The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [61]
“I’ve come to the conclusion the characteristic women most detest in a man is unselfishness,” he said.
This remark had not particular bearing on anything that had gone before, evidently giving expression only to one of his long interior trains of thought.
“They don’t have to put up with much of it,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “It’s passed me by these forty years, but perhaps I’m lucky.”
“How their wives must have hated those saintly kings in the Middle Ages,” Moreland said. “Still, as you truly remark, Audrey, one’s speaking rather academically.”
The taxi had already driven off, and Moreland was putting the key in the lock of the front-door of the house, when the Air-raid Warnings began to sound.
“Just timed it nicely,” Moreland said. “That’s the genuine article, not like the faint row when we were at dinner. No doubt at all allowed to remain in the mind. Are the flat’s curtains drawn? I was the last to leave and it’s the sort of thing I always forget to do.”
“Max will have fixed them,” said Mrs. Maclintick.
We climbed the stairs, of which there were a great number, as they occupied the top floor flat.
“I hope Max is all right,” she said. “I never like the idea of him being out in a raid. There’s bound to be trouble if he spends the night in a shelter. He’s always talking about giving the Underground a try-out, but I tell him I won’t have him doing any such thing.”
If Moreland was one of Mrs. Maclintick’s children, clearly Max Pilgrim was another. We entered the flat behind her. Moreland did not turn on the switch until it was confirmed all windows were obscured. In the light, the apartment was revealed as untidier than in Matilda’s day, otherwise much the same in outward appearance and decoration.
“Max …” shouted Mrs. Maclintick.
She uttered this call from the bedroom. A faint answering cry came from another room further up the short passage. Its message was indeterminate, the tone, high and tremulous, bringing back echoes of a voice that had twittered through myriad forgotten night-clubs in the small hours.
“We’ve got a visitor, Max,” shouted Mrs. Maclintick again.
“I hope there’ll turn out to be some beer left,” said Moreland. “I don’t feel all that sure.”
He went into the kitchen. I remained in the passage. A door slowly opened at the far end. Max Pilgrim appeared, a tall willowy figure in horn-rimmed spectacles and a green brocade dressing gown. It was years since I had last seen him, where, I could not even remember, whether in the distance at a party, or, less likely, watching his act at some cabaret show. For a time he had shared a flat with Isobel’s brother, Hugo, but we had not been in close touch with Hugo at that period, and had, as it happened, never visited the place. There had been talk of Pilgrim giving up his performances in those days and joining Hugo in the decorating business. Even at that time, Pilgrim’s songs had begun to “date”, professionally speaking. However, that project had never come off, and, whatever people might say about being old-fashioned, Pilgrim continued to find himself in demand right up to the outbreak of war. Now, of course, he expressed to audiences all that was most nostalgic. Although his hair was dishevelled – perhaps because of that – he looked at this very moment as if about to break into one of his songs. He moved a little way up the passage, then paused.
“Here you are at last, my dears,” he said. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. You must forgive what I’m looking like, which must be a perfect sight. I took off my slap before going to bed and am presenting you with a countenance natural and unadorned, something I’m always most unwilling to do.”
He certainly appeared pale as death. I had thought at first he was merely looking much older than I remembered. Now I accepted as explanation what he had said about lack of make-up. I noticed, too, that his right hand was bandaged. The voice was fainter than usual. He looked uncertainly at me, disguised in uniform. I explained I was Hugo’s brother-in-law; that we had met once or twice the