The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [63]
There was a pause. Moreland cleared his throat uncomfortably. Mrs. Maclintick sniffed. In the far distance, unexpectedly soon, the All Clear droned. It was followed, an instant later, by a more local siren.
“That one didn’t take long,” Moreland said.
“Another tip-and-run raider,” said Pilgrim. “The fashion of the moment.”
“It was a single plane caught the Madrid?”
“That’s it.”
“I’ll make some tea,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “Do us good.”
“Just what I need, Audrey, my dear,” said Pilgrim, sighing. “I couldn’t think what it was. Now I know it’s tea – not beer at all.”
He drank the beer all the same. Mrs. Maclintick went off to the kitchen. It became clear that an unpleasant duty must be performed. There was no avoiding it. Priscilla would have to be told about the Madrid as soon as possible. If I called up the Jeavonses’ house right away, the telephone, with any luck, would be answered by Molly Jeavons herself. I could tell her what had happened. She could break the news. So far as that went, even to make the announcement to Molly would be bad enough. It might be hard on her to have to tell Priscilla, but at least Molly was, by universal consent, a person adapted by nature to such harrowing tasks; warm-hearted, not over sensitive, grasping immediately the needs of the bereaved, saying just what was required, emotional yet never incapacitated by emotion. Molly, if I were lucky, would do the job. There was always the chance Priscilla herself flight be at the other end of the line. That was a risk that had to be taken into consideration. In a cowardly way, I delayed action until Mrs. Maclintick had returned with the tea. After finishing a cup, I asked if I might use the telephone.
“By the bed,” said Moreland.
Pilgrim began to muse aloud.
“Strange those young Germans up there trying to kill me,” he murmured to himself. “Ungrateful too. I’ve always had such good times in Berlin.”
The bedroom was more untidy than would ever have been allowed in Matilda’s day. I sat on the edge of the bed and dialled the Jeavons number. There was no buzz. I tried again. After several unsuccessful attempts, none of which even achieved the “number obtainable” sound, I rang the Exchange. There were further delays. Then the operator tried the Jeavons number. That, too, was unproductive. No sound of ringing came. The line was out of order. I gave it up and returned to the sitting-room.
“I can’t get through. I’ll have to go.”
“Stay the night, if you like,” said Mrs. Maclintick. “You can sleep on the sofa. Maclintick often did in our Pimlico place. Spent almost more time there than he did in bed.”
The offer was unexpected, rather touching in the circumstances. I saw she was probably able to look after Moreland better than I thought.
“No – thanks all the same. As I failed on the telephone, I’ll have to go in person.”
“Priscilla?” said Moreland.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“What a job,” he said.
Max Pilgrim gathered his dressing gown round him. He yawned and stretched.
“I wonder when the next one will arrive,” he said. “Worse than waiting for the curtain to go up.”
I said good night to them. Moreland came to the door.
“I suppose you’ve really got to do this?” he said.
“Not much avoiding it.”
“Glad it’s not me,” he said.
“You’re right to be.”
There seemed no more taxis left in London. I walked for a time, then, totally unlooked for at that hour, a bus stopped by the place I was passing. Without any very clear idea of doing more than move in a south-westerly direction, I boarded it, in this way travelled as far as a stop in the neighbourhood of Gloucester Road. Here the journey had to be resumed on foot. The pavements were endless, threading a way down