Gentleman of War Read online

  "Show some bloody respect, Charlie," came an older voice. An elderly man, adorned in flat cap and scarf, rose from a chair beside a baby's cot and went to the door.

  "More visitors, Mary?"

  "Afraid so, Frank, is there any room in there for one more?"

  "I should think so," the man known as Frank said. He shifted his weight away from the door and instead put his efforts to holding it. The door was more than capable of doing this on its own, so the three newcomers took this as a gesture of friendliness.

  "Are these all... friends of yours?" Neven asked, dissecting the crowd like they were a butterfly beneath a beautifully sharpened pin.

  "Oh heavens no," Mary shook her wobbly head and chin enthusiastically. "These are stragglers, people who didn't want to leave."

  "Or couldn't," Phillipa remarked coldly.

  Everybody saw what she meant: behind the door, beyond the initial gang lay many makeshift beds made from tables and cots. Every single one was occupied, with some instances of two sharing. The infirm lay in bandages and towels, beside glasses of water and people assisting them.

  "Oh yes, well," Mary said. "It's been a bit... dangerous."

  "Are they badly hurt?"

  "Some. Richard over there fell down the stairs last week and hasn't woken up since," Mary said, pointing to a still and fairly lifeless old man. Only the very focused would have seen a slight rising and lowering of the sheets, his weak breath the only semblance that life still remained.

  Mary looked to an abjectly miserable girl sitting next to him. "Polly scraped her knee during the initial rush. She's from farther South, you see- Wood Green, maybe. Dunno. Got separated from her family and ended up here. Said she didn't want to go with the army again. No offence, of course."

  Polly and Neven exchanged the briefest of glances, into which the former poured more sadness than the latter had ever seen in one human being.

  "We're not going with them," the one known as Charlie made himself known, forcing himself upon the situation.

  And what a presence! Neven looked at this well built, muscular man and nearly shrank into his own boots. Church seemed nonplussed.

  "Leave it, lad, we're not here to collect anyone,” Church replied.

  "Bloody army types, stomping around in our back gardens. Why don't you take the war elsewhere?"

  Neither soldier could give an answer. If anything, it more than stumped them. It was the first mention of a war. The slightest of murmurs trickled around the once silent room, sending a chill down Neven's spine.

  "Excuse me?" A well-spoken lady sitting at Neven's side piped up, tugging at his sleeve.

  He looked down and saw a middle-aged women bedecked in all manner of garments, furs and hats; Sunday church-going wear. Her thin lips did little to hide her deep wrinkles that scrunched around when she spoke.

  She did not wait for acknowledgement, merely phrasing a question as a way of getting attention.

  "What is going on?" she asked.

  "I am sorry," Neven replied. It was all he could say, really. "I do not understand."

  "In London," she continued. "Are we really at war?"

  Neven looked at Church and they both shared the same thought: We shouldn't have entered this room. The questions were too hard, they had no answers themselves. Those who hadn't given up faith in the army completely by now were pinning all hope upon the two novices.

  "Sorry, love," Church spoke, to both Neven's relief and chagrin. "We don't know. Haven't had orders from brass in over a week."

  An air of disappointment rose to blow away the haze of cigarette smoke.

  "I'm sorry," Neven said again. Then he turned and addressed the room, carefully avoiding Charlie's stony glare. "I wish I could edify your concerns regarding this but I have no answer. Hopefully, soon, I will have more answers when I and Private Church reach high command." Church's shoulders rose and fell in silent mirth.

  It was an officer’s answer, and he hated himself for giving it; echoes of his own superior's excuses during the early days rung around his helmet-less head.

  "Boys," Mary spoke, breaking the silence. "You look tired. You too love," she patted Phillipa on the back. "Why don't you go upstairs and wash. We've a washroom. You can take a bath too, love. Probably not a lot of water left, that which ain't cold anyway."

  It was a great excuse to leave the room, Neven thought to himself. Allow the air to cool again, rather than to chill and freeze them, or worse, to heat and boil over. His comrade leaned over.

