THE week that followed brought consolation.
Health returned to Guy’s knee. It had grown stronger every day while he was acquiring a habitual limp; the pain, lately, had come from the elastic bandage. Now, haunted by Apthorpe in the role of
doppel-gänger
, he abandoned stick and strapping and found he could move normally, and he fell in with his squad as proudly as on his second day in barracks.
At the same time the moustache which he had let grow for some weeks suddenly took shape, as suddenly as a child learns to swim one morning it was a straggle of hair, the next a firm and formal growth. He took it to a barber in the town who trimmed it and brushed it and curled it with a hot iron. He rose from the chair transmogrified. As he left the shop he noticed an optician’s over the street in whose window lay a single enormous china eyeball and a notice proclaiming:
FREE TESTS. EYE-GLASSES OF ALL KINDS FITTED WHILE YOU WAIT
. The solitary organ, the idiosyncratic choice of word ‘eyeglasses’ in preference to ‘spectacles’, the memory of the strange face which had just looked at him over the barber’s basin, the memory of countless German Uhlans in countless American films, drew him across.
‘I was thinking of a monocle,’ he said quite accurately.
‘Yes, Sir. Merely the plain lens for smart appearance, or do you suffer from faulty vision?’
‘It’s for shooting. I can’t see the target.’
‘Dear, dear,
that
won’t do, will it, sir?’
‘Can you cure it?’
‘We
must
, mustn’t we sir?’
Quarter of an hour later Guy emerged, having purchased for fifteen shillings a strong lens in a ‘rolled-gold’ double rim. He removed it from its false-leather purse, stopped before a window and stuck the glass in his right eye. It stayed there. Slowly he relaxed the muscles of his face; he stopped squinting. The monocle remained firmly in place. The man reflected to him had a cynical leer; he was every inch a junker. Guy returned to the optician. ‘I think I’d better have two or three more of these, in case I break one.’
‘I’m afraid that’s the only one I have, in stock of that particular strength.’
‘Never mind. Give me the nearest you have.’
‘Really, sir, the eye is a most delicate instrument. You shouldn’t play ducks and drakes with it. That is the lens for which you have been tested. It is the only one I can recommend professionally.’
‘Never mind!’
‘Well, sir, I have made my protest. The man of science demurs. The man of business submits.’
The monocle combined with the moustaches, set him up with his young companions, none of whom could have transformed himself so quickly. It also improved his shooting.
A few days after he bought it, they went to Mudshore to fire the Bren. Through his eye-glass Guy saw, distinct from the patchy snow, a plain white blob and hit it every time, not with notable marksmanship but as accurately as anyone else in his detail.
He did not attempt to keep the monocle permanently in his eye but he used it rather often and regained much of his lost prestige by discomforting the sergeant-instructor with it.
His prestige rose also with the renewed incidence of poverty. Palm lounges and dance halls cost dear and the first flood-tide of ready cash ebbed fast. Young officers began counting the days until the end of the month and speculating whether, now that their existence had once been recognized by the pay-office, they could depend on regular funds. One by one all Guy’s former clients returned to him; one or two others diffidently joined; and all, save Sarum-Smith, he helped (Sarum-Smith got a cold stare through the monocle), and although you could not say that the Halberdiers sold ‘the deference which youth owed to age’ for three or four pounds down, it was a fact that his debtors were more polite to him and often remarked to one another in extenuation of their small acts of civility: ‘Old Uncle Crouchback is an awfully generous good-natured fellow really.’
His life was further mitigated by his discovery of two agreeable retreats. The first was a small restaurant on the front called ‘the Garibaldi’ where Guy found Genoese cooking and a warm welcome. The proprietor was a part-time spy. This Giuseppe Pelecci, fat and philoprogenitive, welcomed Guy on his first visit as a possible source of variety in the rather monotonous and meagre lists of shipping which hitherto had been his sole contribution to his country’s knowledge, but when he found Guy spoke Italian, patriotism gave place to simple home-sickness. He had been born not far from Santa Dulcina and knew the Castello Crouchback. The two became more than
patron
and patron, more than agent and dupe. For the first time in his life Guy felt himself
simpatico
and he took to dining at the Garibaldi most evenings.
The second was the Southsand and Mudshore Yacht Squadron.
