The Valley of Bones - Anthony Powell [83]
‘Ever been to Paris, Captain Gwatkin?’ he asked.
Gwatkin shot out a glance of profound disapproval.
‘No,’ he said sharply.
The answer conveyed that Gwatkin considered the question a ridiculous one, as if Bithel had asked if he had ever visited Lhasa or Tierra del Fuego. He continued to lecture Kedward on the principles of mobile warfare.
‘I’ve been to Paris,’ said Bithel.
He made a whistling sound with his lips to express a sense of great conviviality.
‘Went there for a weekend once,’ he said.
Gwatkin looked furious, but said nothing. A Mess waiter appeared and began to collect glasses on a tray. He was, as it happened, the red-faced, hulking young soldier, who, weeping and complaining his back hurt, had made such a disturbance outside the Company Office. Now, he seemed more cheerful, answering Bithel’s request for a final drink with the information that the bar was closed. He said this with the satisfaction always displayed by waiters and barmen at being in a position to make that particular announcement.
‘Just one small Irish,’ said Bithel. ‘That’s all I want.’
‘Bar’s closed, sir.’
‘It can’t be yet.’
Bithel tried to look at his watch, but the figures evidently eluded him.
‘I can’t believe the bar’s closed.’
‘Mess Sergeant’s just said so.’
‘Do get me another, Emmot – it is Emmot, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Do, do get me a whiskey, Emmot.’
‘Can’t sir. Bar’s closed.’
‘But it can be opened again.’
‘Can’t, sir.’
‘Open it just for one moment – just for one small whiskey.’
‘Sergeant says no, sir.’
‘Ask him again.’
‘Bar’s closed, sir.’
‘I beseech you, Emmot.’
Bithel rose to his feet. Afterwards, I was never certain what happened. I was sitting on the same side as Bithel and, as he turned away, his back was towards me. He lurched suddenly forward. This may have been a stumble, since some of the floorboards were loose at that place. The amount he had drunk did not necessarily have anything to do with Bithel’s sudden loss of balance. Alternatively, his action could have been deliberate, intended as a physical appeal to Emmot’s better feelings. Bithel’s wheedling tone of voice a minute before certainly gave colour to that interpretation. If so, I am sure Bithel intended no more than to rest his hand on Emmot’s shoulder in a facetious gesture, perhaps grip his arm. Such actions might have been thought undignified, bad for discipline, no worse. However, for one reason or another, Bithel lunged his body forward, and, either to save himself from falling, or to give emphasis to his request for a last drink, threw his arms round Emmot’s neck. There, for a split second, he hung. There could be no doubt about the outward impression this posture conveyed. It looked exactly as if Bithel were kissing Emmot – in farewell, rather than in passion. Perhaps he was. Whether or not that were so, Emmot dropped the tray, breaking a couple of glasses, at the same time letting out a discordant sound. Gwatkin jumped to his feet. His face was white. He was trembling with rage.
‘Mr Bithel,’ he said, ‘consider yourself under arrest.’
I had begun to laugh, but now saw things were serious. This was no joking matter. There was going to be a row. Gwatkin’s eyes were fanatical.
‘Mr Kedward,’ he said, ‘go and fetch your cap and belt.’
The alcove where we had been sitting was not far from the door leading to the great hall. There, on a row of hooks, caps and belts were left, before entering the confines of the Mess, so Kedward had not far to go. Afterwards, Kedward told me he did not