afternoon talkin’ about this dancing class. Said he had half a mind to chuck up the adjutancy.’
‘Aye?’ Mr McLean took five lumps.
‘Told him not to be daft. I’ve seen a change of colonel before today and there’s always trouble.’
‘A change is usually for the better. That’s true in life.’ Mr McLean enjoyed universals, but they were not for the R.S.M.
‘Don’t know anything about that. But I do know it would be damned disloyal to march off now. As Adjutant he has responsibilities, same as the rest of us.’
‘Aye. But it’s a big change for him. He’s known Jock all the way from El Alamein.’
‘That’s not the point. I can tell you, Mr McLean – I wouldn’t express an opinion to anyone else, mind you – but I can tell you, this one’ll be the better Colonel. Better by far. Shall I tell you why, eh?’
It was the beginning. The expression on the Pipe-Major’s face did not change, but he said gently, ‘I don’t think I’ll be agreeing with you here.’ He nodded his head. Mr McLean was anxious that it should be a pleasant chat.
‘Right,’ the R.S.M. said. ‘I’ll tell you why he’s the better Colonel. Because he’s a gentleman.’
Mr McLean smiled a wise smile and the R.S.M. repeated himself more emphatically, with just a flicker of malice in his boss eye.
‘Because he’s a gentleman.’
Slowly came the reply. ‘You’re the terrible snob, Mr Riddick. It is always the same with you people who start in the Brigade of Guards. You’re such terrible snobs; it is wicked.’ As he grew angry, he spoke more quickly.
‘Mr McLean. I know what I’m saying.’ The R.S.M. poured out another cup of tea and passed his hand over his short thin hair. He made a sour face. ‘Rankers may make Quarter-masters. But believe you me, sir, they don’t make battalion commanders.’ ‘Sir,’ from one Warrant Officer to another is a gauntlet.
‘That’s lies. Jock was the most successful Battalion Commander in the war.’
‘The war was a different sort of thing. You’re arguing off the point, again, Mr McLean. Of course he’s a good soldier, no one denies it; but the point is that he should be in my job or yours. And I’m not the sort of man who ought to command the Battalion.’
Mr McLean controlled himself.
‘Ah well,’ he said, ‘we shall see what we shall see.’ Then he added, in spite of himself, ‘But I think it is Jock who should have been appointed.’
Mr Riddick was in a keen mood. He wagged his nobbly finger.
‘The very fact that we call him Jock … Och, you must see it.’
Suddenly Mr McLean was unleashed. He spoke quickly. ‘You’re a diehard Tory; yes, and it’s you that stirs up class hatreds.’
Mr Riddick pushed back his shoulders. ‘That’s a damned impudent thing to say, Mr McLean.’
‘It is true. Yes it is.’
‘I never knew we had a bloody Communist as Pipe-Major.’
The R.S.M. now stood up and towered above the round figure of Mr McLean, who half closed his eyes, and half whispered, half shouted his reply. ‘I have told you before, I am a Liberal, Mr Riddick. A Whig, a Whig, a Whig!’
Rather patchily the R.S.M.’s complexion was changing from blue to vermilion.
‘It’s an unwritten rule in this Battalion, Mr McLean, that politics will not be discussed. I’d bring that to your attention.’
‘Och, you and your rules. It’s playing at soldiers that you are.’
‘Pipe-Major; I’m reminding you of my rank.’ Mr Riddick put on his bonnet. He was shouting now.
‘And a man of your rank should know better than to accuse one of his colleagues of being a Communist, when he’s a Whig. You had best go back to your Grenadiers or whatever it was.’
‘Are you attemptin’ to insult my late regiment? Tell me that, Mr McLean.’ Mr Riddick’s voice was low and menacing but the Pipe-Major, after several years of practice, knew just how far he could go. He put on his bonnet and prepared to leave.
‘No,’ he said.
‘If you want to insult my late regiment then I think we’d better meet in the gymnasium.’
The Pipe-Major smiled and shook his head.
‘Peter Pan; that’s what we should call you, Mr Riddick. Man, we’re far too old to be meeting in the gymnasium. You’d better go home now. Muffin the Mule’s on in a few moments.’
‘By God, you’re a bloody impudent man. I’ve a mind to put you under close arrest. D’you hear me? March you right inside.’
‘Then it’s high time I was leaving. Mr Riddick, I am thanking you for my cup of tea. It has been invigorating.’
But the R.S.M. did not return his smile.
‘Pipe-Major, I observed when marching by today that the windows of the Band Block are in a dirty condition.’
‘Did you, now?’ The Pipe-Major’s eyebrows nearly touched the fringe of his hair. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what, Mr Riddick, I’ll go right back there now and see that they are cleaned, just for your sake. That’s what I’ll be doing.’
Shortly after the Pipe-Major left, the R.S.M. spotted a soldier with the lace of his boot undone. He was put on a charge for being improperly dressed, straight away. He was lucky not to be put in gaol.
SEVEN
NOW THE TOWN was small, but the county was smaller. The news of the dancing class soon circulated and seasoned officers blushed like cadets when they were asked if they had learnt their Pas-de-Basques yet. Underneath the layer of sunburn even Sandy Macmillan grew a little warm, but if the officers were teased, the county notwithstanding was thoroughly glad. It was a sign for the better. The officers from Campbell Barracks had not made themselves popular over the preceding year or two, with their drinking and their springy dancing. Even those people in the county who did not consider themselves to be purists were a little sick of them. At the Hunt Ball, not that there is much of a Hunt, people had grown accustomed, in an angry sort of way, to seeing the officers form up in front of the band so that the rest of the dancers were edged down to the bottom of the set. They clapped their hands and joked with the drummer, and they hooched and swung their women.
Everybody knew that Jock Sinclair encouraged them: as acting Colonel he was at the root of the trouble, for this is an old axiom: that a Mess takes on the complexion of its Colonel. It was therefore with warm hearts that the county welcomed a man who was instantly recognisable as a gentleman – Barrow Boy.
At first people were curious to meet him; then they were anxious; then, after a month, they were desperate. The county began to talk of nothing else and everybody wished they could peep over the sixteen-foot wall. Rumours abounded. All sorts of innocent tweed-coated men were recognised as the mysterious Colonel. Jimmy Cairns’s aunt in Crieff set the Victorian terraces alight with her news items straight from the Adjutant’s mother’s mouth. A young farmer who had something to do with one of the Territorial outfits in the neighbourhood swore that Barrow was the White Rabbit himself. Barrow had blown up the heavy water plant in wherever-it-was; he had been one of Winston’s special boys. Barrow had made the officers run round the barracks before breakfast. Barrow had been doing far rougher things to the idle than any young Alexander. Barrow had been in Colditz. Barrow had said that if any officer held his knife like a pen he would be posted to another regiment. Barrow was the talk of both town and county.
‘He’s a small man. You never see him in uniform this side of the wall. My dear, he has a look of Lawrence of Arabia.’
‘Lawrence of where?’