The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [23]
‘Are you sure I put it in the box?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘Codewords are vital.’
‘I know.’
‘I’d better make certain.’
He put on a greatcoat over his pyjamas, because the nights were still fairly cold. Then he began fumbling about with the keys, opening the cupboard and bringing out the cash-box. There was not much room in the Company Office at the best of time, when both beds were erected, scarcely any space at all in which to operate, so that the foot of my own bed was the only convenient ledge on which to rest the box while Gwatkin went through its contents. He began to sort out the top layer of papers, arranging them in separate piles over the foot of my bed, all over my greatcoat, which was serving as eiderdown. I sat up in bed, watching him strew my legs with official forms and instructional leaflets of one kind or another. He dealt them out with great care, as if diverting himself with some elaborate form of Patience, military pamphlets doing duty for playing cards. The deeper he delved into the cashbox, the more meticulously he arranged the contents. Among other items, he turned out a small volume bound in faded red cloth. This book, much tattered, was within reach. I picked it up. Opening at the fly-leaf: I read: R. Gwatkin, Capt.’, together with the designation of the Regiment. The title-page was that of a pocket edition of Puck of Pook’s Hill. Gwatkin gave a sudden grunt. He had found whatever he was seeking.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘Thank God. I remember now. I put it in a envelope in a special place at the bottom of the box.’
He began to replace the papers, one by one, in the elaborate sequence he had ordained for them. I handed him Puck of Pook’s Hill. He took the book from me, still apparently pondering the fearful possibilities consequent on failure to trace the codeword. Then he suddenly became aware I had been looking at the Kipling stories. He took the little volume from me, and pushed it away under a Glossary of Military Terms and Organization in the Field. For a second he seemed a shade embarrassed.
‘That’s a book by Rudyard Kipling,’ he said defensively, as if the statement explained something.
‘So I see.’
‘Ever read anything by him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Read this one?’
‘Ages ago.’
‘What did you think of it?’
‘I liked it.’
‘You’ve read a lot of books, haven’t you, Nick?’
‘I have to in my profession.’
Gwatkin locked the tin box and replaced it in the cupboard.
‘Turn the light out,’ he said. ‘And I’ll take the blackout down again.’
I switched out the light. He removed the window boards. I heard him arranging the greatcoat over himself in the bed.
‘I don’t expect you remember,’ he said, ‘but there’s a story in that book about a Roman centurion.’
‘Of course.’
‘That was the one I liked.’
‘It’s about the best.’
‘I sometimes read it again.’
He pulled the greatcoat higher over him.
‘I’ve read it lots of times really,’ he said. ‘I like it. I don’t like any of the others so much.’
‘The Norman knight isn’t bad.’
‘Not so good as the centurion.’
‘Do you like his other books?’
‘Whose?’
‘Kipling’s.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I know he wrote a lot of other books. I did try one of them. I couldn’t get on with it somehow.’
‘Which one did you try?’
‘I can’t remember the name. Can’t remember much about it, to tell the truth. I just didn’t like it. All written in a special sort of language I didn’t understand. I don’t read much. Got other things to do. It’s not like you, reading more or less as a business.’
He stopped speaking, was almost immediately asleep and breathing heavily. This was the first evidence come to light that anyone in the unit had ever read a book for pleasure, unless Bithel’s ‘digests’ might be thought to have brought him to a public library in search of some work on sexual psychology. This was an interesting discovery about Gwatkin. By now snores were sounding from the store. I rolled over towards the wall and slept too. The following day Gwatkin made