Hornet’s Sting (57 page)

“Ho yes?” He was an old man, with a face that had long ago stopped looking interested in anything. “Looks like captain from 'ere.”

“Give you a guinea.”

“Rules is rules.”

“Two guineas.” The man hesitated, dazzled by riches. “Three,” Mackenzie said.

“I'll lose my bloody licence, I will. Jump in quick.”

It was mid morning and the streets were full. Mackenzie was surprised how drab and gloomy the people seemed. In France, the troops who were out of the Lines were damned glad of it. They felt cheerful and they looked cheerful. These Londoners were a miserable
lot. He thought: I bet a dose of strafing would buck you up. After that he stopped looking.

At the hotel he got out and gave the driver three shillings.

The man's mouth hinged open like a trap door. A string of saliva stretched and snapped. “What the bleedin' ‘ell's
this?”
His voice could go no higher. “Three guineas, you said.”

“I lied.”

“It's a swindle.” He was spitting. “I'll get a bleedin' copper. You're no officer, three guineas you said —”

“You're right. I owe you something.” Mackenzie picked up a shrub in a small wooden tub and hurled it through the windscreen. “Keep the change,” he said.

Taggart came out just as Mackenzie was going in. “I heard a crash. Was there an accident, or what?”

Mackenzie pointed to the space where the tub had been standing. “That brute of a cabbie is stealing your shrub.”

“Bastard!” Taggart limped to the taxi and beat on it with his stick. “Come out of there!” The taxi shot forward and vanished around the first corner. “I got his number,” Taggart said. “He'll be in the clink before nightfall, you'll see.”

They went inside. “Why would a man like him want a plant like that?” Mackenzie asked.

“God knows. This town's full of thieves. It's the war. I suppose you need a room.” He watched Mackenzie sign the register. “Ah, yes. I thought it was you. Your picture's been in all the papers. Mind, you've changed a bit since then.”

“Bloody silly Albatros.” Mackenzie wore a black patch on his left eye. A double row of stitches decorated the skin above it. Most of his left cheek was invisible behind dressings that were held in place by wide strips of plaster. When he spoke, a gap showed in the upper teeth on that side. “I blew it to bits, and some of the bits hit me.”

Taggart touched his own eyepatch. “If you get any pain, I've a bottle of Norwegian aquavit that's strong enough to stun a moose.”

“Are moose a problem in Kensington?”

“Not since I got this aquavit. They keep their distance. Before that, we were overrun by the buggers.”

Mackenzie took his key. “By the way: Major Cleve-Cutler asked me to give you his regards.”

“Ah. And how is he?”

“Absent-minded. Can't remember anybody's name. Between you and me, I think he's past it.”

He had a bath, ate a sandwich and went to the War Office, where an old, thin colonel lectured him on the protocol of receiving a decoration from the monarch. “Don't speak unless His Majesty says something that requires an answer. No jokes. If His Majesty makes a humorous remark, you may smile. If His Majesty wishes to shake hands – highly unlikely – then do not crush his fingers. Do not squeeze. Do not pump. If you are given the wrong medal, or the medal has the wrong name, or His Majesty addresses you by the wrong name, say nothing. No alcohol before the ceremony. Do not faint. Do not stare. Do not scratch. Attend to your bowels and bladder well in advance. Make sure all your buttons are done up. That is all. Good afternoon, captain.”

Mackenzie strolled down Whitehall, saluting and being saluted and returning salutes until he began to feel like a clockwork toy. He was looking at Big Ben because it was there to be looked at, when a cab stopped and emptied, so he took it because it was there to be taken.

The tea-dance at Malplacket House turned out to be a jolly affair. He danced with several young women, all of them cheerful, none of them so ill-mannered as to ask what he had done to his face. He was drinking tea when Dorothy Jaspers nudged his elbow and made him spill it. “Clumsy oaf,” she said. Her smile grew wider and wider until it lit up her whole face. She took the cup and saucer and gave them to a passing naval lieutenant; he was so delighted that he thanked her for the slop. “Go and put it in the bilge,” she said. “Isn't that right?” He hurried away.

“Come,” she said, and took Mackenzie's hand.

“You're Miss Jaspers, aren't you? My C.O. said you would be here. He asked me to give you something.”

