Kerstie was a good wife to Ian, personable, faithful, even-tempered and economical. All the pretty objects in their house had been bargains. Her clothes were cleverly contrived. She was sometimes suspected of fabricating the luncheon vin rosé by mixing the red and white wines left over from dinner; no more damaging charge was ever brought against her. Point by point she was the antithesis of her friend Virginia Troy.
On his going into uniform Ian’s income fell by £1,500. Kerstie did not complain. She packed her sons off to their grandmother in Ayrshire and took two friends named Brenda and Zita into her house as paying guests. She took them also, unpaid, into her canteen at No. 6 Transit Camp, London District. Kerstie was paid, not much but enough. The remuneration was negative; wearing overalls, eating free, working all day, weary at night, she spent nothing. When Virginia Troy, casually met during an air raid at the Dorchester Hotel, confided that she was hard up and homeless—though still trailing clouds of former wealth and male subservience—Kerstie took her into Eaton Terrace—“Darling, don’t breathe to Brenda and Zita that you aren’t paying”—and into her canteen—“Not a word, darling, that you’re being paid.”
Working as waitresses these ladies, so well brought up, giggled and gossiped about their customers like real waitresses. Before she began work Virginia was initiated into some of their many jokes. Chief of these, by reason of his long stay, was the officer they called “Scottie.” Scottie’s diverse forms of utter awfulness filled them with delight.
“Wait till you see him, darling. Just wait.”
Virginia waited a week. All the ladies preferred the “other ranks” canteen by reason of the superior manners which prevailed there. It was Easter Monday, after Virginia had been there a week, that she took her turn beside Kerstie at the officers’ bar.
“Here comes our Scottie,” said Kerstie and, nosy and knowing, Trimmer sauntered across the room towards them. He was aware that his approach always created tension and barely suppressed risibility and took this as a tribute to his charm.
“Good evening, beautiful,” he said in his fine, free manner. “How about a packet of Players from under the counter?” and then, seeing Virginia, he fell suddenly silent, out of it, not up to it, on this evening of all evenings.
Fine and free, nosy and knowing, Trimmer had seemed, but it was all a brave show, for that afternoon the tortoise of total war had at last overtaken him. A telephone message bade him report next day at H.O.O. H.Q. at a certain time, to a certain room. It boded only ill. He had come to the bar for stimulus, for a spot of pleasantry with “les girls” and here, at his grand climacteric, in this most improbable of places, stood a portent, something beyond daily calculation. For in his empty days he had given much thought to his escapade with Virginia in Glasgow. So far as such a conception was feasible to Trimmer, she was a hallowed memory. He wished now Virginia were alone. He wished he were wearing his kilt. This was not the lovers’ meeting he had sometimes adumbrated at his journey’s end.
On this moment of silence and uncertainty Virginia struck swiftly with a long, cool and cautionary glance.
“Good evening, Trimmer,” she said.
“You two know each other?” asked Kerstie.
“Oh yes. Well. Since before the war,” said Virginia.
“How very odd.”
“Not really, is it, Trimmer?”
Virginia, as near as is humanly possible, was incapable of shame, but she had a firm residual sense of the appropriate. Alone, far away, curtained in fog—certain things had been natural in Glasgow in November which had no existence in London, in spring, amongst Kerstie and Brenda and Zita.
Trimmer recovered his self-possession and sharply followed the line.
“I used to do Mrs. Troy’s hair,” he said, “on the Aquitania.”
“Really? I crossed in her once. I don’t remember you.”
“I was rather particular in those days what customers I took.”
“That puts you in your place, Kerstie,” said Virginia. “He was always an angel to me. He used to call himself Gustave then. His real name’s Trimmer.”
“I think that’s rather sweet. Here are your cigarettes, Trimmer.”
“Ta. Have one?”
“Not on duty.”
“Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
Without another glance he sauntered off, disconcerted, perplexed but carrying himself with an air. He wished he had been wearing his kilt.
“You know,” said Kerstie, “I think that rather spoils our joke. I mean there’s nothing very funny about his being what he is when one knows what he is—is there?—if you see what I mean.”
“I see what you mean,” said Virginia.
“In fact, it’s all rather sweet of him.”
“Yes.”
“I must tell Brenda and Zita. He won’t mind, will he? I mean he won’t disappear from our lives now we know his secret?”
“Not Trimmer,” said Virginia.
*
Next morning at 1000 hours General Whale looked sadly at Trimmer and asked:
“McTavish, what is your state of readiness?”
“How d’you mean, sir?”
“Is your section all present and prepared to move immediately?”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so.”
“Suppose so?” said G.S.O. II (Planning). “When did you last inspect them?”
“Well, we haven’t exactly had any actual inspection.”
“All right, Charles,” interposed General Whale, “I don’t think we need go into that. McTavish, I’ve some good news for you. Keep it under your hat. I’m sending you on a little operation.”
“Now, sir? Today?”
“Just as soon as it takes the navy to lay on a submarine. They won’t keep you hanging about long, I hope. Move to Portsmouth tonight. Make out your own list of demolition stores and check it with Ordnance there. Tell your men it’s routine training. All right?”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir.”
