Love and the Loveless Read Free

outside and collar one.” Phillip followed with the trolley, Pinnegar beyond the ticket barrier called out, “Our luck’s in!”
    Sitting side by side in the T-model Ford with its high, tarred hood open at the sides, they left for the Training Centre. There they paid off the driver with the half-a-crown demanded, a fare which Pinnegar disputed, saying to the driver that a London taxi for the same distance would have been hardly more than a shilling. The driver persisted. “I shan’t give you a tip, anyway,”as, with Phillip’s one and threepence added to his own, he almost tossed the coins into a grimy hand.
    They joined other officers in the asbestos orderly room, standing before blanket-covered trestle tables at which sergeants sat, taking particulars and checking nominal rolls. Phillip and his new friend were given a number denoting their hut—B 6—and told that batmen would be detailed for them later on.
    “First parade, nine o’clock Monday. Orders will be posted in the mess this evening,” said an officer with a limp and one arm missing, the assistant Adjutant.
    “My God, what’ll we do till then?” grumbled Pinnegar. “That’s just like the Army! We could just as well have stopped in Town!”
    Phillip was determined that this time he would work hard; no more fooling about. He went to B hut with Pinnegar, and together they looked in at various doors, to select the best cubicle, for most of them had cracks in the asbestos walls, while others were connected by holes.
    “Someone’s had a rough house here,” remarked Pinnegar. Entering the end cubicle, “I say, I like this!” admiringly, for upon the walls were portraits in crayons of highly coloured and curved female figures, some clad only in high-heeled shoes and black stockings, and all with luring eyes. The friendly atmosphere of this cubicle, improved by six bullet holes in the ceiling, drew from Pinnegar a spontaneous, “My name’s Teddy. What’s yours? Right, how about a drink? Let’s find the mess, Phillip.”
    “Suits me, Teddy.”
    Valises and haversacks having been dumped on the floor, the two friends went outside, eventually to discover a large marquee of grey canvas. Inside, scores of trestle tables were ranged beside wooden forms for seats. There was no flooring, the grass was already crushed into the damp soil. Half a dozen elderly men in long-sleeved yellow-and-black footmen’s waistcoats above aprons of green baize were unpacking square wicker baskets containing table-cloths, boxes of knives, forks, spoons, and glasses. The wind flapped the loose canvas of the marquee, a sparrow flew up by one of the brown poles, seeking a way out. A man looking like the steward came forward, bowed, and said smoothly, “Tea will be at half past four, gentlemen.”
    “How about a drink?”
    “I’m afraid not until dinner, sir.”
    “Who’s running this show? The Temperance League?”
    “Curling and Hammer, from London, sir.”
    “What time is dinner, d’you know?”
    “Seven o’clock, sir. We hope to have everything ready by that hour.”
    “This is all new since I was last here,” remarked Pinnegar, outside. “And to think we might have remained in London! I’ve got a bottle in my valise. How about a drink in the cubicle?”
    “Good idea, mein prächtig kerl! ”
    “I wish they were alive, don’t you?” said Teddy, eyeing the chalk figures on the walls. “You’ve got a hell of a fat valise. What’s in it?”
    “A gramophone.”
    “Good. Let’s have some music!”
    Phillip put on a record, which he had played many times to himself, The Garden of Sleep, sung by Sidney Coltham, a light tenor. “I like the way he sings,” said Pinnegar, and Phillip felt closer to his new friend. They were listening to Kreisler playing Caprice Viennoise when the door opened, to reveal two subalterns standing there, with their valises. One, with the badges of a Northumberland Fusilier, was obviously a ranker officer, for he wore the riband of