hall of the Marine Hotel when she and Jenifer returned from their walk with Felix. He opened his pouchy eyes and accepted their presence without surprise.
“Hullo, Vi. Hullo, shrimp. Nice to see you again.”
He began to raise himself from his chair.
“Sit down, Jumbo. What on earth are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my tea. Everyone seems half asleep here; said tea was ‘off.’ Ridiculous expression. Had to send my man Burns into the kitchen to brew up. Met opposition from some civilian cook, I gather. Soon settled that. Had some opposition about quarters, too, from the woman in the office. Said she was full up. Soon settled that. Had my bed made up and my things laid out in a bathroom. Woman didn’t seem too pleased about that either. Poor type. Had to remind her there was a war on.”
“Oh, Jumbo, there’s only two baths between the whole lot of us.”
“Shan’t be here long. All have to rough it a bit these days. Burns and the driver fixing themselves up in the town. Trust an old Halberdier to make himself comfortable. No camp-bed in a bathroom for Burns.”
Burns appeared at that moment with a laden tray and put it beside the colonel.
“Jumbo, what a tea! We never get anything like that. Hot buttered toast, sandwiches, an egg, cherry cake.”
“Felt a bit peckish. Told Burns to scrounge round.”
“Poor Mrs. Cuthbert. Poor us. No butter for a week.”
“I’m looking for a fellow called Crouchback. Woman in the office said he was out. Know him?”
“He’s a heavenly old man.”
“No. Young Halberdier officer.”
“That’s his son, Guy. What d’you want with him. You’re not taking him under arrest?”
“Lord, no.”
A look of elephantine cunning came into his eyes. He had no idea of the contents of the sealed envelope buttoned up below his medals.
“Nothing like that. Just a friendly call.”
Felix sat with his muzzle on Jumbo’s knee gazing at him with devotion. Jumbo cut a corner of toast, dipped it in jam and placed it in the gentle mouth.
“Take him away, Jenifer, there’s a good girl, or he’ll have all my tea off me.”
Presently Jumbo fell into a doze.
He woke to the sound of voices near him. The woman from the office, the poor type, was in converse with a stout, upright major wearing R.A.S.C. badges.
“I’ve hinted,” the woman was saying. “Mr. Cuthbert as good as told him outright. He won’t seem to understand.”
“He’ll understand all right when he finds his furniture on the doorstep. If you can’t move him quietly, I shall use my powers.”
“It does seem a shame rather.”
“You should be grateful, Mrs. Cuthbert. I could have taken the whole hotel if I’d cared, and I would have but for Mr. Cuthbert being on the square. I’ve taken over the Monte Rosa boarding house instead. The people from there have to sleep somewhere, don’t they?”
“Well, it’s your responsibility. He’ll be very upset, poor old gentleman.”
Jumbo studied the man carefully and suddenly said very loudly: “Grigshawe.”
The effect was immediate. The major swung round, stamped, stood to attention and roared back: “Sir.”
“Bless my soul, Grigshawe, it is you. Wasn’t sure. I’m very pleased to see you. Shake hands.”
“You’re looking very well, sir.”
“You’ve had quick promotion, eh?”
“Acting-rank, sir.”
“We missed you when you put in for a commission. You shouldn’t have left the Halberdiers, you know.”
“I wouldn’t have but for the missus and it being peacetime.”
“What are you up to now?”
“Quartering commandant, sir. Just clearing a little room here.”
“Excellent. Well, carry on. Carry on.”
“I’ve about finished, sir.” He stood to attention, nodded to Mrs. Cuthbert and left, but there was no peace for Jumbo that afternoon. The room was hardly empty of Mrs. Cuthbert before an elderly lady raised her head from a neighboring chair and coughed. Jumbo regarded her sadly.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I couldn’t help overhearing. You know that officer?”
“What, Grigshawe? One of the best drill-sergeants we had in the corps. Extraordinary system taking first-rate N.C.O.s and making second-rate officers of them.”
“That’s dreadful. I had quite made up my mind he must be some sort of criminal, dressed up—a blackmailer or burglar or something. It was our last hope.”
Jumbo had little curiosity about the affairs of others. It seemed to him vaguely odd that this pleasant-looking lady should so ardently desire Grigshawe to be an impostor. From time to time in his slow passage through life Jumbo had come up against things that puzzled him and had learned to ignore them. Now he merely remarked: “Known him twenty years” and was preparing to leave his seat for a sniff of fresh air, when Miss Vavasour said: “You see, he is trying to take Mr. Crouchback’s sitting-room.”
The name gave Jumbo pause and before he could disengage himself Miss Vavasour had begun her recital.
She spoke vehemently but furtively. In the Marine Hotel, scorn of the quartering commandant had quickly given place to dread. He came none knew whence, armed with unknown powers, malevolent, unpredictable, implacable. Miss Vavasour would with relish have thrown herself on any German paratrooper and made short work of him with poker or bread-knife. Grigshawe was a projection of the Gestapo. For two weeks now the permanent residents had lived in a state of whispering agitation. Mr. Crouchback followed his routine, calmly refusing to share their alarm. He was the symbol of their security. If he fell, what hope was there for them? And his fall, it seemed, was now encompassed.
Jumbo listened restively. It was not for this he had driven all day with his Most Secret missive. He was out for a treat. There had been a number of jokes lately in the papers about selfish old women in safe hotels. He had chuckled over them often. He was on the point of reminding Miss Vavasour that there was a war on, when Mr. Crouchback himself appeared before them, back from school with a pile of uncorrected exercise books, and suddenly the whole evening was changed and became a treat again.
Miss Vavasour introduced them. Jumbo, slow in some of his perceptions, was quick to recognize “a good ty
Mr. Crouchback explained that Guy was at Southsand, many miles away, collecting the possessions of a brother-officer who had died on active service. These were unexpectedly good tidings. Jumbo saw days, perhaps weeks, of pleasant adventure ahead. He had no objection to prolonging his tour of the seaside resorts indefinitely.
“No, no. Don’t telephone him. I’ll go there tomorrow myself.”
Then Mr. Crouchback showed immediate solicitude for Jumbo’s comfort. He must not think of sleeping in a bathroom. Mr. Crouchback’s sitting-room was at his disposal. Then Mr. Crouchback gave him some excellent sherry and later, at dinner, burgundy and port. He did not mention that this was the last bottle of a little store which he could never hope to replenish.
They touched lightly on public affairs and found themselves in close agreement. Jumbo mentioned that in his latter years he had made a modest collection of old silver. Mr. Crouchback knew a lot about that. They talked of fishing and pheasant-shooting, not competitively but in placid accord.
Mrs. Tickeridge joined them later and gossiped about the Halberdiers. They did two-thirds of the crossword together. It was exactly Jumbo’s idea of a pleasant evening. Nothing was said of Grigshawe and grievances, and in the end it was he who brought the matter up.
“Sorry to hear there’s been trouble about your room here.”
“Oh, no trouble really. I’ve never even seen this Major Grigshawe they all talk about. I think he must rather have muddled the Cuthberts, and you know how rumors spread and get exaggerated in a little place like this. Poor Miss Vavasour seems to think we shall all be put into the street. I don’t believe a word of it myself.”
“I’ve known Grigshawe for twenty years. Daresay he’s got a bit too big for his boots. I’ll have a word with him in the morning.”
“Not on my account, please. But it would be kind to put Miss Vavasour’s mind at rest.”
“Perfectly simple matter if he handles it in the proper service way. All he has to do is put in a report that on the relevant date the room was occupied by a senior officer. You won’t have any more trouble with Grigshawe, I can promise.”