The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [60]
“Come and have a drink, Brian. There’s lots of time.”
“Not going to risk being cashiered for W.O.A.S.A.W.L.”
“What on earth’s that he said?” asked Mrs. Maclintick.
“While-On-Active-Service-Absent-Without-Leave,” said Stevens, characteristically not allowing her even for a second out of his power by disregarding the question. “Oh, come on, Brian, no hurry yet.”
The red-faced captain was firm.
“Got to find a taxi, for one thing. Besides, I’ve baggage to pick up.”
Stevens looked at his watch.
“I’ve got baggage too,” he said, “a valise and a kit bag and some other junk. Perhaps you’re right, Brian, and I’d do well to accompany you. Anyway it would halve the taxi fare.”
He rose from the table.
“Then I’ll be bidding you all good-bye,” he said.
“Do you really have to go?” said Mrs. Maclintick. “We’re just beginning to get to know you. Are you annoyed about something, like the girl you were with?”
In the course of her life she could rarely have gone further towards making an effort to show herself agreeable. It was a triumph for Stevens. He laughed, conscious of this, pleased at his success.
“Duty calls,” he said. “I only wish I could stay till four in the morning, but they’re beginning to shut down here as it is, even if I hadn’t a train to catch.”
We said good-bye to him.
“Wonderful to have met you, Mr. Moreland,” said Stevens. “Here’s to the next performance of Vieux Port on the same programme as your newest work – and may I be there to hear. Good-bye, Nicholas.”
He held out his hand. From being very sure of himself, he had now reverted a little to that less absolute confidence of the days when I had first known him. He was probably undecided as to the most effective note to strike in taking leave of us. It may at last have dawned on him that all the business of Priscilla could include embarrassments of a kind to which he had hitherto given little or no thought. The hesitation he showed possibly indicated indecision as to whether or not he should make further reference to her sudden withdrawal from the party. If, for a second, he had contemplated speaking of that, he must have changed his mind.
“We’ll be meeting again,” he said.
“Good-bye.”
“And Happy Landings.”
“Come on, Odo, you oaf,” said the red-faced captain, “cut out the fond farewells, or there won’t be a cab left on the street. We’ve got to get cracking. Don’t forget there’ll be all that waffle with the R.T.O.”
They went off together, slapping each other on the back.
“He’s a funny boy,” said Mrs. Maclintick.
Stevens had made an impression on her. There could be no doubt of that. The way she spoke showed it. Although his presence that night had been unwelcome to myself – and the other two at first had also displayed no great wish to have him at the table – a distinct sense of flatness was discernible now Stevens was gone. Even Moreland, who had fidgeted when Mrs. Maclintick had expressed regrets at this departure, seemed aware that the conviviality of the party was reduced by his removal. I said I should have to be making for bed.
“Oh, God, don’t let’s break it all up at once,” Moreland said. “We’ve only just met. Those others prevented our talking of any of the things we really want to discuss – like the meaning of art, or how to get biscuits on the black market.”
“They won’t serve any more drink here.”
“Come back to our place for a minute or two. There might be some beer left. We’ll get old Max out of bed. He loves a gossip.”
“All right – but not for long.”
We paid the bill, went out into Regent Street. In the utter blackness, the tarts, strange luminous form of nocturnal animal life, flickered the bulbs of their electric torches. From time to time one of them would play the light against her own face in self-advertisement, giving the effect of candles illuminating a holy picture in the shadows of a church.
“Ingenious,” said Moreland.
“Don’t doubt Maclintick would have found it so,” said Mrs. Maclintick, not without bitterness.
A taxi set down its passengers nearby. We secured it. Moreland gave the address of the flat where he