The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [16]
“Well, I think I’ll have a small glass nevertheless, Derrick. I’m sorry you won’t be accompanying me.”
Colonel Pedlar gave the necessary order. Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson shook his head in disapproval. He was known to favour economy; it was said, even to the extent of parsimony. A glass of port was brought to the table. Colonel Pedlar, looking like an advertisement for some well-known brand of the wine in question, held the glass to the lamp-light, turning the rim in his hand.
“Fellow in my regiment was telling me just before the war that his grandfather laid down a pipe of port for him to inherit on his twenty-first birthday,” he remarked.
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson grunted. He did this in a manner to imply observation of that particular custom, even the social necessity of such a provision, was too well accepted in decent society for any casual commendation of the act to be required; though the tradition might be comparatively unfamiliar in what he was accustomed to describe as “Heavy” infantry; and, it might be added, not much of a regiment at that.
“Twelve dozen bottles,” said Colonel Pedlar dreamily. “Pretty good cellar for a lad when he comes of age.”
Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson suddenly showed attention. He began to bare a row of teeth under the biscuit-coloured bristles and small hooked nose.
“Twelve dozen, Eric?”
“That’s it, isn’t it, Derrick?”
Colonel Pedlar sounded nervous now, already aware no doubt that he had ventured too far in claiming knowledge of the world; had made, not for the first time, an elementary blunder.
“Twelve dozen?” repeated Colonel Hogbourne-Johnson.
He added additional emphasis to the question, carrying the implication that he himself must have misheard.”
“Yes.”
“You’re wide of the mark, Eric. Completely out of the picture.”
“I am, Derrick?”
“You certainly are, Eric.”
“What is a pipe then, Derrick? I’m not in the wine trade.”
“Don’t have to be in the wine trade to know what a pipe of port is, old boy. Everyone ought to know that. Nothing to do with being a shopman. More than fifty dozen. That’s a pipe. You’re absolutely out in your calculations. Couldn’t be more so. Mismanaged your slide-rule. Landed in an altogether incorrect map-square. Committed a real bloomer. Got off on the wrong foot, as well as making a false start.”
“Is that a pipe, by Jove?”
“That’s a pipe, Eric.”
“I got it wrong, Derrick.”
“You certainly did, Eric. You certainly got it wrong. You did, by Jove.”
“You’ve shaken me, Derrick. I’ll have to do better next time.
“You will, Eric, you will – or we won’t know what to think of you.”
General Liddament seemed not to hear them. It was as if he had fallen into a cataleptic sleep or was under the influence of some potent drug. After this exchange between the two colonels, another long silence fell, one of those protracted abstinences from all conversation so characteristic of army Messes – British ones, at least – during which, as every moment passes, you feel someone is on the point of giving voice to a startling utterance, yet, for no particular reason, that utterance is always left pending, for ever choked back, incapable, from inner necessity, of being finally brought to birth. An old tin alarm-clock ticked away noisily on the dresser, emphasising the speedy passing of mortal life. Colonel Pedlar sipped away at his port, relish departed after his blunder. Cocksidge, with the side of his palm, very quietly scraped together several crumbs from the surface of the table cloth, depositing them humbly, though at the same time rather coyly, on his own empty plate, as if to give active expression, even in the sphere of food, to his perpetual dedication in keeping spick and span the surroundings of those set in authority over him, doing his poor best in making them as comfortable as possible. Only that morning, in the dim light at an early hour in the farmhouse kitchen, I had tripped over him, nearly fallen headlong, as he crouched on his knees before the fire, warming the butter ration so that its consistency might be appropriately emulsified for the General to slice with ease when he appeared at the breakfast table. No doubt, during all such silences as the one that now had fallen on the Mess, the mind of Cocksidge was perpetually afire with fresh projects for self-abasement before the powerful. By now there was no more to hope for, so far as food was concerned. It seemed time to withdraw from the board, in other respects unrewarding.