In every club there is a club bore. The Coronation Club was no exception; and the fact that an air raid was in progress made no difference to normal procedure.
Major Porter, late Indian Army, rustled his newspaper and cleared his throat. Every one avoided his eye, but it was no use.
‘I see they’ve got the announcement of Gordon Cloade’s death in the Times,’ he said. ‘Discreetly put, of course. On Oct. 5th, result of enemy action. No address given. As a matter of fact it was just round the corner from my little place. One of those big houses on top of Campden Hill. I can tell you it shook me up a bit. I’m a Warden, you know. Cloade had only just got back from the States. He’d been over on that Government Purchase business. Got married while he was over there. A young widow—young enough to be his daughter. Mrs Underhay. As a matter of fact I knew her first husband out in Nigeria.’
Major Porter paused. Nobody displayed any interest or asked him to continue. Newspapers were held up sedulously in front of faces, but it took more than that to discourage Major Porter. He always had long histories to relate, mostly about people whom nobody knew.
‘Interesting,’ said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed absently on a pair of extremely pointed patent-leather shoes—a type of footwear of which he profoundly disapproved. ‘As I said, I’m a Warden. Funny business this blast. Never know what it’s going to do. Blew the basement in and ripped off the roof. First floor practically wasn’t touched. Six people in the house. Three servants: married couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade, his wife and the wife’s brother. They were all down in the basement except the wife’s brother—ex-Commando fellow—he preferred his own comfortable bedroom on the first floor—and by Jove, he escaped with a few bruises. The three servants were all killed by blast—Gordon Cloade was buried, they dug him out but he died on the way to hospital. His wife was suffering from blast, hadn’t got a stitch of clothing on her! but she was alive. They think she’ll pull through. She’ll be a rich widow—Gordon Cloade must have been worth well over a million.’
Again Major Porter paused. His eyes had travelled up from the patent-leather shoes—striped trousers—black coat—egg-shaped head and colossal moustaches. Foreign, of course! That explained the shoes. ‘Really,’ thought Major Porter, ‘what’s the club coming to? Can’t get away from foreigners even here.’ This separate train of thought ran alongside his narrative.
The fact that the foreigner in question appeared to be giving him full attention did not abate Major Porter’s prejudice in the slightest.
‘She can’t be more than about twenty-five,’ he went on. ‘And a widow for the second time. Or at any rate—that’s what she thinks…’
He paused, hoping for curiosity—for comment. Not getting it, he nevertheless went doggedly on:
‘Matter of fact I’ve got my own ideas about that. Queer business. As I told you, I knew her first husband, Underhay. Nice fellow—district commissioner in Nigeria at one time. Absolutely dead keen on his job—first-class chap. He married this girl in Cape Town. She was out there with some touring company. Very down on her luck, and pretty and helpless and all that. Listened to poor old Underhay raving about his district and the great wide-open spaces—and breathed out, “Wasn’t it wonderful?” and how she wanted “to get away from everything.” Well, she married him and got away from it. He was very much in love, poor fellow—but the thing didn’t tick over from the first. She hated the bush and was terrified of the natives and was bored to death. Her idea of life was to go round to the local and meet the theatrical crowd and talk shop. Solitude à deux in the jungle wasn’t at all her cup of tea. Mind you, I never met