“His burning love? His undying devotion?”

“No. A gramophone record.”

“Dear Hugh ... such a vagabond. How is he? Never mind, I don't care. Get your hat. We're going to a wake.”

He stopped. “I've had enough of those in France.”

“Don't be so damn picky. A wake is the only place a girl can get a decent drink in the afternoon nowadays. What else did he tell you?”

“Uh ... Oysters. You like oysters.”

In the taxi they were silent until Mackenzie said, “I suppose it's too much to expect that I'll know anybody at this wake.”

“Just call yourself John and say you're a second cousin. Everyone has a second cousin called John. The deceased was a lieutenant in the Irish Rifles. I met his people at the funeral, so that's all right. Anyway, they'll all be well ginned-up by the time we get there.”

The wake was in Belgravia, at somebody's town house. It was crowded and jovial, and it quickly absorbed them. An old and maudlin relative followed them around. “We shall not see his like again,” he kept saying, with increasing emphasis. Mackenzie shook him off, but the words lingered.

Before long, he learned that the dead man had been a captain in the Connaught Rangers. He told her so.

“Then I went to the wrong funeral,” Dorothy said.

“Do you go to many?”

“Heaps.”

“Doesn't it get depressing?”

“Heavens, no. Funerals have replaced Ascot and Goodwood and Newmarket. Funerals and memorial services. It's where one meets all one's friends. I go to three a day, sometimes, just to stay in touch. And afterwards all the best drink comes out. Highly satisfactory.”

“Not for everyone.” When she blinked, he said: “We shall not see his like again.”

“Oh yes we shall. We'll see his like buried every day of the week, with cocktails to follow.”

“What good luck. So he didn't die in vain, then.”

She straightened his tie. “You're bored, aren't you? You want to fight. Just like a soldier. Never happy unless he's picking a fight.”

“I'm hungry. I do know that.”

She took him to a small, dim restaurant. It was crowded, but she found a couple she knew and they shared their table. Mackenzie liked them; he was funny and she was pretty. There was no menu: food just arrived, and more food, and wine. It was all very easy and delicious. The other chap turned out to be a submarine officer: not only funny but brave. Occasionally, Dorothy stroked Mackenzie's thigh. She had a touch like fire, and he soared in his own estimation. When the sailor and his girl suddenly realised that they were late for the theatre, Mackenzie urged them to make haste, and to leave the waiter to him.
They did. More food arrived: savouries, desserts, cognacs, nameless delights.

When he unfolded the bill, the room went quiet. Then blood pounded in his head, and the noise surged back. “I haven't got this,” he said. “Jesus ... I haven't got half this. Nowhere near.”

“Pencil,” she said. She signed the bill. The waiter brought their coats. Mackenzie wanted to tip him, but didn't know how, or how much. He went out feeling hot and humiliated.

The drizzle had stopped; the air was still. They took a stroll. “You could buy a Sopwith Camel for that money,” he said.

“What's the point? You'd only break it.” She took his arm.

“If you went to France, you wouldn't find the war so damn funny.”

“I don't think it's funny. I think it's silly.”

“Fighting and dying?”

“Quite absurd. And ludicrously expensive.” Her tone was light. “You might as well throw five-pound notes at each other, for all the difference it makes.”

Mackenzie felt that he was getting further and further out of his depth. He noticed her limp. “Doesn't your foot hurt?” he asked.

“How could it possibly hurt? It's made of wood.”

One gaffe after another. “Where are we going?”

She stopped. “Be ready to be brave,” she said. She raised herself on tiptoe and kissed him, quite hard, on the lips. “If we're not going to bed,” she said, “there had better be a reason why.”

“Look here ...” His heart was pounding, and the damaged half of his face throbbed painfully. “Look here, this isn't right. I mean, you shouldn't have paid for dinner.”

“Oh, you dear, sweet child. Somebody else will pay for it.”

“Then ...” But now Mackenzie was afraid to say more in case she mocked him again. He grunted, sulkily.

“There you go,” she said. “Looking for another fight.” It was the sort of thing his mother used to say, and it made him hate her.

She hailed a taxi and they went to the hotel.