“Good. Well, go with Major Albright to the planning-room and he’ll put you in the picture. Kilbannock will be with you, but purely as an observer, you understand. You are in command of the operation. Right?”
“Yes, I think so, sir, thank you.”
“Well, in case I don’t see you again, good luck.”
When Trimmer had followed G.S.O. II (Planning) and Ian Kilbannock from the room, General Whale said to his A.D.C., “Well, he took that quite quietly.”
“I gather there’s not much prospect of opposition.”
“No. But McTavish didn’t know that, you know.”
Trimmer remained quiet while he was “put in the picture.” It was significant, Ian Kilbannock reflected while he listened to the exposition of G.S.O. II (Planning) that his metaphoric use of “picture” had come into vogue at the time when all the painters of the world had finally abandoned lucidity. G.S.O. II (Planning) had a little plastic model of the objective of “Popgun.” He had air photographs and transcripts of pilots’ instructions. He spoke of tides, currents, the phases of the moon, charges of gun-cotton, fuses and detonators. He drafted a move order. He designated with his correct initials the naval authority to whom Popgun Force should report. He gave the time of the train to Portsmouth and the place of accommodation there. He delivered a stern warning about the need for “security.” Trimmer listened agape but not aghast, in dreamland. It was as though he were being invited to sing in Grand Opera or to ride the favorite in the Derby. Any change from No. 6 Transit Camp, London District, was a change for the worse, but he had come that morning with the certainty that those paradisal days were over. He had expected, at the best, to be sent out to rejoin Hookforce in the Middle East, at the worst to rejoin his regiment in Iceland. Popgun sounded rather a lark.
When the conference was over Ian said: “The Press will want to know something of your background when this story is released. Can you think up anything colorful?”
“I don’t know. I might.”
“Well, let’
s get together this evening. Come to my house for a drink before the train. I expect you’ve got a lot to do now.”
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
“You haven’t by any chance lost that section of yours, have you?”
“Not exactly. I mean, they must be somewhere around.”
“Well, you’d better spend the day finding them, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose I ought,” said Trimmer gloomily.
*
This was the day when the ladies in Eaton Terrace kept their weekly holiday. Kerstie had arranged substitutes so that all four could be at liberty together. They slept late, lunched in hotels, did their shopping, went out with men in the evenings. At half-past six all were at home. The black-out was up; the fire lighted. The first sirens had not yet sounded. Brenda and Zita were in dressing-gowns. Zita’s hair was in curling-pins and a towel. Brenda was painting Kerstie’s toe-nails. Virginia was still in her room. Ian intruded on the scene.
“Have we anything to eat?” he asked. “I’ve brought a chap I’ve got to talk to and he’s catching a train at half past eight.”
“Well, well, well,” said Trimmer, entering behind him. “This is a surprise for all concerned.”
“Captain McTavish,” said Ian, “of No. X Commando.”
“Oh, we know him.”
“Do you? Do they?”
“Behold a hero,” said Trimmer. “Just off to death or glory. Do I understand one of you lovelies is married to this peer of the realm?”
“Yes,” said Kerstie, “I am.”
“What is all this?” asked Ian, puzzled.
“Just old friends meeting.”
“There’s nothing to eat,” said Kerstie, “except some particularly nasty-looking fish. Brenda and Zita are going out and Virginia says she doesn’t want anything. There’s some gin.”
“Does Mrs. Troy live here too, then?” asked Trimmer.
“Oh yes. All of us. I’ll call her.” Kerstie went to the door and shouted: “Virginia, look what’s turned up.”
“There’s something here I don’t understand,” said Ian.
“Never mind, darling. Give Trimmer some gin.”
“Trimmer?”
“That’s what we call him.”
“I think perhaps I won’t stay,” said Trimmer, punctured suddenly at the thought of Virginia’s proximity.
“Oh rot,” said Ian. “There’s a lot I want to ask you. We may not have time at Portsmouth.”
“What on earth are you and Trimmer going to do at Portsmouth?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Really, how odd they are being.”
Then Virginia joined them, modestly wrapped in a large bathtowel.
“What’s this?” she said. “Guests? Oh, you again? You do get around, don’t you?”
“I’m just going,” said Trimmer.
“Virginia, you must be nicer to him. He’s off to death or glory, he says.”
“That was just a joke,” said Trimmer.
“Obviously,” said Virginia.
“Virginia,” said Kerstie.
“I can get something to eat at the canteen,” said Trimmer. “I ought to go and make sure that none of my fellows has given me the slip.”
Ian concluded that he was in the presence of a mystery which like so many others, come war, come peace, was beyond his comprehension.
“All right,” he said. “If you must. We’ll meet at the seaside tomorrow. I’m afraid you’ll never get a taxi here.”
“It isn’t far.”
So Trimmer went out into the darkness and the sirens began to wail.
“Well, I must say,” said Ian, returning to them. “That was all very awkward. What was the matter with you all?”
“He’s a friend of ours. We somehow didn’t expect him here, that’s all.”
“You weren’t awfully welcoming.”
