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The Military Philosophers - Anthony Powell [35]

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him to tell her the names of two or three persons who worked with him. When introductions were over, she picked up a paper from the table – apparently some not very well printed periodical – and took it, with her glass of gin, to the furthest corner of the room. There she sat on a stool, listlessly turning the pages. Norah, talking to Isobel, gave an anxious glance, but did not take any immediate steps to join Pamela, or try to persuade her to be more sociable. A talkative elderly man with a red face, one of the ARP guests, engaged me in conversation. He said he was a retired indigo planter. Jeavons himself went across the room and spoke to Pamela, but he must have received a rebuff, because he returned a second or two later to the main body of the guests.

‘She’s reading our ARP bulletin,’ he said.

He spoke with more surprise than disapproval; in fact almost with admiration.

‘Read the poem in this number?’ asked the indigo planter. ‘Rather good. It begins “What do you carry, Warden dear?” Gives a schedule of the equipment – you know, helmet, gas-mask, First Aid, all that – but leaves out one item. You have to guess. Quite clever.’

‘Jolly good.’

Norah, evidently not happy about Pamela, separated herself from Isobel soon after this, and went across to where her friend was sitting. They talked for a moment, but, if Norah too hoped to make her circulate with the rest, she was defeated. When she returned I asked her what her own life was like.

‘I was with Gwen McReith’s lot for a time. Quite fun, because Gwen herself is amusing. I first met Pam with her, as a matter of fact.’

‘Pam seems quite a famous figure.’

Norah sighed.

‘I suppose she is now,’ she said.

‘Is she all right over there in the corner?’

‘No good arguing with her.’

‘I mean we both of us might go over and talk to her.’

‘For God’s sake not’

Nothing of any note took place during the rest of the party, until Norah and Pamela were leaving. Throughout that time, Pamela had continued to sit in the corner. She accepted another drink from Jeavons, but ceased to read the ARP bulletin, simply looking straight in front of her. However, before she and Norah went off together, an unexpected thing happened. She came across the room and spoke in her accustomed low, almost inaudible tone.

‘Are you still working with the Poles?’

‘No – I’ve switched to the Belgians and Czechs.’

‘When you were with the Poles, did you ever hear the name Szymanski?’

‘It’s a very common Polish name, but i£ you mean the man who used to be with the Free French, and caused endless trouble, then transferred to the Poles, and caused endless trouble there, I know quite a lot about him.’

She laughed.

‘I just wondered,’ she said.

‘What about him?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Was he the character you were talking to outside that Polish hide-out in Bayswater?’

She shook her head, laughing softly again. Then they went away. The ARP people left too.

‘There’s enough for one more drink for the three of us,’ said Jeavons. ‘I hid the last few drops.’

‘What do you think of Pamela Flitton?’

‘That’s the wench that gave Peter Templer such a time,’ said Jeavons. ‘Couldn’t remember the name. It’s come back. He said it all started as a joke. Then he got mad about her. That was the way Templer put it. What he didn’t like – when she wasn’t having any, as I understand it – was the feeling he was no good any more. How I feel all the time. Nothing much you can do about it. Mind you, he was browned off with the job too.’

‘Do men really try to get dangerous jobs because they’ve been disappointed about a woman?’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Jeavons admitted.

The enquiry about Szymanski was odd, even if he were not the Pole outside the Ufford. Neither Pennistone nor I bad ever set eyes on this man, though we had been involved in troubles about him, including a question asked in Parliament There was some uncertainty as to his nationality, even whether the territory where he was stated to have been born was now Polish or Czechoslovak, assuming he had in truth been born there. Most of his life he had lived on his wits as a professional

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