Guy found this particularly congenial resort in a way which was itself a joy, for it added some hard facts to the incomplete history of Apthorpe’s youth.
It would be a travesty to say that Guy suspected Apthorpe of lying. His claims to distinction – porpoise-skin boots, a High Church aunt in Tunbridge Wells, a friend who was on good terms with gorillas – were not what an impostor would invent in order to impress. Yet there was about Apthorpe a sort of fundamental implausibility. Unlike the typical figure of the J.D. lesson, Apthorpe tended to become faceless and tapering the closer he approached. Guy treasured every nugget of Apthorpe but under assay he found them liable to fade like faery gold. Only so far as Apthorpe was himself true, could his enchantment work its spell. Any firm passage between Apthorpe’s seemingly dreamlike universe and the world of common experience was a thing to cherish, and just such a way Guy found on the Sunday following his fiasco on Mudshore range; the start of the week which ended triumphantly with his curled moustaches and his single eye-glass.
Guy went alone to mass. There were no Halberdiers to march there and the only other Catholic officer was Hemp, the Trimmer of the Depot. Hemp was not over scrupulous in his religious duties, from which (he claimed to have read somewhere) all servicemen were categorically dispensed.
The church was as old as most buildings in Southsand and sombrely embellished by the legacies of many widows. In the porch, as he left, Guy was accosted by the neat old man who had earlier carried the collection plate.
‘I think I saw you here last week, didn’t I? My name is Goodall, Ambrose Goodall. I didn’t speak to you last Sunday as I didn’t know if you were here for long. Now I hear you are at Kut-al-Imara for some time, so may I welcome you to St Augustine’s?’
‘My name is Crouchback.’
‘A great name, if I may say so. One of the Crouchbacks of Broome perhaps?’
‘My father left Broome some years ago.’
‘Of course, yes, I know. Very sad. I make a study, in a modest way, of English Catholicism in penal times so of course Broome means a lot to me. I’m a convert myself. Still I daresay I’ve been a Catholic nearly as long as you have. I usually take a little turn along the front after mass. If you are walking back may I accompany you a short way?’
‘I’m afraid I ordered a taxi.’
‘Oh dear. I couldn’t induce you to stop at the Yacht Club? It’s on your way.’
‘I don’t think I can stop, but let me drop you there.’
‘That’s very kind. It is rather sharp this morning.’
As they drove away, Mr Goodall continued. ‘I’d like to do anything I can for you while you are here. I’d like to talk about Broome. I went there last summer. The sisters keep it very well all things considered.’
‘I might be able to show you round Southsand. There are some very interesting old bits. I know it very well. I was a master at Staplehurst House once, you see, and I stayed on all my life.’
‘You were at Staplehurst House?’
‘Not for very long. You see when I became a Catholic I had to leave. It wouldn’t have mattered at any other school but Staplehurst was so very High Church that of course they minded particularly.’
‘I
long
to hear about Staplehurst.’
‘Do you, Mr Crouchback? Do you? There’s not very much to tell. It came to an end nearly ten years ago. There were said to be abuses of the Confessional. I never believed it myself. You must be descended from the Grylls, too, I think. I have always had a particular veneration for the Blessed John Gryll. And, of course, for the Blessed Gervase Crouchback. Sooner or later they’ll be canonized, I’m quite sure of it.’
‘Do you by any chance remember a boy at Staplehurst called Apthorpe?’
‘Apthorpe? Oh dear, here we are at the Club. Are you sure I can’t induce you to come in?’
‘May I, after all? It’s earlier than I thought.’
The Southsand and Mudshore Yacht Squadron occupied a solid villa on the front. A flag and burgee flew from a pole on the front lawn. Two brass cannon stood on the steps. Mr Goodall led Guy to a chair in the plate-glass windows and rang the bell.
‘Some sherry, please, steward.’
‘It must be more than twenty years since Apthorpe left.’
‘That would he just the time I was there. The name seems familiar. I could look him up if you’re really interested. I keep all the old Mags.’
‘He’s with us at Kut-al-Imara
‘Then I will certainly look him up. He’s not a Catholic?’
