The Soldier's Art - Anthony Powell [44]
“The Special Branch must have changed a lot if they now dress like you, Hugh.”
“Not more than army officers, if they now look like Norman.”
“Anyway, take a seat,” said Lovell. “What are you going to drink? How’s your war been going, Hugh? Not drearier than mine, I feel sure, if you’ll excuse the self-pity.”
Moreland laughed, now more at ease after telling the story about Chandler and himself; Foppa’s restaurant, even if closed, providing a kind of frame to unite the three of us.
“I seem to have neutralised the death-wish for the moment,” he said. “Raids are a great help in that. I was also momentarily cheered just now by finding the man with the peg-leg and patch over one eye still going. He was behind the London Pavilion this evening, playing ‘Softly Awakes My Heart’. Rather an individual version. One of the worst features of the war is the dearth of itinerant musicians, indeed of vagrants generally. For example, I haven’t seen the cantatrice on crutches for years. As I seem equally unfitted for warlike duties, I’d thought of filling the gap and becoming a street musician myself. Unfortunately, I’m such a poor executant.”
“There’s a former music critic in our Public Relations branch,” said Lovell. “He says the great thing for musicians now is the R.A.F. band.”
“Doubt if they’d take me,” said Moreland, “though the idea of massed orchestras of drum and fife soaring across the sky is attractive. Which is your P.R. man’s paper?”
Lovell mentioned the name of the critic, who turned out to be an admirer of Moreland’s work. The two of them began to discuss musical matters, of which Lovell possessed a smattering, anyway as far as personalities were concerned, from days of helping to write a column. No one could have guessed from Lovell’s manner that inwardly he was in a state of great disturbance. On the contrary, it was Moreland who, after a preliminary burst of talkativeness, reverted to an earlier uneasiness of manner. Something was on his mind. He kept shifting about in his seat, looking towards the door of the restaurant, as if expecting an arrival that might not be exactly welcome. This apparent nervousness brought to mind the unaccustomed tone of his postcard. It looked as if something had happened, which he lacked the will to explain.
“Are you dining with us?” he suddenly asked Lovell.
There was no reason why that enquiry should not be made. The tone was perfectly friendly. All the same, a touch of abruptness added to this sense of apprehension.
“Chips is going to the Madrid – I didn’t realise places like that still functioned.”
“Not many of them do,” said Lovell. “In any case I’m never asked to them. I’ve no doubt it will be a very sober affair compared with the old days. The only thing to be said is that Max Pilgrim is doing a revival of some of his old songs – ’Tess of Le Touquet,’ ‘Heather, Heather, she’s under the weather,’ all those.”
“Max is our lodger now,” said Moreland unexpectedly. “He may be looking in here later after his act. He’s been with E.N.S.A. entertaining the forces – by his own account enjoying a spot of entertainment himself – and has been released to do this brief season at the Madrid as a kind of rest.”
I was curious to know who was included when Moreland spoke of “our” lodger. A question on this subject might be more tactfully put after Lovell’s withdrawal. It sounded as if someone had taken Matilda’s place. Lovell spoke a word or two about the party ahead of him. He seemed unwilling to leave us.
“I’ve never been to the Madrid as a client,” said Moreland. “I once went there years ago, so to speak to the stage door, to collect Max after his act, because we were having supper together. I remember his talking about your friend Bijou Ardglass then. Wasn’t she mistress of some Balkan royalty?”
“Theodoric,” said Lovell,