The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [62]
“My dear …”
“How are you?”
“I’ve been having a most unenjoyable evening,” he said.
He did not at once release my hand. For some reason I felt a sudden lack of ease, an odd embarrassment, even apprehension, although absolutely accustomed to the rather unduly fervent social manner he was employing. I tried to withdraw from his grasp, but he held on tenaciously, almost as if he were himself requiring actual physical support.
“We hoped you were coming on from the Madrid to join us at dinner,” I said. “Hugh tells me you were doing some of the real old favourites there.”
“I was.”
“Did you leave the Madrid too late?”
Then Max Pilgrim let go my hand. He folded his arms. His eyes were fixed on me. Although no longer linked to him by his own grasp, I continued to feel indefinably uncomfortable.
“You knew the Madrid?” he asked.
“I’ve been there – not often.”
“But enjoyed yourself there?”
“Always.”
“You’ll never do that again.”
“Why not?”
‘The Madrid is no more,” he said.
“Finished?”
“Finished.”
The season or just your act?”
The place – the building – the tables and chairs – the dance-floor – the walls – the ceiling – all those gold pillars. A bomb hit the Madrid full pitch this evening.”
“Max …”
Mrs. Maclintick let out a cry. It was a reasonable moment to give expression to a sense of horror. Moreland had come into the passage from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of beer and three glasses. He stood for a moment, saying nothing; then we all went into the sitting-room. Pilgrim at once took the arm-chair. He nursed his bound hand, rocking himself slowly forward and back.
“In the middle of my act,” he said. “It was getting the bird in a big way. Never experienced the like before, even on tour.”
“So there was a blitz earlier in the evening,” said Moreland.
“There was,” said Pilgrim. “There certainly was.”
No one spoke for some seconds. Pilgrim continued to sit in the chair, looking straight in front of him, holding his wounded hand with the other. I knew there was a question I ought to ask, but felt almost physically inhibited from forming the words. In the end, Mrs. Maclintick, not myself, put the enquiry.
“Anybody killed?”
Pilgrim nodded.
“Many?”
Pilgrim nodded again.
“Helped to get some of them out,” he said.
“There were a lot?”
“Of course it’s a ghastly muddle on these occasions,” he said. “Frenzied. Like Dante’s Inferno. All in the black-out too. The wardens and I carried out six or seven at least. Must have. They’d all had it. I knew some of them personally. Nasty business, I can assure you. I suppose a few got away with it – like myself. They tried to persuade me to go with them and have some treatment, but after I’d had my hand bound up, all I wanted was home, sweet home. It’s only a scratch, so I came back and tucked up. But I’m glad you’re all here. Very glad.”
There was no escape now. So far as possible, certainty had to be established. An effort must be made.
“Bijou Ardglass was there with a party.”
Pilgrim looked at me with surprise.
“You knew that?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Were you asked? If so, you were lucky to have another engagement.”
“They were —”
“Bijou’s table was just where it came through the ceiling.”
“So —”
“I’m afraid it was Bijou’s last party.”
Pilgrim glanced away, quickly passing the bandaged hand across his eyes. It was an instinctive, not in the least dramatised, gesture.
“But the rest of them?”
“No one survived from that corner. That was where the worst of the damage was done. My end of the room wasn’t so bad. That’s why I’m here now.”
“You’re sure all the Ardglass party —”
“They were the ones I helped carry out,” said Pilgrim.
He spoke quite simply.
“Chips Lovell —”
“He’d been at the table.”
Moreland looked across at me. Mrs. Maclintick took Pilgrim’s arm.
“How did you get back yourself, Max?” she asked.
“I got a lift on one of the fire-engines. Can you imagine?”
“Here,” said Moreland. “Have some beer.”
Pilgrim took the glass.
“I’d known Bijou for years,” he said. “Known her when she was a little girl with a plait