Lieutenant of the Line Read online

  With his tongue he made a kind of conversation with Mrs. Colonel Bates of the S. and T., but his mind was upon Mary; and mentally he drifted back to the reception at the head of the staircase, and Mary’s arrival.

  He had introduced her to his mother, who had held herself a little stiffly. ‘Oh, so this is Mrs. Archdale,’ she had said. ‘How d’you do.’

  ‘How d’you do, Lady Ogilvie.’

  Lady Ogilvie, without appearing to do so, was looking her over. ‘I’m so glad you were able to come, even though your husband could not.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to be here.’ Briefly Mary had caught Ogilvie’s eye when he was supposed to be concentrating on an arriving bishop; and had then passed on to Sir Iain into whose ear, when Mary had moved away, Lady Ogilvie had whispered something; and a little later, when Ogilvie had happened to be right behind his parents, he had overheard a snatch of conversation.

  ‘Yes, the commode feller,’ Sir Iain had been saying. ‘Must say I liked the look of her.’

  ‘Really? I thought her fast.’

  Sir Iain had chuckled. ‘You would, Fiona. Must say I wouldn’t mind a tumble with her.’

  ‘Don’t be so coarse, Iain, you know I detest such talk. That young woman’s no better than she should be. I only hope James…’

  They had been interrupted then and he had never heard what his mother hoped about him, but he could guess well enough. He forced his mind away from Mary now and did his best to concentrate on Colonel Bates’s lady, who was asking him if he played polo. ‘Yes, I’ve played,’ he told her. ‘Not with any distinction, I’m afraid. I’ll need a lot more practice, Mrs. Bates.’

  ‘Oh, but really, I’m sure you’re being much too modest, Mr. Ogilvie,’ she gushed. She had a big face, over-powdered, with thick lips and a big teeth; she repelled him. ‘My husband has his own side, of course. I’m sure you’ve heard of them. Bates’s Hell-Raisers.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t,’ he said. It was an error, as he realized at once; Mrs. Bates was quite clearly offended. She said, ‘Oh, but of course you’ve not been long in India.’ She tried again. ‘Do you race?’

  ‘Personally? Or—’

  ‘No, no, Mr. Ogilvie. Do you care for race meetings?’

  ‘Oh. No, Not really.’

  ‘Oh, I am surprised. Most young officers...and it’s such fun at Annandale. I simply

  adore going, but Colonel Bates so seldom has the time to take me, don’t you know.’ After a brief pause she prattled on again. ‘I expect you enjoy pig-sticking. Colonel Bates has quite a reputation at it, you know.’ Pride touched her voice, almost reverence. ‘Why, he’s even known as Piggy Bates in the Corps.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure he would be only too pleased to teach you some of the tricks of the sport, Mr. Ogilvie.’

  He shook his head; as he did so the corsage came closer. He took a quick look over his shoulder; the blancmange was almost upon him in rear, while to right and left he was hemmed in by gossiping senior ladies. Rather in desperation he said, ‘no, thank you, Mrs. Bates, I think pig-sticking is a pretty cruel sport really. Don’t you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Mrs. Bates answered coldly, and looked around. She caught the eye of a whiskery, bleary major and at once excused herself. Ogilvie realized he had saved himself from boredom and blancmange at the expense of making an enemy, if an S. and T. wife could be considered harmful. He blew out a long breath; he had spoken no more than the truth. He thought pig-sticking utterly revolting in its senseless cruelty. He had, in fact, taken part in it once because it had been expected of him; but never again. He had always managed to find excuses thereafter, whether or no Captain Andrew Black had liked it. Black was keen himself, very keen, partly because he was a sadistic man anyway and partly because he was a social climber and blood sports were decidedly upper class. What Black’s socially doubtful steel-master background could never give him, horsemanship and bloody sport could in some degree make up for; and Black was a very insecure man basically. To Ogilvie there was something horrible and even insane about a troop of grown officers and gentlemen pounding on horseback after a hapless pig, running for its life from the lowered lances, and something devilish in the glee of those gentlemen when they had driven their weapons into the poor animals’ squealing, sweat-lathered bodies. No doubt it was excellent training for the cavalry; Ogilvie was thankful to be an infantryman.

