‘Well probably. You must recall him. Tom knew him before the war. You must remember him.’
‘My dear, I was a child then.’
In the county the talk is well up to standard. And the county often meets, even when the roads are bad. There were cocktail parties in houses which once had known stronger drinks and fuller servants’ quarters, but here as ever gossip, like a leaf, whirled round and round, then with a spiral movement and on the hot breath of a matron, it was lifted upwards to unlikely heights.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ Jock said, when he heard or overheard such a conversation, and he clenched his fists and screwed up his face. But he never got further than that: instead he cracked that joke of his about red tabs and tits, which usually went down very well. He did not like to hear much talk of the Colonel; he said all the talk at the parties was childish; people going on as if the boy were Monty himself. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said.
‘He’s English, you know.’
‘Nonsense. He’s a connection of the jute Maclarens.’
‘Dundee?’
‘Originally.’
‘Really? He has money?’
‘I don’t know how much now.’
The ladies talked about him most at the cocktail parties, but in the swells’ club in the town and after dinner in some of the houses that still ran to dinner parties (proper style) his name came up again. The men treated it with a little more reserve.
‘Was he with the First Battalion?’
‘Can’t have been. Billy would have met him.’
‘He was S.A.S., wasn’t he?’
Then the older voice. ‘Only thing I know about him is he’s got a pair of Purdeys, and they say he can shoot with them: that’s more than that tyke Sinclair can do, at all events.’
A ‘hear, hear,’ a finishing of the glass, a moment or two spent in clearing away the dishes for the foreign girl, and it is time to join the ladies.
But the Colonel did not go to the dinner on the Thursday or on the Friday or to supper on the Sunday. He had to stack his invitations horizontally on his shelf, but he still replied to them all in his own neat hand. Each time he refused, and he gave as his reason pressure of work.
When at last, a month later, he invited the whole neighbourhood to a regimental cocktail party it was no surprise to anyone that there was hardly a refusal. The county had decided to come to the Colonel. And the drink had better be good.
And the drink was good. Whatever may be said about that Battalion’s fighting record or social performance no one but a Plymouth Sister could deny the quality of the drinks at one of the regimental parties. There were all sorts of drinks, and there were a great many of them. The officers saw that the stewards circulated amongst the guests swiftly and for a long time. It was impossible to hold an empty glass, and, perhaps consequently, it was impossible to believe that the party was not a howling success. Simpson and some of the other better-known young men were like perfect ushers at a wedding. They welcomed people as soon as they arrived in the ante-room, and they offered plates of savouries and silver boxes of cigarettes to two hundred guests. At the beginning – he’d had one for the road – Jock was pink in the eyes with social affability and he was holding guests male or female by the elbow, pretending to be listening to what they had to say. But often he glanced through the door to the hall where Barrow was greeting the guests.
Barrow made a point of shaking everybody’s hand. He had the dazed and silvery look of the bride’s father, and as he shook hands he said a word or two; then, as the guest replied, his eyes wandered to the next guest in the long queue. Everybody looked at him as if he were a waxwork that could talk, and although some of the sharper females dared a personal question, nobody was any the wiser at the completion of the ceremony.
The ante-room itself was very pleasant. Some of the worst armchairs and wicker tables had been moved out for the occasion. The tartan and the tweeds toned with the panelling of the walls and the wood toned well with the whisky. The chandeliers and the tumblers sparkled and the Mess servants made friends with some of the grand ladies which, after all, is always a sign of a good party.
The same grand ladies, when they were not making friends with the Mess servants or keeping Sandy Macmillan at a safe distance, concentrated on the Colonel. Some waited in their corners until he came to them while others, a little older and a little keener, moved through the throng to meet him. They all had a shot at penetrating his defences. Only one person had anything like a success, and she wished she had not spoken.
‘You ought to have had a girl friend to keep you company when you greeted us in the hall.’
A slight smile: ‘Yes? My Adjutant offered to help.’
‘We’ve got lots of presentable girls you know: you’d be surprised.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ll get you a wife.’
‘As a matter of fact I have had one of those.’
‘Oh. Oh, really?’ The girl put her weight back on one heel.
But it only added to the mystery of the man.
Even Morag had a try at opening the oyster. She was in her smartest cherry hat – one with a snout to it – and she wore a black tailored coat and court shoes. The Colonel found her alone, and he recognised her again, immediately. She refused a cigarette from his little silver case; it was one of those old-fashioned cases with a curve in it to fit closely to chest or hip. Morag was standing alone, not because she did not know anybody there, but because she liked to stand alone when she was not enjoying herself. Several officers had come to make conversation to her, but she frightened them away. Simpson tried valiantly.
‘What a smart hat!’
‘This thing?’
‘It’s awfully smart.’
‘Och, I picked it up in the sales for one-and-nine.’ Morag did not smile. Her common sense was almost militant.
‘How clever of you,’ Simpson replied pleasantly, but the answer was as sharp as before.
‘Not very. It’s just common sense. If you get up early enough you get the bargains.’
‘I think I’d be frightened to death. All those women fighting for the best bargain.’
‘Oh yes.’ She looked at him as if she thought him stupid, and he offered her some snacks, but she had no time for them.
‘Too fattening?’ Simpson suggested with a smile, and she replied, ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’
After that he was stuck with her for a little time and they talked about some of the other people near them. Then she said, ‘You’d better go and give them their sardines,’ and not with grace, but with relief, he took his opportunity.
But she was more forthcoming with the Colonel, who did not make the mistake of flattering her.
‘D’you enjoy things like this?’ she asked him, and before he had time to reply she said, ‘Neither do I,’ and he smiled.
‘They serve a purpose, I suppose.’
‘Colonel Barrow, I don’t fancy it’s the time or place …’ she said, and she hesitated. Barrow’s mouth tightened a little, and he looked at her severely. But nothing could stop Morag when she wanted to say something. She was as firm as the regimental Douglas Jackson.
‘Whatever Father’s said, don’t think I don’t see how difficult it must be for you …’ But there was no getting closer to the Colonel. He leant back on his heel, and looked round the room. She only saw the side of his face when he replied, ‘How kind of you to say so. You mustn’t worry.’