his heels clicking on the boards. The two sets of dancers at each side of the room still stood in loose formation and they watched him come to a formal halt two paces away from the Colonel.
‘Jock Sinclair. Acting Colonel.’
‘I’ve heard a great deal about you.’ The Colonel spoke in the same light voice; he spoke pleasantly but seriously and as the two shook hands the officers readjusted their dress. They shifted about, and looked nervously at each other. Somehow, they felt guilty. Major Scott and the company commanders were duly introduced but Jock said there were too many bloody subalterns – all subalterns were bloody, all subalterns were damned – to attempt an introduction there and then. Jock behaved as if it were a parade. He was like one of those commanders you see photographed looking down and talking earnestly to his Queen.
‘And now, Colonel,’ his voice was very serious. ‘May we have permission to resume the dance that was interrupted?’ The Colonel looked surprised. ‘For heaven’s sake … I’m not here officially until tomorrow. You’re in command.’
‘Very well.’ Jock instructed Corporal Fraser and the others to carry on. ‘Charlie, we best break off.’ He turned to the Colonel again. ‘You’ll join us in a drink?’
‘Thank you. Brandy and soda.’
Jock blinked, and he looked down at his successor. ‘Not a whisky?’
‘Not a whisky.’
‘We all drink whisky in this Battalion,’ Jock said, heavily.
‘Oh, yes,’ Barrow smiled pleasantly. ‘I remember that. Whisky doesn’t really agree with me. D’you think we could adjourn to the far end of the room? I find it rather noisy here.’
Jock looked over his shoulder at the pipers playing behind them.
‘Whatever you like,’ he said and he never smiled once. As they walked the length of the room he glanced slantwise at the Colonel, but the Colonel was intent on the dancing.
Barrow put his hands in his coat pockets as he walked up the room, and once or twice he moved them with a nervous little jerk. He twitched his moustache. The officers stared at him and they noticed the rather sprightly step. He sprang on the balls of his feet, again with a sort of nervousness. His tread was as light as his voice.
‘This is my farewell party, you understand,’ Jock said when they sat down. ‘There’s not a carry-on like this every night. Four and a half years is a long time to command a battalion, and then …’ He did not finish the sentence, and Barrow did not finish it for him. He waited, and Jock felt clumsy. His hands clasped and unclasped: they lost their way.
‘Where the hell’s that bloody steward got to?’ he asked, and Charlie Scott, for something to do, went to find him.
Jock tried to settle in his seat and he undid the buttons of his tunic and trews.
‘Charlie’s a good lad … Aye. They’re all good men, except for some of the babies, and they’ll be good men in their time; some of them, anyway.’
Again Barrow kept silent.
‘Ah, well; you found your way here all right?’
‘I have actually been here before.’
Jock raised his eyebrows; he was heavily polite.
‘Aye? When was that?’
‘I came as a subaltern.’
‘From Sandhurst?’ The question was asked with an air of innocent curiosity.
‘From Oxford, as a matter of fact.’
Charlie had now rejoined them and the steward brought the tray of drinks.
‘From Oxford? Fancy that … Aye. And where were you before that?’
‘I was at school.’
Jock nodded. They were sitting on the leather settee by the dining-room door, and the dancing seemed far away.
‘Harrow, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh … I see, I see.’ Charlie Scott did not approve of Jock’s questions but every time he tried to interrupt Jock just raised his voice. Otherwise his voice was pitched at an unnatural low.
‘A-huh … You came in that way; with an Oxford degree.’
The Colonel smiled. He was leaning right back in the seat, with his head tipped back.
‘For what it was worth.’
Jock eyed him for a moment and he ran his tongue along his lower lip. Then he gave a little flick of his head: ‘Well I came in the other way. By way of Sauchiehall Street, Barlinnie gaol, and the band. I was a boy piper.’
‘It sounds a much better training,’ the Colonel answered pleasantly, and Jock breathed heavily. Charlie took his first opportunity.
‘You’ll have another drink, Colonel?’
‘Forgive me. I’m rather tired. I think I’ll turn in after this one.’
‘Are you no going to have a dance?’ The flat eyes rested on him.
‘If you’ll forgive me,’ the Colonel said again. ‘I’ve had a long day.’
‘You drove up?’ Charlie asked.
‘Hell of a journey.’
Charlie was sympathetic. ‘Family and all?’
The Colonel looked down at his brandy. ‘I have no family. I’m by myself.’
Charlie smiled. He felt required to say something. ‘Then we won’t have to cope with the Colonel’s wife.’
But the Colonel did not smile. He paused and sipped his drink. He replied suddenly, ‘I suppose there’s that to it.’
Then, the dance over, Macmillan came to pay his respects. Macmillan very quickly pitched the conversation on to a higher social level: the shooting and the shooting set. He mentioned some names; some names of titled people; but he did not, of course, mention the title. The Colonel was very pleasant. He did not seem to remember any of these people very clearly. He did not have any names to give in exchange.
Jock’s head was cocked on one side. He had had enough whisky to make him persistent. ‘It’ll be some time since you were with the Battalion, I’m thinking.’
‘Yes, I feel quite a new boy. It’s some time since I’ve been with any battalion. I’ve been sitting behind a desk for a year.’
Charlie screwed up his face with horror. ‘Ghastly …’
Macmillan said, ‘Too boring.’ Then he went on: ‘One of the boys said you were at Sandhurst.’
The Colonel looked him in the eye.
‘That would be Simpson,’ he said, and Jock was surprised.
‘Aye. You’re right, now. He’s over there. And what was it you said you did before Sandhurst?’
‘I don’t think I did say.’ The Colonel was still very patient.
‘You didn’t?’
Charlie Scott and Sandy Macmillan glanced at each other. The Colonel ran the tip of his finger round the rim of his glass.
‘Like you, Sinclair, I was in gaol.’
‘A P.O.W.?’ Jock gave a little snigger. ‘That’s not quite the same thing.’
‘I think I would have preferred Barlinnie gaol.’
THREE
But it was after Barrow had left them that the drinking really began. All the tunics were loose again. Jock sat on the leather guard in front of the log fire and the smoke from his cigarette crawled up his cheek, over his flat blue eyes. The junior