The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [78]
“That must have been seventeen or eighteen years ago.”
“Just after I’d left school.”
“Peter Templer,” he said. “That’s a curious coincidence.”
“You’ve heard about him lately?”
“I have, as a matter of fact. Of course I often used to run across him in the City before the war.”
“He’s attached to some ministry now in an advisory capacity, isn’t he?”
“Economic Warfare,” said Farebrother.
He fixed his very honest blue eyes on me. There was something a bit odd about the look.
“He told me he wasn’t very happy where he was,” he said, “and hearing I was making a change myself, thought I might be able to help.”
I did not see quite how Farebrother could help, but assumed that might be through civilian contacts, rather than from his own military status. Farebrother seemed to decide that he wanted to change the subject from Templer’s immediate career, giving almost the impression that he felt he might himself have been indiscreet. He spoke quickly again.
“The old man died years ago, of course,” he said. “He was an old devil, if ever there was one. Devil incarnate.”
I was a little surprised to hear Farebrother describe Peter Templer’s father in such uncomplimentary terms, because, when we had met before, he had emphasised what a “fine old man” he had thought Mr. Templer; been positively sentimental about his good qualities, not to mention having contributed a laudatory footnote of personal memoir to the official obituary in The Times. I was more interested to talk of Peter than his father, but Farebrother would allow no further details.
“Said more than I should already. You surprised it out of me by mentioning the name so unexpectedly.”
“So you’re leaving Command yourself, sir?”
“As I’ve begun being indiscreet, I’ll continue on that line. I’m going to one of the cloak-and-dagger shows.”
From time to time one heard whispers of these mysterious sideshows radiating from out of the more normal activities of the Services. In a remote backwater like the Divisional Headquarters where I found myself, they were named with bated breath. Farebrother’s apparent indifference to the prospect of becoming part of something so esoteric seemed immensely detached and nonchalant.
Nevertheless, the manner in which he made this statement, in itself not in the least indiscreet, was at the same time perhaps a shade self-satisfied.
“Getting a step too,” he said. “About time at my age.”
It was all at once clear as day that one of his reasons for coming round to Div. H.Q. was to inform Widmerpool of this promotion to lieutenant-colonel. The discovery that we had known each other in the past had removed all coolness from Farebrother’s manner. Now, he seemed, for some reason, even anxious to acquire me as an ally.
“How do you get on with our friend Kenneth?” he asked. “A bit difficult at times? Don’t you find that?”
I made no effort to deny the imputation. Widmerpool was grading low in my estimation at that moment. I saw no reason to conceal hard feelings about him. Farebrother was pleased at getting this affirmative reaction.
“I’ve no objection to a fellow liking to do things his own way,” he said, “but I don’t want a scrimmage about every new Army Council Instruction as soon as it appears. Don’t you agree? In that sort of respect Kenneth doesn’t know where to stop. Not only that, I found he’s behaved rather badly behind my back with your Corps’ M.G.A.”
It was news that Widmerpool’s activities behind the scenes had taken him as far up in that hierarchy as so relatively august a personage as the Major-General in charge of Administration at Corps H.Q.
“I mention that in confidence, of course,” said Farebrother, “and for your own guidance. Kenneth can be a little thoughtless at times about his own subordinates. I daresay you’ve found that. Not that I would say a word against Kenneth as a man or a staff officer. In many ways he’s wasted in this particular