Soldier No More

What was she like?' repeated Roche obstinately.

Willis removed the pipe and commenced filling it from an ancient leather pouch. 'What was she like?'

Yes,' said Roche.

'What . . . was she like?' Now it was the lighter's turn. Puff.

'Didn't really know her that well.' Puff, puff. The wind scattered the smoke. 'Nice enough girl.' Puff, puff, puff. 'So I believe.'

“They met at Oxford, did they?'

“Mmm—think so.' Willis took the pipe from his mouth suddenly and pointed the stem at Roche. 'What's all this in aid of, David Roche?'

Roche met the question innocently. 'Didn't Colonel Clinton dummy5

make that clear in his letter, Major?'

'Not Major— Wimpy. You keep forgetting, don't you!' The schoolmaster's voice was mildly chiding on the surface, but Roche sensed the anger swimming beneath.

'Sorry!' he apologised quickly. This wasn't the moment to antagonise the schoolmaster—and, for a guess, that was a warning signal his pupils wouldn't have missed, too.

'All right, then ...' Willis— Wimpy—accepted the amends with a nod. 'Your lord and master made it very clear, even abundantly clear, one might say, that Our Sovereign Lady, Queen Elizabeth, requires the services of her father's former right trusty and well-beloved lieutenant of dragoons, my erstwhile pupil . . . yes, he did make that very clear, I grant you . . . and quickly too, she wants him. And that has a familiar ring about it also, I must say—meaning that owing to the vast stupidity and incompetence of some others among her right trusty and well-beloved servants she has her royal knickers in a twist.'

Well, that was one way of putting it. And it was quite characteristically Willis's—Wimpy's, damn it!—way, lacking only a Latin tag.

'But what he did not make clear—' Wimpy cocked a sudden sharp eye at Roche '— always supposing it's not mere vulgar curiosity on your part, David Roche ... is the reason for all this inquiry into my David's remote antecedents. You must have his family history to hand, with his military record—and no doubt you've got more than that ... So why the rest, eh?'

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Obviously Clinton's letter had not spelt out the past in detail, but that left Roche in a quandary as to how far he ought to go to rectify the omission.

'And please don't tell me that you're just obeying orders,'

continued Wimpy, still watching him closely. 'It wasn't good enough for our late enemies in '45, so it isn't good enough for you now.'

And yet in a way that was the answer, thought Roche. He was here asking these questions of this man because he had been directed to do so, not for any reason of his own.

'Come on. Or I shall begin to suspect you're busy putting lies together for me,'said Wimpy silkily. 'And I might find that. . . discouraging.'

There was no more time. 'It isn't that. I'm not sure how far I can trust you, that's all.' Damn it! It was gone now.

Wimpy smiled again, a winner's smile. 'I don't think you've a lot of choice—do you? As the Good Book says, you just have to cast your bread on the waters.'

'All right.' It was time to cut his losses. 'You could say 'the child is father of the man', for a start.'

' You could say it.' Wimpy's face closed up. ' I would say ...

that a child has many fathers.' He paused for a moment, then gestured towards the rugger pitch. 'There's one father, if you like. Certainly one of David Audley's fathers, I'd say.'

Roche looked at him questioningly.

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'Yes ...' Wimpy nodded. ' 'Audley spent a cold and quiet afternoon at full-back'—I believe that was his first appearance in print at his prep school, in the school mag at St. George's, the first time he played for the school, in the under-twelves.'

'And you taught him rugger there?'

'I had a hand in his education. But at St. George's the essence was not so much the games master as the headmaster, to whom certain forms of play in rugby football were a form of Christianity, or otherwise ethical behaviour—

it was unchristian to tackle high . . . not because it was dangerous, but because it was ineffective . . . running straight was the same—you were in trouble with the Head if you didn't tackle low, or run straight, or fall on the ball when the other forwards were advancing, or do these various things, because that was the moral, decent, ethical thing to do.'

'You taught David Audley at St. George's and here at Immingham?'

Roche rallied.

'So I did. David Audley came up from his prep school with a scholarship ... in the same year, the same term. We were new boys together, yes.' He grinned at Roche, as though the memory had mellowed him.

'Okay, then.' Roche grinned back. 'But what I'm going to tell you is classified. I wouldn't want my boss to hear about it.'

Wimpy acknowledged the confidence with a single nod.

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