  He moved clear of the buffet before he could be hemmed in again. Circulating, he saw Mrs. Bates now pouring anger into the ear of a small, hunted-looking man in the uniform of an S. and T. lieutenant-colonel. Ogilvie grinned to himself ; poor Colonel Bates! He scarcely had the look of a man whose prowess at pig-sticking had earned him the sobriquet of Piggy.

  A high-pitched voice said, ‘hullo there, James. Enjoying yourself, I have no doubt?’

  Turning, Ogilvie saw his cousin Hector. Hector was clutching a glass of soda water, and the pallor of his face, white even in the heat generated by the throngs of guests, was accentuated by the black tails. There was a curious expression on his face; clearly, he was not enjoying himself. Ogilvie, answering the question, said, ‘yes, indeed, Hector. Wonderful party. Decent of my people to put all this on. Must be costing a fortune!’

  ‘Indeed it must, yes. Very generous, as you say.’ Hector looked around with a supercilious lift to his sandy eyebrows. ‘Some of your—ah—cloth seem to be taking the fullest possible advantage, James. Have you noticed?’

  ‘You mean the drinks?’

  ‘Of course I mean the drinks.’

  ‘If I have noticed, I haven’t let it worry me too much.’

  ‘Oh? I think it’s rather horrid, rather disgusting really, but possibly you’re used to it in Peshawar.’

  Ogilvie felt nettled. ‘You sound as though you think we all get blotto every night. We don’t. On the other hand…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There are times when a man has to let go a little, and in India the best way of doing that is to have a bit of a party.’

  ‘I don’t think drink is ever necessary.’

  ‘Don’t you? You try a full day out in open country on tactical exercises,’ Ogilvie said cheerfully, ‘and see if you’re satisfied with a glass of soda water at—’

  ‘James, you wretched military men are all the same. Any excuse will do.’ Hector paused, his watery eyes scanning his cousin’s face through the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘James, tell me : What do you do on these exercises? Isn’t it all somewhat old-fashioned stuff?’

  Ogilvie nodded. ‘A lot of it is. Tactics haven’t changed much for a great many years, as a matter of fact. Of course, troops out from home have a devil of a lot to learn about fighting on the North-West Frontier. It’s not quite like Colchester or Chatham!’

  ‘Yes,’ Hector said. He hadn’t appeared to be listening very attentively. ‘You know, James, I’ve not been out here long, but I’ve kept my eyes open. The impression I have is that Whitehall has no conception of what goes on out here.’

  ‘I expect you’re absolutely right, Hector. We—’

  ‘The huge sums of money that are being wasted, simply chucked away. You know what I mean. Grossly overinflated military staffs, too many servants...too many parties—’

  ‘Not at government expense!’ Ogilvie snapped, furious at the bad manners his cousin was displaying. ‘You’ve no right to suggest that, Hector, and you know it.’

  ‘Oh, come, James, and please don’t lose your temper like a spoilt child. You know as well as I do that there’s a very, very thin line between what’s paid for by the taxpayer and what’s paid for by the officers. To quote just one simple example, military pay for the rank and file—when they’re employed on quarters duties if that’s the right term—doing work around the house. That’s charged to the taxpayer’s account, isn’t it? It’s highly immoral, really.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Ogilvie began, and then, with some gladness, felt a hand come down on h
is shoulder and allowed the conversation to be interrupted by a Colonel Davenport, who until recently had been Military Secretary to the Viceroy. Hector gave a stiff bow and moved away, wriggling thin shoulders through the crowd. When Davenport had done with him Ogilvie made a determined effort to find Mary Archdale and at last succeeded, drawing her away with a barely perceptible jerk of his head; just as she had done that first time in Peshawar, she came to him at once,

  She put her gloved hand in his. ‘Oh, James,’ she said. ‘Thank goodness! I thought I’d never have a chance of a word with you tonight. Some of them are pretty awful, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, smiling down at her. ‘Mary, we can’t talk much now. May I see you tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘No special reason.’

