Tunes of Glory. James KennawayЧитать онлайн книгу.
salute, and without a word went on his way. He left the guard bewildered and the Corporal apprehensive.
FOUR
On such a night and at such a time he tended to call on Mary Titterington, but it was six weeks now since he had seen her and he had decided on the last occasion that he would not call again. She worked with a local repertory company and his association with her was one of the many things that the town and county objected to. Not that that made any difference to him.
Anyway, when he left the barracks he thought about calling on her and instead of returning home over the old footbridge he wandered into the town. She had a flat in one of the big houses by the park. He turned his collar up, and he dug his hands into his greatcoat pockets. He passed nobody and the only sound was the echo of his own footsteps. All cities are lonely at night, but the old Scottish ones are lonelier than all. The ghosts wander through the narrow wynds and every human is a stranger surrounded, followed, and still alone. The ghosts always unnerved Jock. He was suddenly chilled and very lonely, so he turned back and went straight home.
Safe inside, he was glad to find his daughter had waited up for him; he let his shoulders drop, and he smiled kindly at her when he said, ‘Lassie, you should be tucked up in your bed.’
‘Och, I couldn’t sleep.’
‘It’s late. It’s awful late.’
‘I know it is. It’s two o’clock.’
‘You should be getting your beauty sleep.’
‘It’ll take more than sleep to make me a thing of beauty,’ she said with efficient presbyterian modesty. She was really quite pretty, with pink cheeks, even at two in the morning; but Morag never gracefully accepted a compliment.
Their home was one of those little villas with bow windows and a staircase that runs straight down to the front door. There was an ugly overhead light in the cramped hall and there was no carpet, but brown linoleum on the floor. Morag was in a sensible woollen dressing-gown and fluffy bedroom slippers. She came downstairs to help him with his coat.
‘You look all in,’ she said.
‘Aye, I’m tired.’
‘Did you come straight home?’
Jock glanced at her. They never mentioned Mary Titterington and he was not even sure that Morag knew of her, or knew about her.
‘Of course I came straight back. Where the hell d’you think I’d go?’
‘I don’t know, father, I’m sure. But you look tired.’
‘A-huh.’
‘Come on into the kitchen. There’s a kettle on. I guessed you’d be all in.’
Jock touched her shoulder with his hand. ‘You’re a good lassie, Morag. That’s what you are. I shouldn’t leave you alone like this, so often.’ He wanted to say more, but he paused and she spoke first.
‘Heavens, Father! What’s got into you? D’you think the bogey-men’ll get me?’ She moved away and his hand dropped to his side. She never allowed him to be demonstrative. She was far too sensible for scenes. Her mouth gave her character away. It was a very pretty mouth, neither too small nor too large. But it was firm, and her lips were always closed tightly together. She had a neat firm chin, a short nose, light brown eyes and dark hair which fell in an orderly little roll round her neck. She walked quickly into the kitchen and Jock followed slowly. He laid his coat on a chair, and later Morag would tidy it away.
‘I passed a tinker woman in the street. That mad woman. She was wheeling her barrow. And at this time of night. It’s a wonder they don’t burn her. They burnt her mother for a witch.’
Morag tutted. ‘You don’t believe all that nonsense, do you? Her mother was never a witch.’
‘She was the last witch. That’s a fact.’
Morag smiled. ‘Och, away you go, Father. You’d believe anything.’
Jock was a little nettled.
‘She’s a terrible-looking woman anyway, with all her scarves and rags. What d’you suppose she keeps in the barrow?’
‘Just what she pinches off honest folk.’
Jock sat down by the kitchen table and he played with the spoon in the sugar-bowl.
‘She’s eerie. D’you suppose she’s anywhere to sleep? Walking along, talking to herself. She gives me the creeps. Aye, she does. I passed her on the cobbled wynd.’
Morag filled the teapot. She smiled at her father again.
‘Were you feared?’
Jock cocked his head. ‘Of course I wasn’t feared.’
‘I believe you were: same as all the rest of the kiddies. Did she tell you your fortune?’
‘Aye and maybe. I didn’t rightly hear what she was saying. And I’m bloody glad I didn’t.’
‘I thought you were keeping your swear words for the barracks,’ Morag said primly, and Jock sighed and apologised. She handed him his cup of tea and he thanked her again. She sat down by the table. She pulled her chair in, and her back was upright.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘And what’s he like?’
‘Who?’
‘Your new Colonel, of course.’
‘How the hell did you know he was here?’
‘A wee birdie told me.’
‘Aye, someone told you. Who’s been here, eh?’ He sounded annoyed.
‘Nobody’s been here. It’s written plain across your face. I thought the new Colonel might come in tonight.’
Jock was not altogether satisfied with the explanation. He never allowed her to ring the Mess and ask after him, when he was late. He said this was because he did not want any officer rung by his womenfolk, but there were other more practical reasons. If he went round to Mary’s flat he usually said he was going to the Mess. The Mess after all was his club; and a club should be a refuge. But Morag could read him like a book.
‘I didn’t ring the Mess,’ she said truthfully. ‘You can check up yourself.’
‘I never said you did.’
‘Maybe. Well, tell us. What’s he like?’
‘He’s a wee man,’ Jock said and he started to sip his tea. He sipped it like a farmer in from the fields, with both hands on the cup and his eyes straight in front of him. He did not want to talk about Barrow. Morag softened a little, and she said in a low voice:
‘Father, it had to be.’
‘I just said he was a wee man.’
‘It had to be.’
Jock put down his cup and he lit a cigarette, knowing as he did so that he had smoked too many that day.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m no with you. It need never have been. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s my belief that he’ll no be C.O. for very long.’
‘Father, you’ll not do any stupid thing.’ It was not a question, but an instruction. She took the sugar-spoon away from him. ‘If he’s any sense at all he’ll no give you a second chance. You must promise me you’ll not do any stupid thing.’
‘Are you feared, Morag?’
‘Och, I know you. I know you fine, Father. What’s his name?’
‘Barrow. Poor wee man.’
‘You’re bitter.’
‘Och, for Pete’s sake Morag: d’you expect me to give a cheer? Ach …’ He returned to his tea-cup and they spoke no more on the subject.
Morag