claret. He certainly would not have noticed had he been served with a glass of burgundy instead, but it was quite obvious that Barrow was something of an expert, and Jimmy drew him on the subject. Then at last he returned to the subject of the Colonel’s previous employment. Barrow shrugged.
‘Most of my time was spent with M.I.5.’
‘That must have been a terrible strain.’
The Colonel nodded. He did not seem to want to discuss his work. ‘It was quite enjoyable: I suppose it took a lot out of one.’ But it had not been as adventurous as it sounded.
‘I’m sure it did. Whatever they say it’s that nervous work, and brain work too, that tires a man out. Did you have much leave before you came up here?’
‘Ten days.’
Jimmy smiled. ‘And you wonder why you were a bit ratty tonight? Ten days is not enough. It seems to me you’ve been very patient.’
‘There were actually other things …’ The Colonel looked up doubtfully, and Jimmy was staring at him with solemn sympathy. ‘I had a marriage you know. I had a wife.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, it’s all over now really. But that was one of the reasons I accepted this job, you know: a change. I’d been rather lonely, I suppose.’ He paused, and started again. ‘I think perhaps all of us who were prisoners in the East are a little cranky now. D’you think that?’
‘Och no,’ Jimmy said, into his glass.
‘No? I do. All of us who were in Jap hands. That’s what my wife believed, anyway. She was quite sure of it. She had a friend too, whose husband … well, there are hundreds of examples. I suppose we got a touch of the sun. Or …’ Quite suddenly he decided not to go on. He just stopped.
Jimmy moved his glass in a little circle, on the tablecloth, and some cigarette ash piled up beside it.
‘Och,’ he said, ‘a change of colonel always takes time. When the next man comes along it’ll be just the same.’ And the Colonel leant back. He finished his claret and collected himself.
‘Oh, good heavens, yes,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t pay too much attention to me. These damned social things always unnerve me. But I knew before I came here what it would be like. They told me about Jock.’
‘Jock’s the hell of a man.’
‘A great soldier.’
Jimmy said, ‘You’re not a dog in the manger, Colonel,’ and Barrow shrugged.
‘Strange,’ he said. ‘One man’s goal can mean … well, quite honestly, not very much to another. I mean, I’m only here really for battalion experience. I expect in a year or two I’ll …’
‘Brigade level?’
‘Well, if not, some special thing. A battalion would bore me, you know, after a while.’ He seemed suddenly more confident and Jimmy was astonished at the change. It was only when they were leaving the dining-room that the buoyancy failed.
‘Of course, all that’s between you and me, Jimmy. You understand nothing’s certain. I mean, it may turn out I never go farther at all, I …’
‘I understand.’
‘How late it is. Not a bad dinner, really.’
‘Damned good, thank you.’
‘No thanks, please.’
NINE
THERE WAS A smile on the face of both tigers. But then there was nearly always a smile on Mary Titterington’s face. Anyhow, it was for her a little triumph that Jock should decide to call again after all that time. She bowed her head low, she swept back the door, and she followed him into the living-room. Then she went to the cupboard and brought out the bottle of whisky. It was cold after lunch; the sun had gone in and the clouds were gathering for snow again. Mary had only just been out to get some shillings for the meter, and the room was not yet warm. Jock looked at her closely, and reckoned she was looking well. It was Jock who first said that rude thing about her which best described the expression on her face: that curious smile. He said that she always looked as though she’d just had it. And Charlie said he was probably right.
Mary must have been over thirty. She came from Belfast, and she had failed to make a success of the London stage. In spite of the chiselled face, and the rather alluring expression, she had only been in one film. She had a figure that could be photographed from every angle, and had been from most, but – after all that – she came north to a repertory company. On the occasions when she had had a good night’s sleep she was still capable of a first-class performance. But her soul was not so much in her face, any more: there was only this smile. And with the soul from her face, the Irish had gone from her voice. Once in a bottle, maybe, and usually near the end of it, both would suddenly return. But it was a good thing they reappeared so seldom, because Jock had little time for them: time neither for the soul, nor the Irish.
She lived in flat number 3 in a big house overlooking the park, and Jock had taken the stairs a little too quickly. He was very red, and out of breath.
‘Hullo,’ he said, with a roving eye, and she looked at him closely.
‘Have you been drinking for long?’
‘No, lass. I’ve not been drinking for long.’
After a struggle Jock was free of his greatcoat and he threw it over a chair in the corner. The room had been severely modernised. The tiled fireplace had been boarded in; there was wallpaper on the ceiling and on two of the walls. It was all very surprising, for the North.
‘You’ve just been drinking all today.’
‘I have not.’
‘You’ve had a few.’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Your eyes.’
‘That’s very romantic,’ Jock said, sitting down on the sofa. ‘And what the hell’s wrong with my eyes?’
‘They’re pink.’
‘You’re bloody rude.’
When she had poured out their drinks she put the cork back in the bottle and tucked her feet up on the sofa. She was small enough to fold into a neat parcel and she had very good legs. Jock was sitting as if he had had a very large lunch, and his stomach was full.
He said, ‘You’re rude. That’s what you are.’
She brushed some ash from her pleated skirt and the bracelets on her arms clinked together as she tipped back her glass. Jock continued.
‘Are you surprised to see me?’
She did not look in the least surprised, but she said, ‘Mm.’
Jock said, ‘You’re looking very well.’
‘I just got up.’
‘You’re
