whisky at a gulp.
When George had creaked away he sat on the bed a long time, racking his brains over what event or chain of events could have led to such an extraordinary scene and wondering if it had anything to do with his current flirtation with a W.A.A.F. parachute-packer called Gwen. He thought not or Gwen’s name would certainly have been flung into the dispute at one point or another and besides, so far, he had not taken Gwen to bed and had not even intended to. He wondered then if Monica’s outburst had its origin in nervous strain due to the possibility of him crashing, but again he ruled a line through the supposition. Monica had been sharing living-out billets with him when he had been on daily operations and had never shown a flicker of nervousness, so that occasionally he saw other men’s wives looking at her in a curious, half-envious way, Margaret, on the other hand, had been a bag of nerves, and had once shamed Andy by bursting into tears in the middle of a flap, but now that he thought about it he had never seen Monica shed a tear on his behalf or anyone else’s, so that it followed, to some extent, that she meant what she said about being browned off with the role of camp-follower. Even so, her furious tactics, indeed, her overall strategy, continued to astound him. She must have been planning this back-door exit for weeks and it obviously hadn’t occurred to her that he would reject a discharge to industry out of hand, not from reasons of patriotism but simply because a life that kept a man at a desk whilst such things were happening was not to be thought of, not even objectively. ‘She doesn’t understand,’ he told himself, aloud, ‘and she’s never bloody well understood.’
He sat there drinking a large gin (the whisky had run out and George murmured that he was privileged to get the gin), thinking back over various aspects of their association, but although he recalled many occasions when she had seemed out of it at a party, or homesick for a place of her own, he could recall nothing that might have warned him that he was sitting on a land-mine; and the devil of it was he still hadn’t the least idea what to do about it now that it had exploded. He supposed she would write, or he would write, and she might even phone, although not in her present mood. Normally he would have carried his troubles to Andy but Andy was a thousand miles away, fiddling about over Sidi Barrani or Mersa Matruh. He had plenty of friends on the station but none who were more than casually acquainted with Monica, and then he remembered that Andy’s wife had gone back to nursing somewhere in town after his twin had been posted overseas and that Margaret, whom he had always liked for her amiability and the Celtic lilt in her voice, had known Monica intimately and might, conceivably, come up with an answer. He was a man of quick decisions both on the ground and above it and within minutes of getting Margaret’s address he was ’phoning her number. The bell seemed to ring a long time and he had almost given up hope when the burr ceased and Margaret’s voice said, ‘Who’s there, now?’
He was delighted, not only because he could now unload his troubles on someone but also because, in the sharply rising note of the last word, he could picture her, a small, kittenish woman, with a shade too much of this and that here and there, but a femininity that Monica lacked, despite her good figure and impeccable taste in clothes. He said, ‘Margy? It’s Steve. Look, I’ve got to talk to you. Something’s happened. No, not a damned thing to do with Andy, to do with me and Monica. She’s just walked out. Blew her top. Made me feel like something the cat’s brought in! No, not a row, at least, not one I started. She’s gone loco! She’s been hawking me all over the ruddy auction. She got Monteith-Parkinson and God knows who else, to fix an industrial discharge for me. And when I told her to get knotted she said it was
When George had creaked away he sat on the bed a long time, racking his brains over what event or chain of events could have led to such an extraordinary scene and wondering if it had anything to do with his current flirtation with a W.A.A.F. parachute-packer called Gwen. He thought not or Gwen’s name would certainly have been flung into the dispute at one point or another and besides, so far, he had not taken Gwen to bed and had not even intended to. He wondered then if Monica’s outburst had its origin in nervous strain due to the possibility of him crashing, but again he ruled a line through the supposition. Monica had been sharing living-out billets with him when he had been on daily operations and had never shown a flicker of nervousness, so that occasionally he saw other men’s wives looking at her in a curious, half-envious way, Margaret, on the other hand, had been a bag of nerves, and had once shamed Andy by bursting into tears in the middle of a flap, but now that he thought about it he had never seen Monica shed a tear on his behalf or anyone else’s, so that it followed, to some extent, that she meant what she said about being browned off with the role of camp-follower. Even so, her furious tactics, indeed, her overall strategy, continued to astound him. She must have been planning this back-door exit for weeks and it obviously hadn’t occurred to her that he would reject a discharge to industry out of hand, not from reasons of patriotism but simply because a life that kept a man at a desk whilst such things were happening was not to be thought of, not even objectively. ‘She doesn’t understand,’ he told himself, aloud, ‘and she’s never bloody well understood.’
He sat there drinking a large gin (the whisky had run out and George murmured that he was privileged to get the gin), thinking back over various aspects of their association, but although he recalled many occasions when she had seemed out of it at a party, or homesick for a place of her own, he could recall nothing that might have warned him that he was sitting on a land-mine; and the devil of it was he still hadn’t the least idea what to do about it now that it had exploded. He supposed she would write, or he would write, and she might even phone, although not in her present mood. Normally he would have carried his troubles to Andy but Andy was a thousand miles away, fiddling about over Sidi Barrani or Mersa Matruh. He had plenty of friends on the station but none who were more than casually acquainted with Monica, and then he remembered that Andy’s wife had gone back to nursing somewhere in town after his twin had been posted overseas and that Margaret, whom he had always liked for her amiability and the Celtic lilt in her voice, had known Monica intimately and might, conceivably, come up with an answer. He was a man of quick decisions both on the ground and above it and within minutes of getting Margaret’s address he was ’phoning her number. The bell seemed to ring a long time and he had almost given up hope when the burr ceased and Margaret’s voice said, ‘Who’s there, now?’
He was delighted, not only because he could now unload his troubles on someone but also because, in the sharply rising note of the last word, he could picture her, a small, kittenish woman, with a shade too much of this and that here and there, but a femininity that Monica lacked, despite her good figure and impeccable taste in clothes. He said, ‘Margy? It’s Steve. Look, I’ve got to talk to you. Something’s happened. No, not a damned thing to do with Andy, to do with me and Monica. She’s just walked out. Blew her top. Made me feel like something the cat’s brought in! No, not a row, at least, not one I started. She’s gone loco! She’s been hawking me all over the ruddy auction. She got Monteith-Parkinson and God knows who else, to fix an industrial discharge for me. And when I told her to get knotted she said it was
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