“The police were here looking for you,” Taggart said. “That bastard cabbie ... Ah, it matters not. I told them you have an appointment with King George and they went away happy. I couldn't get the blood out of that carpet,” he told Dorothy. “So there's a new one in that room.” She gave him a smile that would have paid all her debts if
he hadn't seen it before, many times.

They went upstairs.

Mackenzie sat on the bed. “What was all that about blood?” He was staring at the carpet.

“Who cares?” She pushed his shoulder, but he was as stiff as a plank. He refused to look up. “Oh God,” she said. “You're not very good at this, are you?” No answer. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen,” he growled.

“Don't get angry with me. I didn't make you a virgin.”

“This is all wrong. Tomorrow morning I'm getting decorated by the king. It's my patriotic duty to ... to get a good night's sleep.”

“Oh, tosh and fiddlesticks! You're frightened. You're afraid I'll laugh at your pathetic weapon.” There was a knock on the door. It was the boot-boy with a bottle of champagne. “Mr Taggart said you might like ...” he began. She took the bottle. She said to Mackenzie, “Give the king a big kiss, and tell him I hope you'll both be very happy.”

He listened to her limp fade away along the corridor. He was still staring at the carpet, and wondering about the blood. She was right: he was frightened. Anyone as lovely as Dorothy Jaspers was frightening.

* * *

The king decorated Mackenzie with the Distinguished Service Order. “Two dozen Huns,” he said. “Splendid, quite splendid. I thank you on behalf of all of Britain. Remember that this Order comes, not from Haig or Trenchard, but from me. This is my royal Order, in my recognition of your Distinguished Service. It is given sparingly. Well done.”

Mackenzie stepped back and saluted. He felt buoyant. He felt as if weights had been removed from all his pockets.

The ceremony was in Buckingham Palace. The place was angular and charmless, a collection of rooms that were more like halls in a museum; but at least it was warm, and friends and relatives could watch from a gallery. There were many awards. When the king retired, the lines of officers broke up and there was a massive sense of relaxation. For the first time, Mackenzie felt free to look around and enjoy the occasion. In the gallery, getting to her feet, he saw Dorothy
Jaspers. That red hair, so dark it was almost black, shone like a badge. “Bugger me,” he said. Next to her, courteously helping her to rise, was Mr J. J. Dabinett. “Bugger me backwards,” he said.

A tubby brigadier bustled up to him. He had a moustache that had been trimmed with a micrometer. “I'm Tunney, R.F.C. Press Office,” he said. “Here's the drill. First you get your picture taken in front of the palace, for the newspapers. Profile only. No bandages in sight. Then be at Paddington station, 2 p.m., ready for a week's tour of munitions factories. Here's your speech. Memorise it. Same speech, five factories a day. Colonel Carr-Smollett will go with you. You met him yesterday.”

“A week with
him?”
Mackenzie had forgotten he was talking to a brigadier. “He's pure starch. He'll drive me batty.”

“Listen, lad ...” Tunney's forefinger prodded him in the chest. “You're not the only D.S.O. in the Corps, nor the biggest. I've got a
double-D.S.O
. on the way and a possible V.C. after him. You're small beer, sonny. You'll obey orders and like it. 2 p.m. at Paddington!” He bustled off.

All the buoyancy was lost. Seven days; five factories a day. Thirtyfive speeches, all identical. That was what this bloody medal had got him. He turned it over and read the engraving on the back. It said
Mackenzi
. He looked up and Dorothy Jaspers and J. J. Dabinett were facing him, smiling. “They can't even spell my bloody name,” he said miserably. “Look. They've turned me into a bloody Italian ... How the hell did you get in here?”

“Friends in the War Office,” she said. “Did you sleep well?”

“That fat bastard ...” He looked for Tunney and failed to find him in the crowd. “That fat bastard says I've got to spend a whole week making speeches at munitions factories.”

“I drank the champagne.
Very
good.”

“If I might intervene,” Dabinett said. “I came to say goodbye.”

“Oh. You've finished the film?” Mackenzie said.

“No. We decided not to make a film about the R.F.C., after all. Too many technical difficulties. You see, to convince the American people that the war is being won, we need to show action. Not just machines taking off and landing, but real fighting in the air. Alas, aeroplanes vibrate. Whenever we put a camera in a Biff, it shook. When the guns fired, it got worse. Everything blurred. A great shame.”