The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [53]
He went off. Mrs. Maclintick began some complicated financial computation with Moreland. This was going to hold the attention of the pair of them for a minute or two. Priscilla had sat down, and, perhaps because she felt herself more vulnerable without Stevens, had her head down, fumbling in her bag, as if she wanted to avoid my eye. I felt some statement should be made which might, at least to some small extent, define my own position. It was now or never. Any such “statement” was, I thought, to be conceived of as the term is made use of by the police, for the description of an accident or crime, a brief summary of what happened, how and why it took place or was committed.
“I had a drink with Chips this evening.”
She looked up.
“Chips?”
“Here – just before dinner. He thought he might see you at Bijou Ardglass’s party at the Madrid.”
That information would at least prevent her from taking Stevens to the restaurant, had the thought been in her mind, though, at the same time, could prejudice any faint chance of herself looking in at the Ardglass party after Stevens had left to catch his train. Such a possibility had to be faced. A chance must be taken on that. It was, in any case, unlikely she would go later to the Madrid. Everything would close down by midnight at the latest, probably before that.
“Oh, but is Chips in London?”
She was plainly surprised.
“At Combined Ops.”
“On the Combined Ops staff?”
“Yes.”
“That was only a possibility when I last heard.”
“It’s happened.”
“Chips thought the move wouldn’t be for a week or two, even if it came off. His last letter only reached me this morning. It chased all over the country after me. I’m at Aunt Molly’s.”
“I’ll give you the Combined Ops number and extension.”
“I had to put Bijou off,” she said quite calmly. “I’ll get in touch with Chips to-morrow.”
“He thought you might be at the Jeavonses’.”
“Why didn’t he ring up then?”
“He hoped he was going to see you at the Madrid – make a surprise of it.”
She did not rise to that.
“The Jeavons house is more of a shambles than ever,” she said. “Eleanor Walpole-Wilson is there – Aunt Molly usen’t to like her, but they’re great buddies now – and then there are two Polish officers whose place was bombed and had nowhere to go, and a girl who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor.”
“Who’s having a baby by a Norwegian sailor?” asked Stevens. “No one we know, I hope.”
He had come back to the table at that moment. Such as it was, my demonstration had been made, was now, of necessity, over. There was nothing more to be said. The situation could only be accepted, until, in one field or another, further action might be required. That, at least, was so far as I myself was concerned. Recognition of this as a fact seemed unavoidable. The return of Stevens brought about a reshuffle of places, resulting in Mrs. Maclintick finding herself next him on the banquette with me on the other side of her. Priscilla and Moreland were opposite. This seating had been chiefly organised by Stevens himself, possibly with no more aim than a display of power. I congratulated him on his M.C.
“Oh, that?” he said. “Pretty hot stuff to have one of those, isn’t it? I really deserved it – we both did – for putting up with that Aldershot course when we first met. It was far more gruelling than anything expected of me later – those lectures on the German army. Christ, I dream about them. Are you at the War House or somewhere?”
“On leave – going down to the country tomorrow.”
“Hope you have as much fun on it as I’ve had on mine,” he said.
He seemed totally unaware that, among members of Priscilla’s family – myself, for example – conventional reservations might exist regarding the part he was at that moment playing; that at least they might not wish to hear rubbed in what an enjoyable time he had been having as her lover. All the same, shamelessness of any kind, perhaps rightly, always exacts a certain respect. Lovell himself was no poor hand at displaying cheek. As usual, a kind of poetic justice was