Tunes of Glory. James Kennaway

before Jock threw off one shoe, then the other. He gave a great groan, and she heard the springs of the mattress creak. Only then did she herself relax, but before she fell asleep she heard Jock give an unusual sigh that was long and trembling. After a moment’s hesitation she knocked on the wall.

      ‘Are you warm enough? Have you got enough blankets?’

      ‘You go to sleep or I’ll skelp your bottom.’

      And she tutted at his vulgarity.

      FIVE

      In the town, a week later, everybody was telling everybody how much milder it was. They were congratulating themselves on it, as if to say Scotland wasn’t such a cold place as people made it out to be. They were delighted to hear that it had been bad weather in the South. They had letters from their sons and relations confirming it.

      Behind the wall the detention squad was clearing away the last of the snow and the ice, and it was almost uncomfortably warm in the Officers’ Mess after lunch. The stewards had cleared the last of the coffee-cups from the ante-room but the officers still did not move.

      Superficially there was an air of extreme boredom. The company looked as sophisticated as a cavalry Mess. There was a whisper of glossy pages turning over and a flap as one magazine was exchanged for another. The officers were apparently sitting about wishing they had not tackled the treacle pudding, or promising themselves that they would stop drinking pinks before lunch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke and newsprint, and the sounds of a billiards game being played in the adjoining room. The Mess was a club.

      But the officers at Campbell Barracks were deceptive. They were no longer a set of indolent gentlemen with courageous instincts. It is doubtful whether some were gentlemen at all – but then a Mess is renowned for taking on the complexion of its Colonel, and Jock had held command for some years now: this at least was the explanation the county favoured. Had they known better, they would have realised that Campbell Barracks was only one of the many that had suffered the same change. Whether or not it was a matter for regret, it was now an error to believe that the Regiment was commanded by asses. The billiards game next door was not being played for a guinea or two. The officers were not familiar with all the faces they saw in these magazines. Nor were they bored. They were a set of anxious and ambitious men, and some were extremely shrewd. Indeed, the only thing they shared with their fairy-tale forefathers on the walls was their vanity, and even this took different forms. Sandy Macmillan was one of the few whose vanity resembled the old set’s. He wore his hair a trifle longer than the regulations formally demanded, he was a scratch golfer, he was never seen out of barracks in a uniform and he wore dark glasses when he drove his sports car. He was lying in one of the deepest chairs that afternoon and his battledress was unbuttoned at the cuff. His stockings were nearly white to make his brown knees look browner and he hoped soon to be posted to Fontainebleau on some United Nations lark. His vanities were not complicated, and his income was largely private. He talked to Simpson, the prefect, who had been attracted to him on arriving at the barracks, and to young MacKinnon, the junior subaltern, who had a face like a faun, and the manner of a gentleman.

      The group in the next corner was not so obvious. The redhaired Rattray, who was also christened Alexander, but who styled himself Alec, had been educated at one of the Glasgow day-schools, and he was a real pillar-box Scotsman. He was aggressive in his masculinity and his nationality, and he was busy growing a red moustache to be the more patriotic with. He was violently ambitious and as near to stupid as any of the subalterns reached; he insisted on seeing his face in the toe of the boot of every man in his platoon. His only rival in strict treatment of the men was his friend, Lieutenant Douglas Jackson, who had a head like a German, a pasty complexion like a German, a fist like a German, and not unnaturally an almost pathological hatred for Germans. Nothing nettled him more than to be reminded that he had never actually fought the Germans but had merely occupied their country and seduced their young women.

      There were as many other vanities as there were officers in the room. Dusty Millar, the fat Quartermaster, had long service and a couple of tricks with a matchbox for a shield; Charlie Scott had his reputation; and the doctor had his intellect. Perhaps the least vain of all was the Adjutant, Jimmy Cairns, a mature farmer’s boy in uniform, completely and unaffectedly effective. Jimmy had a face to match his character. His expression was fresh and his hair was fair. He was growing, each year, more solid. But a second glance at him would have confirmed that the air of boredom was no more than superficial. He did not look happy now. He looked more worried than anyone, and he kept glancing at his watch.

      Everybody looked up when Jock came in, and three or four dashed forward to tell him the bad news. He soothed them like children, like dogs. He put his palms out in front of him and waved them up and down in the air.

      ‘For Jesus’ sake,’ he said, and apologised to the Padre who pretended he needed no apology. Then he got Cairns to tell him the story.

      It had happened only half an hour before. After a week of tactful quiet, of asking questions and making no comments on the answers, of pointing here and nodding there, of listening and of inspection – after all this, the Colonel had made his first move, and he had made it when Jock was out of the Mess.

      But telling the story, Cairns fell over himself to be fair.

      The Colonel had ordered that the officers should forgather in the ante-room that afternoon at 1430 hours. He had put a notice on the board to that effect, just an hour before lunch. As they sat round disconsolately sipping their coffee, he blew into the ante-room, looking as light as thistledown. He was wearing his bonnet; and in the Mess. He asked them to sit in one corner of the room and as they assembled he stared out of the window at the low grey clouds. He seemed to be deep in thought, and far away from them. There was a minute before he recovered himself, and moving his walking-stick with his wrist he tapped the crook of it against his lips. Then he dropped it to the floor and addressed them in his sharp light voice.

      ‘When I first came to this barracks the social responsibilities of an officer – and particularly of a subaltern – very greatly outweighed his military duties.’ He glanced at Macmillan and Macmillan smiled, with a flash of white teeth, but the smile was not returned. The Colonel had not wasted his questions or his week. He knew their vanities too. ‘This was quite common before the war. The last thing I want to do is re-establish that order.’ The Quartermaster nodded ‘hear, hear,’ to that. He sank his chins into his chest and Barrow continued: ‘We are first and foremost soldiers and the greater part of our energies must be devoted to training. On the range; drilling; marching; p.t. and so forth.’

      They sat like a dull class. He cleared his throat and struck his stick against his thigh.

      ‘On the other hand, gentlemen, it is necessary that we should play our full part in the social life of the locality. Very necessary. And for this reason it is important that we should maintain certain standards; standards which have been maintained for close on two hundred years. It is part of our responsibility.’

      Nobody could guess what he was driving at, but nobody liked it. Some stared unblinkingly at the Colonel’s face. Others shifted in their seats, raised their eyebrows and shrugged. The Colonel talked swiftly and without a trace of Scottish accent.

      ‘Each Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning at 0715 hours all officers will report in this ante-room.’ There was a mumble at that. ‘0715?’ ‘Saturday?’ But Barrow did not seem to hear, and if he did hear, he did not heed. ‘When the weather improves we may parade outside. For three-quarters of an hour there will be dancing, gentlemen. You will report dressed as you are now, but with plimsolls on, and the Adjutant will instruct the Pipe-Major to come and see me to make arrangements for a piper. All right?’

      ‘Sir.’ Jimmy sat up straight.

      ‘The following dances will be mastered: the eightsome and foursome reels, the Duke of Perth, the Hamilton House, Duke and Duchess of Edinburgh, Petronella, the Cumberland Reel.’

      ‘But, Colonel, the officers know these dances.’ It was Rattray who spoke. It was a stupid thing to do, to interrupt at such a time, but his national dancing was a point of pride. The Colonel’s face remained blank, and the silence which followed made even