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“His Nibs says you know about this,” he said.

Greening, although he blushed easily, was otherwise totally unselfconscious. He was inclined to express himself in a curious, outdated schoolboy slang that sounded as if it had been picked up from some favourite book in childhood. Probably this habit appealed to General Liddament’s taste for a touch of the exotic in his entourage. He may even have encouraged Greening in vagaries of speech, an extension of his own Old English. The piece of paper was inscribed with the typewritten words “Major L. Finn, V.C.,” followed by the name of a Territorial regiment and a telephone number. I saw I had underrated General Liddament’s capacity for detail.

“Not much he forgets about,” said Greening, with artless curiosity. “What is it?”

A.D.C.s are a category of officer usually disparaged in Popular scrutiny of military matters. On the whole, they are no worse than most, better than many; while the job they do is the best possible training, if they are likely to rise in the world. Greening was, of course, not the sort likely to rise very far. “Just a message to be delivered in London.” Widmerpool looked up from the file in which he was writing away busily. “What is that?”

“Something for the General.”

“What are you to do?”

“Telephone this officer.”

“What officer?”

“A Major Finn.”

“And say what?”

“Give him the General’s compliments.”

“Nothing else?”

“See what he says.”

“Sounds odd.”

“That’s what the General said.”

“Let me see.”

I handed him the paper.

“Finn?” he said. “It’s a Whitehall number.”

“So I see.”

“A V.C.’

“Yes.”

“I seem to know the name – Finn. Sure I know it. When did the General tell you to do this?”

“On the last Command exercise.”

“At what moment?”

“After dinner on the last night.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“He talked about Trollope – and Balzac.”

“The authors?”

I was tempted to reply, “No – the generals,” but discretion prevailed.

“You seem to be on very intimate terms with our Divisional Commander,” said Widmerpool sourly. “Well, let me tell you that you will return from leave to find a pile of work. Are you waiting for something, Greening?”

“The General bade me discourse fair words to you, sir, anent traffic circuits.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Greening. ‘That’s exactly how the General put it.”

Widmerpool did not answer. Greening went away. He was one of the most agreeable officers at those Headquarters. I never saw him much except on exercises. Towards the end of the war, I heard, in a roundabout way, that, after return to his regiment, he had been badly wounded at Anzio as a company commander and – so my informant thought – might have died in hospital.

TWO

Sullen reverberations of one kind or another – blitz in England, withdrawal in Greece – had been providing the most recent noises-off in rehearsals that never seemed to end, breeding a wish that the billed performance would at last ring up its curtain, whatever form that took. However, the date of the opening night rested in hands other than our own; meanwhile nobody could doubt that more rehearsing, plenty more rehearsing, was going to be needed for a long time to come. Although these might be dispiriting thoughts, an overwhelming sense of content descended as the train reached the outskirts of London. Spring seas had been rough the night before, the railway carriage as usual overcrowded, while we threaded a sluggish passage through blackness towards the south; from time to time entering – pausing in – then vacating – areas where air-raid warnings prevailed. Viewed from the windows of the train, the deserted highways and gutted buildings of outlying districts created to the eye the semblance of an abandoned city. Nevertheless, I felt full of hope.

London contacts had to be sorted out. A letter from Chips Lovell, received only the day before, complicated an arrangement to dine with Moreland that evening. Lovell had heard I was coming on leave, and wanted to talk about “family affairs.