‘I can’t see how that applies in my case. It’s a generalization.’ Mary realized, as she rose and thrust her right arm into her coat sleeve, that she had never liked Wilhelmina Fischer. Wilhelmina Fischer had contributed considerably to the miseries of the last few years. She made one feel one was mentally disturbed.
The women shook hands and bid one another farewell on the doorstep of the clinic.
‘God speed,’ said Mary, feeling, directly she had pronounced the words, that they were inappropriate.
While Wilhelmina Fischer was moving towards Exeter and extinction, you marched along Park Street, Southampton, towards Number 19, where Uncle Bertie Wilberforce and his family lived. You hoped that your uncle would be away.
Before you presented yourself on your Aunt Violet’s doorstep, a young, chubby boy, of pink complexion, appeared from the back garden, round the side of the house, blowing a tiny silver trumpet of the kind to be found hanging off pre-war Christmas trees. The trumpet emitted a shrill note as the boy marched right up to you. ‘Being carefree,’ he said, addressing your Sam Browne, ‘Being carefree is a thing like a motto, but I don’t know what. I’m always being something. Not a motto, though. Ha ha ha.’
‘Hello, Dougie,’ you said. ‘Is your mother in?’
‘She’s in charge of the Virol. Mistress of Virol! Know what Virol looks like? Like the mess what Lillie Reader made in her nick-nacks when our form were in the gym, swinging on the handlebars. We all laughed except Lillie.’
That silly forgotten scene … As he was speaking, another figure emerged from the back garden, pushing aside the buds of a hazelnut tree. It was your Uncle Claude. He looked somewhat disconcerted to see you standing there, but covered his embarrassment quickly.
‘Morning, Steve! Just came to see how this young rogue was getting on at school. Must be off. Dougie, follow me, you little blighter.’
He grasped the boy’s arm and began to drag him away, promising the child a stick of rock ‘down at the port’.
You were slightly surprised by this encounter, but, after all, it seemed to be no business of yours. You were in any case more concerned with the impression your appearance would make on your dear aunt.
You were smartly dressed in your new khaki uniform, with the pips of a Second Lieutenant on your shoulders. You were fresh out of OCTU. Your hair was slicked down with Brylcreem and you wore a cap. Your shoes were shining. You had a moustache of a kind. When you rang the bell, Violet opened the door after some delay, looking flushed and dishevelled.
‘Golly! Steve, I hardly recognized you in that get-up. Do you want to come in?’
Since she seemed reluctant, you said sharply that that was the general idea. She stood back. You entered the familiar hall. You recognized the heavily-carved hall-stand, with a mirror in its middle and a wooden bear’s head snarling at the crown of it. A child’s fairy cycle was propped against it. Of course, you remembered, Violet had two children, not only the garrulous Douglas, but his more silent sister, Joyce. It would be Douglas’ bike. Thank God Joyce would probably be at school, you thought. There was something more intimate in your mind, which you attempted to keep from consciousness. You had expected that when your aunt saw you spick and span in your officer’s uniform she would fall into your arms. Instead she was giving a little snigger and saying that you were, in her phrase, all done up like a dog’s dinner.
‘Better come into the kitchen,’ she said unceremoniously, leading the way through to the rear of the house. Her face was flushed and unhappy. You felt annoyed because she had not kissed you; you had no concern for her.
You were not best pleased to see your Uncle Bertie there, in his old brown-striped suit, his tie badly knotted. He was leaning against the sink with his arms folded. The kitchen smelt stale and cheerless; you had remembered it as a cosy place. A plate with a half-eaten piece of toast lay on the table.
‘We were having a good old row,’ said Violet, with an imitation of her previous brightness. ‘Do you want a sherry?’ she asked you.
When you hesitated, she added, ‘It’s all we’ve got in this house of parsimony.’
‘Because you’ve guzzled all the gin,’ said her husband. He was regarding his wife with a look that seemed to contain hatred and fear. He then said, ‘I don’t want to come home and find Claude hanging round here again.’
‘Sorry if I’ve come at an awkward moment, Uncle,’ you said, with a tone intended to indicate that sorrow was only skin deep.
‘There are plenty of those round here,’ he responded, without removing his gaze from Violet. ‘Plenty and to bloody spare.’
A large ginger cat, which had possibly fled the room when the row was in full swing, slunk back in, jumped up on a kitchen chair and curled itself into a ball. Violet filled two glasses with a dark sherry and handed one to you. Her hand was shaking. Taking the glass with a frown, you directed a look towards Bertie. ‘You’re not having one?’
‘Can’t afford to drink, my lad. I leave all that to your aunt.’
‘Well, cheers!’
Neither of them made any response. Bertie continued to lean against the sink; he now gazed down at the floor. He seemed to have aged considerably since you last saw him. Violet, too, looked less bright and sassy than she had done. She was wearing no lipstick. She stood now on the far side of the kitchen table, her glass half-raised to her mouth. A clock was inset in one door of the kitchen dresser. It gave a loud tick.
‘So you’re an officer, Steve,’ said Bertie with an attempt at geniality. ‘Going to have a crack at the Boche, eh?’
‘Sooner or later, yes. That’s the general idea. I’ll be in the tank corps.’
Bertie pulled a face, as if dismissing such an odd notion.
‘We were all Socialists in my day. What made you wish to become an officer?’
‘I wanted to be able to shout at people.’ The phrase had become your standard joke. You expected people to laugh at it. You never saw below the surface – that it was no joke, that you felt your parents had mistreated you, that other people did not value you, and that you could get your own back by shouting and bullying.
Your uncle did not laugh. ‘Your father tells me you were at OCTU. Who did you shout at there?’ He shot glances at you before turning his gaze once more to his shoes.
You did not like the question.
‘At an Officer Cadet Training Unit, you learn to control men. That’s the essence of what being an officer means. You have squads of ordinary soldiers you have to drill. Discipline, you know, Uncle, discipline. Necessary in times of war.’
‘Did the, what you call “ordinary soldiers”, enjoy this drill?’
A vivid picture came into your head. You were standing erect at one end of the parade ground. The squad was three hundred yards distant from you at the other end of the parade ground, marching like robots, arms swinging, faultlessly in step, the noise of their progress echoing against the stern surrounding buildings. ‘Straighten up there,’ you bawled. ‘March as if you mean it. Squad. Ri-i-ght. WHEEEEL!’
‘They weren’t there to enjoy it,’ you told your uncle. ‘They were in the army. They were just part of the system.’
‘But you had a good time,’ Bertie insinuated.
‘Oh, leave the poor lad alone!’ shouted Violet. ‘I should hope he did have a good time. Why should he want to be in the bloody ranks? You’re on embarkation leave now, aren’t you, Steve?’
‘How did you know?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Your father told