The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [46]
“Are you dining with us?” he suddenly asked Lovell.
There was no reason why that enquiry should not be made. The tone was perfectly friendly. All the same, a touch of abruptness added to this sense of apprehension.
“Chips is going to the Madrid – I didn’t realise places like that still functioned.”
“Not many of them do,” said Lovell. “In any case I’m never asked to them. I’ve no doubt it will be a very sober affair compared with the old days. The only thing to be said is that Max Pilgrim is doing a revival of some of his old songs – ’Tess of Le Touquet,’ ‘Heather, Heather, she’s under the weather,’ all those.”
“Max is our lodger now,” said Moreland unexpectedly. “He may be looking in here later after his act. He’s been with E.N.S.A. entertaining the forces – by his own account enjoying a spot of entertainment himself – and has been released to do this brief season at the Madrid as a kind of rest.”
I was curious to know who was included when Moreland spoke of “our” lodger. A question on this subject might be more tactfully put after Lovell’s withdrawal. It sounded as if someone had taken Matilda’s place. Lovell spoke a word or two about the party ahead of him. He seemed unwilling to leave us.
“I’ve never been to the Madrid as a client,” said Moreland. “I once went there years ago, so to speak to the stage door, to collect Max after his act, because we were having supper together. I remember his talking about your friend Bijou Ardglass then. Wasn’t she mistress of some Balkan royalty?”
“Theodoric,” said Lovell, “but they can’t have met for years. That Scandinavian princess he married keeps Theodoric very much in order. They were both lucky to get away when they did. He’s always been very pro-British and would have been in a bad way had the Germans got him when they overran the country. There’s a small contingent of his own people over here now. They were training in France when the war came, and crossed at the time of Dunkirk. I say, I hope there’ll be something to drink to-night. The wine outlook becomes increasingly desperate since France went. One didn’t expect to have to fight a war on an occasional half-pint of bitter, and lucky if you find that. Well, it’s been nice seeing you both. I’ll keep in touch, Nick, about those various points.”
We said good-bye to him. Lovell left for the Madrid. Moreland showed signs of relief that he was no longer with us. At first I thought this was still, as it were, on account of Priscilla; or, like some people – amongst whom several of his own relations were included – he simply found Lovell’s company tedious. As it turned out, both possibilities were incorrect. Quite another matter was on Moreland’s mind. This was only revealed when I suggested it was time to order dinner. Moreland hesitated,
“Do you mind if we wait a minute or two longer?” he said. “Audrey thought she’d probably get away in time to join us for some food.”
“Audrey who?”
“Audrey Maclintick – you know her.” He spoke sharply, as if the question had been a silly one to ask.
“Maclintick’s wife – the one who went off with the violinist?”
“Yes – Maclintick’s widow, rather. I always assume everyone is familiar with the rough outlines of my own life, such as they are. I suppose, as a gallant soldier, you live rather out of the world of rank and fashion. Audrey and I are running steady now.”
“Under the same roof?”
“In