  She nodded. ‘All right. You know I’m not too keen on bungalow-visiting, though.’ She thought for a moment, patting at her dark piled hair, her lower lip pouting. Then she said, ‘I’ll be in the lounge of the Princess Hotel at two o’clock. I’m lunching there with a friend. I’ll shake her off by two o’clock, I promise.’

  ‘And sit alone in the lounge?’

  She tapped him with her fan, looking amused. ‘Don’t be so old-fashioned, James, I’m not—not to that extent, anyway. I don’t give a damn what people say...within reason,’ she added with mock primness. ‘I certainly don’t mean to be chaperoned like a girl straight from the schoolroom all the time I’m a grass widow. But don’t you keep me waiting James!’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  Before turning away she said, ‘I believe your mother disapproves of me.’

  ‘Oh, surely not,’ he protested. ‘I don’t believe that for one moment. She’s bound to like you.’

  ‘Is she?’ She gave a light laugh. ‘You still know very little of women, my dear!’ Then, without waiting for him to say anything further, she was gone; and was being collected in accordance with her programme by a fat man with an urgent look about him and a fawning smile, a Civilian from Calcutta from whose neck dangled the ribbon and insignia of a Companion of the Star of India—the Order of which Sir Iain, as a result of the Jalalabad action, had been made a Knight Commander, thus adding a knighthood to his baronetcy. Ogilvie danced again with specially selected ladies, including this time some of the daughters, had a few more drinks and conversation with his father’s contemporaries, and some of Sir Iain’s Staff who were in Simla with him, and then, in the early hours, the festivities ended with a rendering of Auld Lang Syne followed by The Queen; and the guests entered, or were in some cases practically lifted into, the rickshaws whose native crews had been patiently waiting for hours, and were trundled homeward to their bungalows or residences through the narrow streets of sleeping, gossiping, scheming, fornicating Simla.

  In the morning Ogilvie drifted somewhat bleary-eyed down to breakfast at ten-fifteen. Sir Iain and his lady were not yet stirring, but Hector—he was staying at the Ogilvies’ bungalow—was; and evidently had been for some while. He had a disapproving look. ‘Early to bed and early to rise,’ he said pontifically, ‘makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Ogilvie grunted. ‘After a twenty-first?’

  ‘I think the occasion makes little difference. I spent my twenty-first birthday with Aunt Agnes in Bath—’

  ‘And not a drink the whole evening, I’ll be bound.’ Ogilvie sat down with a plate of kedgeree, made of he knew not what Indian fish.

  ‘For me—no. Aunt Agnes took a little sherry before dinner, and a glass of port afterwards.’

  ‘Wicked woman. And what did you have to eat?’

  ‘We had an excellent—’ Hector, realizing he was being teased, broke off abruptly. and snapped, ‘I can’t possibly remember. Anyway, dear boy...I trust you enjoyed the evening.’

  ‘I did. Immensely.’

  ‘Even though you must be feeling terrible now. That’s a thing I never—’

  ‘I’m not. I feel very well indeed, thank you, Hector,’ Ogilvie lied.

  ‘Well, I’m delighted to hear it, I must say.’ Hector rustled the pages of the Times of India, then put the newspaper down in favour of a four-week-old Morning Post which Ogilvie felt sure he must have had sent out specially, since his father seldom bothered with newspapers and his mother made do with the Indian press and the occasional magazine from home. After a while Hector started again ; he laid down the Morning Post and smiled sourly across the breakfast table. He said, evidently quoting something or other, ‘the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance. They chaffed him as they pulled at their cigars.’

  ‘What on earth...?’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t heard it? Rather a charming little piece of doggerel, which aptly illustrates certain aspects of the Indian military scene.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Do go on.’

  ‘Very well.’ Hector smoothed at his heavily oiled hair. ‘It’s about a colonel’s daughter, actually. She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun, to celebrate her birthday with a ball. He wrote and asked what present she would like from Mad Carew...I forget some of it just there...ta-ti-tum...she answered that nothing else would do, but the green eye of the Little Yellow God. Well?’

  ‘Don’t see what the devil all this is about,’ Ogilvie said testily, pouring coffee.

  ‘Don’t you, dear boy? Well, of course it’s the other way round, I know, but—what did she give you, James?’

