The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [41]
“Give me the essential details regarding yourself,” Pennistone said. “Unit, army number, that sort of thing – just in case anything should crop up where I myself might be of use.
I wrote it all down. We parted company, agreeing that Nietzschean Eternal Recurrences must bring us together soon again.
Even by the time I reached the Café Royal that evening, I was still feeling humiliated by the failure of the Finn interview. The afternoon had been devoted to odd jobs, on the whole tedious. The tables and banquettes of the large tasteless room looked unfamiliar occupied by figures in uniform. There was no one there I had ever seen before. I sat down and waited. Lovell did not arrive until nearly half-past seven. He wore captain’s pips. It was hard not to labour under a sense of being left behind in the military race. I offered congratulations.
“You don’t get into the really big money until you’re a major,” he said, “That should be one’s aim.”
“Vaulting ambition.”
“Insatiable.”
“Where do you function?*
“Headquarters of Combined Operations,” he said, “that curious toy fort halfway down Whitehall. It’s a great place for Royal Marines. A bit of luck your being on leave, Nick. One or two things I want to talk about First of all, will you agree to be executor of my will?”
“Of course.”
“Perfectly simple. Whatever there is – which isn’t much, I can assure you – goes to Priscilla, then to Caroline.”
“That doesn’t sound too complicated.”
“One never knows what may happen to one.”
“No, indeed.”
The remark echoed Sergeant Harmer’s views. There was a pause. I had the sudden sense that Lovell was going to broach some subject I should not like. This apprehension turned out to be correct,
“Another small matter,” he said.
“Yes?”
“It would interest me to hear more of this fellow Stevens. You seem to be mainly responsible for bringing him into our lives, Nick.”
“If you mean someone called Odo Stevens, he and I were on a course together at Aldershot about a year ago. I didn’t know he was in our lives. He isn’t in mine. I haven’t set eyes on him since then.”
I had scarcely thought of Stevens since he had been expelled from the course. Now the picture of him came back forcibly. Lovell’s tone was not reassuring. It was possible to guess something of what might be happening.
“You introduced him into the family,” said Lovell.
He spoke calmly, not at all accusingly, but I recognised in his eye the intention to stage a dramatic announcement.
“One weekend leave from Aldershot Stevens gave me a lift in his very brokendown car as far as Frederica’s. Then he took me back on Sunday night. Isobel was staying there. It was just before she had her baby. In fact, the birth started that night. Stevens got R.T.U.-ed soon after we got back on the course. I haven’t seen or heard of him since.”
“You haven’t?”
“Not a word.”
“Priscilla was at Frederica’s then.”
“I remember.”
“She met Stevens.”
“She must have done.”
“She’s been with him lately up in a hotel in Scotland,” said Lovell, “living more or less openly, so there’s no point in not mentioning it.”
There was nothing to be said to that. Stevens had certainly struck up some sort of an acquaintance with Priscilla on that occasion at Frederica’s. I could recall more. Some question of getting a piece of jewellery mended for her had arisen. Such additional consequences as Lovell outlined were scarcely to be foreseen when I took Stevens to the house. Nevertheless, it was an unfortunate introduction. However, this merely confirmed stories going round. No doubt Stevens, by now, was a figure with some sort of war career behind him. That could happen in the matter of a few weeks. That Stevens might be the