‘No, but he has a High Church aunt.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Most of our boys did, but quite a number came into the church later. I try to keep touch with them but parish affairs take up so much time, particularly now that Canon Geoghan can’t get about as he did. And then I have my work. I had rather a hard time of it at first but I get along. Private tutoring, lectures at convents. You may have seen some of my reviews in the Tablet. They generally send me anything connected with heraldry.’
‘I’m sure Apthorpe would like to meet you again.’
‘Do you think he would? After all this time? But I must look him up first. Why don’t you bring him here to tea? My rooms aren’t very suitable for entertaining, but I’d be very pleased to see him here. You also stem from Wrottman of Speke, do you not?’
‘I’ve some cousins of that name.’
‘But not of Speke, surely? The Wrottman’s of Speke are extinct in the male line. Don’t you mean Wrottman of Garesby?’
‘Perhaps I do. They live in London.’
‘Oh yes, Garesby was demolished under the usurper George. One of the saddest things in all that whole unhappy century. The very stones were sold to a building contractor and dragged away by oxen.’
But when a few days later the meeting was arranged Guy and Apthorpe kept the conversation on the affairs of Staplehurst.
‘I was able to find two references to your football in the Mag. I copied them out. I’m afraid neither is very laudatory. First in November 1913. “
In the absence of Brinkman, Apthorpe acted as understudy in goal but repeatedly found the opposing forwards too strong for him.
” The score was 8-0. Then in February 1915: “
Owing to mumps we could only put up a scratch XI against St Otaf’s. Apthorpe in goal was unfortunately quite outclassed.
” Then in the summer of ’16 you are in the Vale column. It doesn’t give the name of your public school.’
‘No, sir. It was still rather uncertain at the time of going to press.’
‘Was he ever in your form?’
‘Were you, Apthorpe?’
‘Not exactly. We came to you for Church History.’
‘Yes. I taught that through the school. In fact I owe my conversion to it. Otherwise I only took the scholarship boys. You were never one of those, I think?’
‘No,’ said Apthorpe. ‘There was a muddle about it. My aunt wanted me to go to Dartmouth. But somehow I made a hash of the Admiral’s interview.’
‘I always think it’s too formidable an ordeal for a small boy. Plenty of good candidates fail purely on nerves.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that exactly. We just couldn’t seem to hit it off.’
‘Where
did
you go after leaving?’
‘I chopped and changed rather,’ said Apthorpe.
They ate their tea in deep leather armchairs before a fire. Presently Mr Goodall said: ‘I wonder if either of you would like to become temporary members of the club while you are here. It’s a cosy little place. You don’t have to have a yacht. That was the original idea but lots of our members can’t run to one nowadays. I can’t myself. But we keep up a general interest in yachting. There’s usually a very pleasant crowd in here between six and eight and you can get dinner if you give the steward a day’s notice.’
‘I should like it very much,’ said Guy.
‘There’s a lot to be said for it,’ said Apthorpe.
‘Then let me introduce you to our Commodore. I just saw him come in. Sir Lionel Gore, a retired Harley Street man. A very good fellow in his way.’
They were introduced. Sir Lionel spoke of the Royal Corps of Halberdiers and with his own hand filled in their entries in the Candidates Book, leaving a blank for the names of their yachts.
‘You’ll hear from the secretary in due course. In fact at the moment
I
am the secretary. If you’ll wait a minute I’ll make out your cards and post you on the board. We charge temporary members ten bob a month. I don’t think that’s unreasonable these days.’
So Guy and Apthorpe joined the Yacht Club, and Apthorpe said: ‘Thanks, Commodore’ when he was handed his ticket of membership.
It was dark and freezing hard when they left. Apthorpe had not yet recovered the full use of his leg and insisted on travelling by taxi.
As they drove back he said: ‘I reckon we are on a good thing there, Crouchback. I suggest we keep it to ourselves. I’ve been thinking lately, it won’t hurt to be a bit aloof with our young friends. Living cheek by jowl breeds familiarity. It may prove a bit awkward later when one’s commanding a company and they’re one’s platoon commanders.’
‘I shan’t ever get a company. I’ve been doing badly all round lately.’
‘Well, awkward for me, at any rate. Of, course, old man, I don’t mind being familiar, with you because I know you’d never try to take advantage of it. Can’t say the same for all the batch. Besides, you never know, you might get made second-in-command and that’s a captain’s appointment.’