  ‘She?’ He stared back at his cousin’s impudent face. ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t act the young innocent, dear boy!’ Meticulously Hector spread marmalade on a fragment of thin toast. ‘Last night, James, you were having a deep, if short, conversation with a certain lady.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I took pains to discover a fact about her, which I pass on to you now. She is a married woman.’

  Ogilvie glared. ‘I know. What the devil has that got to do with you?’

  ‘Nothing, in a sense, I suppose,’ Hector answered, shrugging. ‘Except as a member of the family, that is. I don’t know what Uncle Iain and Aunt Fiona would think. Or rather I think I do.’

  His eyes hard Ogilvie said, ‘what they think is their own affair, and mine. Not, by any stretch of the imagination, yours.’

  ‘I tend to dispute that, dear boy.’ Hector wiped his lips with his napkin and gestured to the Indian servant to bring more coffee. The servant left the room. ‘As I said—as a member of the family—our good name is my concern.’

  ‘Tripe. Look here, Hector, none of this has anything whatsoever to do with you, and the sooner you realize that the better. Not that there’s anything anyway, in the sense you mean, so you needn’t start having nightmares. Mrs. Archdale happens to be a friend from Peshawar—that’s all. I know her husband. I’ve served with him, as a matter of fact—in action. And let me assure you, she’s perfectly respectable. Even if there were anything it wouldn’t in any degree sully your precious reputation, Hector.’

  Hector gave a smooth nod. ‘I’m glad to have your reassurances,’ he said with a gallant unction, and returned to his short-sighted perusal of the Morning Post. Ogilvie was furious, and had it not been necessary to attempt to turn off the heat in the interests of discretion, would never have given his cousin any explanations at all. He considered Hector’s probe the most infernal cheek and decided that if this was ‘family interest’ then he would very much prefer to be without any. He finished his breakfast as soon as he could and left the room. That afternoon, when he met Mary in the Princess Hotel, he was still seething inwardly, and she noticed this, and remarked upon it, but with an effort he put his anger behind him and said it was nothing to worry about. And after chatting for a while Mary suggested they went to Annandale Plain.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a meeting this afternoon. Racing, James.’

  ‘Oh—yes. Would you really like to?’

  She smiled and said, ‘I simply adore racing, but oh dear, you do
sound doubtful! I’m not forcing you if you don’t want to go.’

  ‘No,’ he said at once. ‘Of course I’ll take you.’ And he did. They went out to Annandale and arrived there just in time for the third race. It was an elegant occasion, a lovely day and a perfect setting. The air was fresh, cool and invigorating and there was quite a lot of excitement in the races; Ogilvie had never cared for it before, but today he did. He really enjoyed it. He lost a handful of rupees on the fourth race, and Mary, plunging a little heavily he thought, made some money on the fifth. That set the seal on the afternoon for them both; he was delighted with her success. He had already gathered that the Archdales had no private means and now, after a year in India, could well appreciate what that meant. Even a major’s pay was a pittance; married officers without other resources found life an unending struggle against debt. Ogilvie himself had had a mere fifty pounds a year from a legacy, but now, since yesterday, this was increased to two hundred under the terms of a trust initiated by his grandfather; such a sum would have made all the difference to the Archdales. When he married—if his marriage was pleasing to his parents—he would have a substantial allowance from his father, but Sir Iain did not believe in giving a young officer too much spending power in the meantime.

  It was a very pleasant afternoon and it was a pity they had to bump into Mrs. Bates.

  ‘Why—oh, dear me, it’s Mr. Ogilvie, I do believe. Such a nice party.’ The corsage heaved. ‘But how funny—you told me distinctly you didn’t care at all for racing! And who is this, may I ask?’

  Tight-lipped, Ogilvie introduced Mary Archdale.

  ‘How do you do. Yes, I remember seeing you last night, now I come to think of it, Mrs. Archdale.’ There was just the very faintest emphasis on the Mrs. ‘As I was saying—such a nice ball. And your Mr. Ogilvie is so charming. Well, I won’t keep you, I’m sure you have plenty to do.’ Mrs. Bates retreated : and some distance off cast a backward look, full of meaning.

  Ogilvie said forcefully, ‘damn.’

  ‘What an extraordinarily ugly woman.’