  "You first, Corporal Plumsworthy," Church sounded out the words, syllable by syllable. His following of protocol was needlessly sarcastic.

  Neven ignored him, and did not expect he grubby companion to wash anyway. He went to the door, held it for Phillipa, and they worked their way up the stairs. There was a lush carpet, damaged by years of clumsy hands spilling beverages both hot and cold. Cigarette butts had left ash snail trails burnt into it.

  As they climbed, Phillipa held the brushed wood bannister with one elegant hand. The patches of skin that were red and sore when Neven had met her were all but healed. He looked so closely at the tenure of her skin that he almost tripped into her.

  "Careful," she muttered.

  "Sorry," he said, abashed. He allowed her a respite of a few steps, before continuing his own journey.

  The master bedroom at the top was en-suite. When they entered and saw only a bed, Neven began to realise that it probably would have been more gentlemanly of him to wait outside. In the past few days, he had begun to forget himself, and that concerned him. Addressing the group downstairs, he had not recognised his own voice, the tone and temper of the words spoken either. He took a step back towards the door.

  "You first, of course," he said unconvincingly. He closed the door behind him and retreated to the stairs, where he sat.

  His father used to talk about standards and integrity being the most important thing to keep ahold of, even when all other aspects of one has been lost. Right now it seemed more important than ever. Downstairs, men were swearing in front of women, the infirm were laid with the able-bodied, and Church was drinking like a fish.

  And slowly but surely, Neven was becoming an island. Of values. Of character.

  He shook his head, making fists with his hands in the carpet, balling them up so tightly his fingers were shocks of white disappearing into a grimy sea of deep red. Perhaps, he supposed, he was getting ahead of himself. Life was not quite as dysfunctional as he suspected, nor was there any reason for complete despair yet.

  Had his au pair been here, she would have prescribed a swift slap on the head and a bowl of porridge oats and cinnamon. Always cinnamon. Pierre, his older brother, had made a mistake of asking why when they were both young and had received curt contempt and a clip on the ear. That sort of memory stays with a three-year-old for a long time. As if you could stave off the vestigial signs of depression in a child with a boost of sugar.

  "I'm never going to go back, am I?"

  The voice startled Neven from his daydream. He stood to attention, though Phillipa was speaking through a closed door.

  "Beg your pardon, Ms?" he gurgled, unsure if he should be addressing the door directly.

  "Phillipa please, Plumsworthy," the disembodied girl requested. "And I'm never going to get back to Great Portland Street, am I?"

  "I can't ever imagine why you might not, Phillipa," Neven complied and eased into the name. It tripped sweetly off of his tongue.

  "Oh please, Corporal," she chided. "You know as well as I do that the whole time we were idly marching through London, we barely saw a soul."

  "But now we have encountered Mary and Tom and everyone downstairs," despite himself, he was edging closer to the door. The whole situation struck him as faintly ridiculous. There was a pause.

  "Would you like to come in?"

  His heart beat so hard it nearly broke every rib in his body.

  "I'm not changing or anything. I don't even want to bathe to be honest with you,
" she assured him.

  The situation became conceivably worse or better, Neven wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not. Instead, borne out of a duty to protect his charge, he opened the door once more. He entered, leaving it ajar. She was sitting on the edge of the bed; she had kicked off her shoes and was swinging her legs freely. Occasionally, she would wrap an elegant, pale foot around the handle of the trunk that was to the side of her. She would flick it up and down, knocking idly at the contents within.

  "I don't think life will return to how it was," she admitted, mercifully picking up the previous thread of conversation.

  Neven was visibly unsure of how to handle himself in the situation. Phillipa, on her part, was doing damn well to ignore the awkwardness.

  Feelings, emotions, and women's issues; Neven's father would have been furious just thinking about his son engaging in conversation with that trinity of taboos. “She's got the fevers, boy,” he would have said had he been in the room. “Just leave her.”

  "I..." he started. With no point of reference, no compass or even a map to guide him, it was only on gut.