“He’s used to our little ways.”
“I give it up,” said Ian. “How about this horrible fish?”
But later when he and Kerstie were alone in their room, she came clean.
“… and what’s more,” she concluded, “if you ask me, there’s something rum between him and Virginia.”
“How do you mean rum?”
“Darling, how is anything ever rum between Virginia and anyone?”
“Oh, but that’s impossible.”
“If you say so, darling.”
“Virginia and McTavish?”
“Well, didn’t they seem rum to you?”
“Something was rum. You all were, it seemed to me.”
After a pause Kerstie said: “Weren’t those bombs rather near?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Shall we go down?”
“If you think you’d sleep better.”
They carried their sheets and blankets into the area kitchen where iron bedsteads stood along the walls. Brenda and Zita and Virginia were already there, asleep.
“It’s important about his having been a hairdresser. A first-class story.”
“Darling, you surely aren’t going to write about our Trimmer?”
“I might,” said Ian. “You never know. I might.”
III
At Sidi Bishr camp in the brigade office, Tommy Blackhouse said:
“Guy, what’s all this about your consorting with spies?”
“What indeed?” said Guy.
“I’ve a highly confidential report here from Security. They have a suspect, an Alsatian priest, they’ve been watching. They’ve identified you as one of his contacts.”
“The fat boy with the broom?” said Guy.
“No, no, an R.C. priest.”
“I mean was it a fat boy with a broom who reported me?”
“They do not as a rule include portraits of their sources of information.”
“It’s true I went to confession in Alexandria on Saturday. It’s one of the things we have to do now and then.”
“So I’ve always understood. But this report says that you went round to the house where he lives and tried to get hold of him out of school.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“What a very odd thing to do. Why?”
“Because as a matter of fact, I thought he was a spy.”
“Well, he was.”
“Yes, I thought so.”
“Look here, Guy, this may be a serious matter. Why the devil didn’t you report it?”
“Oh, I did, at once.”
“Who to?”
“The brigade major.”
Major Hound, who was sitting at a neighboring table relishing what he took to be Guy’s discomfiture, started sharply.
“I received no report,” he said.
“I made one,” said Guy. “Don’t you remember?”
“No. I certainly don’t.”
“I told you myself.”
“If you had, there would be a note of it in my files. I checked them this morning before you came in, as a matter of fact.”
“The day the C.-in-C. gave me a lift home.”
“Oh,” said Hound, disconcerted. “That? I thought that you were trying to pull my leg.”
“For Christ’s sake,” said Tommy. “Did Guy make a report to you or didn’t he?”
“I think he did say something,” said Major Hound, “in the most irregular fashion.”
“And you took no action?”
“No. It was not an official report.”
“Well, you’d better draft an official report to these jokers, letting Guy out.”
“Very good, colonel.”
So Major Hound wrote in the finest Staff College language that Captain Crouchback had been investigated and the deputy commander of Hookforce was satisfied that there had been no breach of security on the part of that officer. And this letter, together with the original report, was photographed and multiplied and distributed and deposited in countless tin boxes. In time a copy reached Colonel Grace-Groundling-Marchpole in London.
&nbs
p; “Do we file this under ‘Crouchback’?”
“Yes, and under ‘Box-Bender’ too, and ‘Mugg.’ It all ties in,” he said gently, sweetly rejoicing at the underlying harmony of a world in which duller minds discerned mere chaos.
IV
Trimmer and his section lay long at Portsmouth. The navy were hospitable, incurious, not to be hurried. Ian traveled up and down to London as the whim took him. The ladies in his house were full of questions. Trimmer had become a leading topic among them.
“You’ll hear in good time,” said Ian, further inflaming their interest.
Trimmer’s sergeant knew something about demolition. He made a successful trial explosion in an enclosed fold of the hills. The experiment was repeated a day or two later in the presence of G.S.O. II (Planning) H.O.O. H.Q. and one of the men was incapacitated. One day Popgun Force was embarked in a submarine and Trimmer explained the projected operation. An hour later they were put ashore again, on a report of new mine-laying in the Channel. From that time they were placed virtually under close arrest in the naval barracks. Trimmer’s batman, a man long manifestly mutinous, took the occasion to desert. This information was badly received at H.O.O. H.Q.
“Strictly speaking of course, sir,” said G.S.O. II (Planning), “Popgun should be canceled. Security has been compromised.”
“This is no time for strict speaking,” said D.L.F. H.O.O. “—security.”
“Quite, sir. I only meant McTavish will look pretty silly if he finds the enemy waiting for him.”
“He looks pretty silly to me now.”
“Yes, sir. Quite.”
So eventually Popgun Force re-embarked, comprising Trimmer, his sergeant, five men and Ian. Even thus depleted they seemed too many.
They sailed at midday. The ship submerged and immediately all sense of motion, all sense of being at sea, utterly ceased. It was like being in a tube train, Ian thought, stuck in the tunnel.
He and Trimmer were invited to make themselves comfortable in the comfortless little cell that was called the wardroom. The sergeant was in the Petty Officers’ mess. The men were disposed among the torpedoes.