The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [29]
“When did the new waiter arrive?” I asked.
Nothing was to be gained by revealing previous acquaintance with Stringham.
“Started here at lunch to-day,” said Soper,
“I’ve run across him before,” said Biggs.
“At Div. H.Q.?”
“One of the fatigue party fixing up the boxing ring,” said Biggs. “Ever so grand the way he talks, you wouldn’t believe. Needs taking down a peg or two in my opinion. That’s why I asked him about the Ritz. Don’t expect he’s ever been inside the Ritz more than I have.”
Soper did not immediately comment. He stared thoughtfully at the scrap of meat rejected by Biggs, either to imply censure of too free and easy table manners, or, in official capacity as D.C.O., professionally assessing the nutritive value of that particular cube of fat – and its waste – in wartime. Macfie also gave Biggs a severe glance, rustling his typewritten report admonishingly, as he propped the sheets against the water jug, the better to absorb their contents while he ate.
“He’ll do as a waiter so long as we keep him up to the mark,” said Soper, after a while. “You’re always grousing about something, Biggy. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. Why don’t you put a bloody sock in it?”
“There’s enough to grouse about in this bloody Mess, isn’t there?” said Biggs, his mouth full of beef and cabbage, but still determined to carry the war into Soper’s country. “Greens stewed in monkeys’ pee and pepper as per usual.”
Stringham had returned by this time with the salt. Dinner proceeded along normal lines. Food, however unsatisfactorily cooked, always produced a calming effect on Biggs, so that his clamour gradually died down. Once I caught Stringham’s eye, and thought he gave a faint smile to himself. Nothing much was said by anyone during the rest of the meal. It came to an end. We moved to the anteroom. Later, when preparing to return to the D.A.A.G.’s office, I saw Stringham leave the house by the back door. He was accompanied by a squat, swarthy lance-corporal, no doubt the cook so violently stigmatised by Biggs. At Headquarters, when I got back there, Widmerpool was already in his room, going through a pile of papers. I told him about the appearance of Stringham in F Mess. He listened, showing increasing signs of uneasiness and irritation.
“Why on earth does Stringham want to come here?”
“Don’t ask me.”
“He might easily prove a source of embarrassment if he gets into trouble.”
“There’s no particular reason to suppose he’ll get into trouble, is there? The embarrassment is for me, having him as a waiter in F Mess.”
“Stringham was a badly behaved boy at school,” said Widmerpool. “You must remember that. You knew him much better than I did. He took to drink early in life, didn’t he? I recall at least one very awkward incident when I myself had to put him to bed after he had had too much.”
“I was there too – but he is said to have been cured of drink.”
“You can never be sure with alcoholics.”
“Perhaps he could be fixed up with a better job.”
“But being a Mess waiter is one of the best jobs in the army,” said Widmerpool impatiently. “It’s not much inferior to sanitary lance-corporal. In that respect he has nothing whatever to grumble about.”
“So far as I know, he isn’t grumbling. I only meant one might help in some way.”
“In what way?”
“I can’t think at the moment. There must be something.”
“I have always been told,” said Widmerpool, “ – and rightly told – that it is a great mistake in the army, or indeed elsewhere, to allow personal feelings about individuals to affect my conduct towards them professionally. I mentioned this to you before in connection with Corporal Mantle. Mind your own business is a golden rule for a staff officer.”
“But you’re not minding your own business about who’s to command the Recce Corps.”
“That is quite different,” said Widmerpool.