• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 2363 0

glanced at the waiter’s face for a second, then looked away, feeling, as I took a second potato, faintly, indeterminately uneasy. The soldier was tall and thin, about my own age apparently, with a pale, washed-out complexion, high forehead, dark hair receding at the temples and slightly greying. Bloodshot eyes, with dark, bluish rims, were alive, but gave at the same time an impression of poor health, this vitiated look increased by the fact of a battle-dress blouse with a collar too big in circumference for a long thin neck. I replaced the spoon in the potato dish, still aware of a certain inner discomfort. The waiter moved on to Biggs, who took four potatoes, examining each in turn, as, one after another, they rolled on to his plate, splashing gravy on the cloth. I followed the waiter with my eyes, while he offered the dish to Macfie.

“Spuds uneatable again,” said Biggs. “Like bloody golf balls. They haven’t been done long enough. That’s all about it. Here, waiter, tell the chef, with my compliments, that he bloody well doesn’t know how to cook water.”

“I will, sir.”

“And he can stick these spuds up his arse.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat to him just what I’ve said.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Where’s he to stick the spuds?”

“Up his arse, sir.”

“Bugger off and tell him.”

So far as cooking potatoes went, I was wholly in agreement with Biggs. However, purely gastronomic considerations were submerged in confirmation of a preliminary impression; an impression upsetting, indeed horrifying, but correct. There could no longer be any doubt of that. What I had instantaneously supposed, then dismissed as inconceivable, was, on closer examination, no longer to be denied. The waiter was Stringham. He was about to go through to the kitchen to deliver Bigg’s message to the cook, when Soper stopped him.

“Half a tick,” said Soper. “Who laid the table?”

“I did, sir.”

“Where’s the salt?”

“I’ll get some salt, sir.”

“Why didn’t you put any salt out?”

“I’m afraid I forgot, sir.”

“Don’t forget again.”

“I’ll try not to, sir.”

“I didn’t say try not to, I said don’t.”

“I won’t, sir.”

“Haven’t they got any cruets in the Ritz?” said Biggs. “Hand the pepper and salt round personally to all the guests, I suppose.”

“Mustard, sir – French, English, possibly some other more obscure brands – so far as I remember, sir, rather than salt and pepper,” said Stringham, “but handing round the latter too could be a good idea.”

He went out of the room to find the salt, and tell the cook what Biggs thought about the cooking. Soper turned to Biggs. He was plainly glad of this opportunity to put the S.O.P.T. in his place.

“Don’t show your ignorance, Biggy,” he said. “Handing salt round at the Ritz. I ask you. You’ll be going into the Savoy next for a plate of fish and chips or baked beans and a cup o’ char.”

“That’s no reason why we shouldn’t have any salt here, is it?” said Biggs.

He spoke belligerently, disinclined for once to accept Soper as social mentor, even where a matter so familiar to the D.C.O. as restaurant administration was in question.

“Something wrong with that bloke,” he went on. “Man’s potty. You can see it. Hear what he said just now? Talks in that la-di-da voice. Why did he come to this Mess? What happened to Robbins? Robbins wasn’t much to look at, but at least he knew you wanted salt.”

“Gone to hospital with rupture,” said Soper. “This one’s a replacement for Robbins. Can’t be much worse, if you ask me.”

“This one’ll have to be invalided too,” said Biggs. “Only got to look at him to see that. Bet I’m right. No good having a lot of crazy buggers about, even as waiters. Got to get hold of blokes who are fit for something. Jesus, what an army.”

“Always a business finding a decent Mess waiter,” said Soper. “Can’t be picking and choosing all the time. Have to take what you’re bloody well offered.”

“Don’t like the look of this chap,” said Biggs. “Gets me down, that awful pasty face. Can’t stick it. Reckon he tosses off too much, that’s what’s wrong with him, I shouldn’t wonder. You can always tell the type.”

From the rubber valve formed