  She was quiet, no more wishing to evacuate her knowledge as he was to extricate it. So instead, they were in silence. It was stony at first, but eventually those rocks plateaued onto a rolling plain of comfort in company. Neven sat at the other edge of the bed.

  *

  Downstairs, Church was feeling like the most unwelcome guest at the party. The big man, Charlie, had not taken his eyes off of the soldier all the while that he meandered back through the crowd. He set down his ale in the same water-ring on the wooden table, and gradually managed to turn his head around.

  "Come and sit with me, son," the kindly Frank offered.

  Still in a combative mood, it took Jones Church a little while to alter his facial features, posture, and general demeanour. Mary shut the door behind them, leaving Tom alone out in the main bar to imagine himself in a different Britain full of more patrons and fewer gunshots.

  Church and Frank passed through the crowd, which was dispersing like water through badly-cupped hands. They reached a table in the corner, underneath an empty bookshelf, the contents of which were spread comfortably around every conceivable surface which Frank could reach.

  "Got to keep occupied, I suppose," Frank explained, shifting aside his old, papery friends for a potential new, fleshy one. "Welcome to the Lamb and Lion," he continued, cheerily. "Heck of an entrance, old boy."

  Church was still wary of his surroundings, and could not stop casting glances to and fro as they conversed. The room seemed to have largely forgotten his arrival or even existence though, newcomers were probably somewhat routine.

  "How long have you been here?" He muttered, unsure if he was making conversation or just humouring an old man.

  "Oh, about a week. I was visiting this area before everything happened. I'm from Hornsey, normally," Frank leaned in closer. "If you don't mind me asking," he half-whispered. "Where are the rest of your men?"

  Church shot a final look at Charlie, who was totally disinterested now. "Might be... better you don't know."

  Frank leaned back, and pushed his glasses up his knobbled nose. He smiled a smile not of one who was comforted, but one who had just had all of his fears confirmed.

  "That might explain the condition of the girl you two have in your charge..." he began, but noticed his interlocutor’s attention wander.

  "Hold on," Church said dismissively, rising from his chair and pushing away with one hand. Frank watched him go with a glimmer in his eye, picked up the nearest book and thumbed through it, frowning at the contents.

  Church crossed the floor, bumped into a bed containing a silent bandaged man, pushed past it and arrived at the very far end of the room. There was little light here, save for that which the girl Polly, some two beds down, was shining from a lamp onto Richard's sweaty and sickly face. But it was not these two who caught Church’s attention.

  "Damn me, thought as much," he said as he came to a stop. Underneath the concentric circles of a target-like dartboard, he saw his prize.

  A large, muscular, and handsome man blinked in the dimness as he raised his head. He wore ill-fitting clothes, mismatched suit pieces and a waistcoat that bulged at the belly. He left arm was bare, save for a bandage wrapped from forearm to wrist. Blood was drying onto the cloth, making for a ragged tourniquet.

  "Can I help you?" he asked finally.

  "If you are who I think you are, you're already supposed to fucking know," Church smiled with his typical levity and social graces. Then his face drooped and twisted into a snarl. "Baton," was all he said.

  The man he addressed managed to maintain his composure. His posture relented, however, and he nearly became part of his own shadow against the wall.

  "Excuse me?" he squeaked.

  "You're the Baton of Britain," Church repeated, sensing victory.

  "I... My name is Peter," the thick armed man replied. His voice was all over the place, it wouldn't settle.

  “Oh no mate. You don't get away with putting you priggish mug on every poster from here to Dundee without getting recognised."

  "Is there a problem?" Frank had crossed the room, seeing a possible confrontation. His conversation had never ended, so he saw no problem in hijacking another's.

  "Old laddie here," Church gesticulated wildly with his hand, Peter flinched. "Is the same ponce in the tights and cowl dancing on the hill in those posters: The Baton of Britain." He said the title more loudly, and people were beginning to stare.

  "Peter," Frank faced him. "Is that true?"

  "I..."

  Polly joined the group. She looked up inquisitively, lamp shining next to her rounded moon-face.

