Parade's End

Sergeant Case gazed away into infinite distance.

“My sister would not like it, sir,” he said. “I’m better off as a first-class warrant officer!”

With his light step the shining general went swiftly to the varnished panels in the eastern aisle of the cathedral. The white figure beside them became instantly tubular, motionless, and global-eyed. On the panels were painted: TEA! SUGAR! SALT! CURRY PDR! FLOUR! PEPPER!

The general tapped with the heel of his crop on the locker-panel labelled PEPPER: the top, right-hand locker- panel. He said to the tubular, global-eyed white figure beside it: “Open that, will you, my man?…”

To Tietjens this was like the sudden bursting out of the regimental quick-step, as after a funeral with military honours the band and drums march away, back to barracks.

A Man Could Stand Up—

Part One

SLOWLY, AMIDST INTOLERABLE NOISES from, on the one hand the street and, on the other, from the, large and voluminously echoing playground, the depths of the telephone began, for Valentine, to assume an aspect that, years ago it had used to have – of being a part of the supernatural paraphernalia of inscrutable Destiny.

The telephone, for some ingeniously torturing reason, was in a corner of the great schoolroom without any protection and, called imperatively, at a moment of considerable suspense, out of the asphalt playground where, under her command ranks of girls had stood electrically only just within the margin of control, Valentine with the receiver at her ear was plunged immediately into incomprehensible news uttered by a voice that she seemed half to remember. Right in the middle of a sentence it hit her:

“… that he ought presumably to be under control, which you mightn’t like!”; after that the noise burst out again and rendered the voice inaudible.

It occurred to her that probably at that minute the whole population of the world needed to be under control; she knew she herself did. But she had no male relative that the verdict could apply to in especial. Her brother? But he was on a mine-sweeper. In dock at the moment. And now… safe for good! There was also an aged great-uncle that she had never seen. Dean of somewhere…. Hereford? Exeter?… Somewhere… Had she just said safe? She was shaken with joy!

She said into the mouthpiece:

“Valentine Wannop speaking…. Physical Instructress at this school, you know!”

She had to present an appearance of sanity… a sane voice at the very least!

The tantalisingly half-remembered voice in the telephone now got in some more incomprehensibilities. It came as if from caverns and as if with exasperated rapidity it exaggerated its “s”s with an effect of spitting vehemence.

“His brothers.s.s got pneumonia, so his mistress.ss.ss even is unavailable to look after…”

The voice disappeared; then it emerged again with:

“They’re said to be friends now!”

It was drowned then, for a long period in a sea of shrill girls’ voices from the playground, in an ocean of factory-hooter’s ululations, amongst innumerable explosions that trod upon one another’s heels. From where on earth did they get explosives, the population of squalid suburban streets amidst which the school lay? For the matter of that where did they get the spirits to make such an appalling row? Pretty drab people! Inhabiting liver- coloured boxes. Not on the face of it an imperial race.

The sibillating voice in the telephone went on spitting out spitefully that the porter said he had no furniture at all; that he did not appear to recognise the porter…. Improbable-sounding pieces of information half-extinguished by the external sounds, but uttered in a voice that seemed to mean to give pain by what it said.

Nevertheless it was impossible not to take it gaily. The thing, out there, miles and miles away must have been signed — a few minutes ago. She imagined along an immense line sullen and disgruntled cannon sounding for a last time.

“I haven’t,” Valentine Wannop shouted into the mouthpiece, “the least idea of what you want or who you are.”

She got back a title…. Lady someone or other…. It might have been Blastus. She imagined that one of the lady governoresses of the school must be wanting to order something in the way of school sports organised to celebrate the auspicious day. A lady governoress or other was always wanting something done by the School to celebrate something. No doubt the Head who was not wanting in a sense of humour – not absolutely wanting! — had turned this lady of title onto Valentine Wannop after having listened with patience to her for half an hour. The Head had certainly sent out to where in the playground they all had stood breathless, to tell Valentine Wannop that there was someone on the telephone that she — Miss Wanostrocht, the said Head — thought that she, Miss Wannop, ought to listen to…. Then: Miss Wanostrocht must have been able to distinguish what had been said by the now indistinguishable lady of title. But of course that had been ten minutes ago…. Before the maroons or the sirens, whichever it had been, had sounded…. “The porter said he had no furniture at all…. He did not appear to recognise the porter…. Ought presumably to be under control!” Valentine’s mind thus recapitulated the information that she had from Lady (provisionally) Blastus. She imagined now that the Lady must be concerned for the superannuated drill-sergeant the school had had before it had acquired her, Valentine, as physical instructor. She figured to herself the venerable, mumbling gentleman, with several ribbons on a black commissionaire’s tunic. In an aim-house, probably. Placed there by the Governors of the school. Had pawned his furniture no doubt….

Intense heat possessed Valentine Wannop. She imagined indeed her eyes flashing. Was this the moment?

She didn’t even know whether what they had let off had been maroons or aircraft guns or sirens. It had happened — the noise, whatever it was — whilst she had been coming through the underground passage from the playground to the schoolroom to answer this wicked telephone. So she had not heard the sound. She had missed the sound for which the ears of a world had waited for years, for a generation. For an eternity. No sound. When she had left the playground there had been dead silence. All waiting: girls rubbing one ankle with the other rubber sole….

Then…. For the rest of her life she was never to be able to remember the greatest stab of joy that had ever been known by waiting millions. There would be no one but she who would not be able to remember that…. Probably a stirring of the heart that was like a stab; probably a catching of the breath that was like the inhalation of flame! It was over now; they were by now in a situation; a condition, something that would affect certain things in certain ways….

She remembered that the putative ex-drill sergeant had a brother who had pneumonia and thus an unavailable mistress….

She was about to say to herself:

“That’s just my luck!” When she remembered good-humouredly that her luck was not like that at all. On the whole she had had good luck — ups and downs. A good deal of anxiety at one time — but who hadn’t had! But good health; a mother with good health; a brother safe… Anxieties, yes! But nothing that had gone so very wrong….

This then was an exceptional stroke of bad luck! Might it be an omen — to the effect that things in future would go wrong: to the effect that she would miss other universal experiences. Never marry, say; or never know the joy of childbearing, if it was a joy! Perhaps it was; perhaps it wasn’t. One said one thing, one another. At any rate might it not be an omen that she would miss some universal and necessary experience!… Never see Carcassonne, the French said…. Perhaps she would never see the Mediterranean. You could not be a proper man if you had never seen the Mediterranean; the sea of Tibullus, of the Anthologists, of Sappho, even… Blue: incredibly blue!

People would be able to travel now. It was incredible! Incredible! Incredible! But you could. Next week you would be able to! You could call a taxi! And go to Charing Cross! And have a porter! A whole porter!… The wings, the wings of a dove; then would I flee away, flee away and eat pomegranates beside an infinite washtub of Reckitt’s blue. Incredible, but you could!

She felt eighteen again. Cocky! She said, using the good, metallic, Cockney bottoms of her lungs that she had used for shouting back at interrupters at Suffrage meetings before… before this… she shouted blatantly into the