  "I..." Peter tried again. "Yes."

  The Baton of Britain shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

  "Oh my God," Polly exclaimed before she could stop herself. "Yes! I remember you! Posing on the underground! My mother loves you."

  The Baton of Britain looked at her. She blushed deeply.

  "Well, well!" Church said gleefully. "Stand up! Let everyone know we've got a hero in our midst!"

  Now everyone was staring, mumbling to each other, or just in awe. The Baton was sweating. Heroically sweat. His body and words worked along linear lines; he was shaking his head and pleading "no".

  "Come on," Church insisted. He yanked at the man's arm. Despite his size and weight, the Baton was going limp and was dragged with ragged ease to his feet. Church crossed behind him and pushed him forward. The Baton stopped to pick up a suitcase under the chair; it was small, with a little teddy bear painted neatly on the front. Eventually, he made his way out of the maze of beds and trolleys and into the main part of the room, the others closely at his heels.

  "Oh my," someone said.

  "It is 'im!" another exclaimed. "I said, din't I say?"

  "Oh, Mr. Baton!" Mary was beside herself. "What an honour!"

  Then the room was silent, as they waited for him to speak. Eyes fell like knives upon him. The Baton of Britain began to shiver, and would not stop.

  "I..." he began again. It was becoming quite a trend. "Have to go outside for a while."

  He suddenly found a burst of energy in which none would dare stand in his way. With maximum force, but little effort, he dodged all of the furniture and statue-like people and went out into the main bar.

  The room forgot it had lost its voice, and began talking again. Most were conversing about the celebrity in their midst, but others talked along other banal lines.

  "Mean streak you've got, boy," Frank said finally, failing to suppress his displeasure.

  "What's a little teasing to you, gaff?"

  "He's heroic in stature, not necessarily in words. You ought to remember that. Maybe it's best our symbols don't speak."

  Frank walked away from Church.

  "Fucking caped ponce faggot," Church spat, still looking out of the door. He turned around and wandering off.

  *

  Ups
tairs, Neven had begun plucking so hard at the loose thread of the quilt that he was worried the thing might unravel into a ball, swallow him, and end his existence. Or, he was counting on it happening, he wasn't sure.

  "I didn't even know the Tobers," Phillipa said abruptly.

  Despite himself, Neven found his attention back in the room, where previously it had wandered through greener, less awkward pastures.

  "No?" he asked redundantly, through dry lips.

  "No. They sometimes called me for supper, or let me in when I forgot my keys. But I don't even remember their Christian names."

  She paused.

  "I wanted to see them, to save them, because I don't have many people in my life. I wanted them to be alive, no matter how irrelevant they were to me. My parents threw me out of my own house a few years ago, and I was lodging with the Oakley's ever since then," she thought carefully about how to phrase her next words. "I had... enough money to... so why not?"

  Neven wasn't sure how to respond. Try talking about something along a similar vein of conversation. Perhaps look to relevant occurrences in your own life. This ensures a healthy dialogue and a connection made, his diction and engagement class tutor had said. Well, he thought, I have no relevant stories. His parents had given him nothing less than love, a caring childhood, a strict yet efficient and worthy education, and a head start in almost every endeavour he currently understood.

  "I know you looked at me in that bed the other day," she said.

  Neven's heart skipped a beat; he became worried she could see his mind working.

  "And you must have been wondering why I hadn't left."

  His blood simmered down, lost the heat. “Uh, yes.”

  "I have nowhere else to go- I had nowhere else to go. And these clothes," she looked down and about herself. "Which Private Church picked out. They are all I own in the world."

  Pangs of guilt raced through him, but still his selfishness wanted the whole ordeal to be over. Thankfully, she was done.

  "Just thought I'd get it all off of my chest, you know?" She turned to him, studied the back of his head. "I’ve changed my mind. I think I'd like to have a bath now."

  Neven rose, and managed to look her in the eye. He mustered a smile, which she returned.

  "Oh, and thank you," she called to his retreating back. He was out of the door before she could say another word.