The First Casualty (25 page)

With that, Kingsley gathered up his things and left.

THIRTY-NINE

Amateur theatricals and a nocturnal stroll

That evening Nurse Murray had sufficiently mellowed in her attitude towards policemen to allow Kingsley to accompany her to the concert.

‘Not
escort
, you will note, Captain. Accompany.’

‘Of course.’

‘I do not need
escorting
anywhere.’

‘I did not imagine that you did.’

‘Very few women do, if you bother to ask them.’

‘I shall remember.’

The weather was terrible but the three hundred or so khaki clad men who had assembled on the groundsheets that had been spread upon grass in front of the big château were not about to let a little rain spoil their enjoyment of the cabaret. They lived in rain, they slept in rain, they ate in it, fought in it and died in it, to them it was natural that they should watch a show in it. Some effort had been made to provide covered seating for the officers and nurses but the canvas awning that had been erected was already bowing alarmingly under the weight of water. Every minute or two a corporal would come and poke the bulge with a broomstick in an effort to displace some of the contents but this in itself was so distracting and created so much splashing and dripping, particularly for those sitting at the edge of the enclosure, that the colonel eventually ordered the whole thing dismantled.

‘We’ll
all
sit in the bloody rain,’ he announced, to much cheering from the troops. ‘If it’s good enough for Tommy Atkins it’s good enough for me. Ladies may raise umbrellas if they wish.’

Kingsley was a little late and joined Nurse Murray at the place she had been saving for him just before the concert began. He had been asking the company sergeant major if Private McCroon was present but had been disappointed to find that he was not.

‘I’m sorry that I have no box of chocolates to share with you, ‘Kingsley said as he sat down, remembering how Agnes would always insist on chocolates when they visited the theatre.

‘I came prepared,’ Nurse Murray replied, producing a block of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk from her apron pocket. ‘Must have treats. Can’t see a show without treats. Want some?’ she said, offering Kingsley a chunk. Kingsley declined, noting privately that, Suffragette or not, some things united all women and a love of chocolate was one of them.

The rain poured down, the little four-piece orchestra struck up the overture and the show began. It turned out to be rather good, in Kingsley’s opinion; all written and produced by men of the 5th, with songs, sketches and jokes that reflected the sardonic wit of the British Tommy.

‘Soldiers’ superstitions!’ a man dressed as John Bull announced.

‘It is unlucky for thirteen to sit down at a meal when rations have been issued for only seven!…If the sun rises in the east it is a sure sign that there will be stew for supper!…To drop your rifle on a green second lieutenant’s foot is bad luck for him; to drop it on a sergeant’s foot is bad luck for you!’

The audience, in great good spirits, laughed and cheered each line despite the rain. They were clearly overjoyed just to be out of the line. As the compère conceded, ‘I’m so happy to be here, mates. But quite frankly, the way the Staff is directing the war I’m happy to be anywhere.’

The crowd roared at this, the officers sitting around Kingsley most of all, for they were front-line soldiers and as frustrated at what they perceived as the ineptitude of the General Staff as the men they had to lead.

‘Superstition number four,’ the compère announced. ‘To hear a lecture on the glorious history of your regiment indicates you will shortly be going over the top. Number five. If a new officer tells you he has learned all he knows at cadet school, this is a sign that he is very soon going to get a big surprise. And finally, it is most unlucky to be killed on a Friday!’

Many of the men shouted out this last ‘superstition’ along with the compère, having heard the joke many times before. This did not seem to prevent them from enjoying hearing it again and everybody roared with laughter.

When the compère had finished he announced that the 5th Battalion Players had only one rule, unlike the 5th Battalion which had millions. The one and only rule of the evening was that the ‘ladies’ of the company were strictly out of bounds to all ranks. This of course provoked much booing, over which the compère had to shout in order to introduce the ‘ladies’ in question.

‘I wonder what Freud would make of this?’ Nurse Murray whispered to Kingsley as the three artistes tripped on in their wigs and dresses, heavy with make-up, to sing ‘Three Little Maids From School’ followed by ‘Oh We Don’t Want To Lose You’.

‘The middle fellow’s not bad-looking,’ Kingsley replied. There was no doubt that he was the soldiers’ favourite, showing considerable feminine grace and making much of his elegant, stocking-clad legs.

‘He was a friend of Abercrombie’s,’ Nurse Murray replied. ‘He came here to visit. Rather a weedy sort of chap.
Terribly
limp. Definitely makes a better girl than a man.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘I rather suspect he’s
one of them
, you know.’

Kingsley studied the female impersonator. It certainly was a convincing performance. The soldiers clearly thought so and cheered him loudly, suggesting in no uncertain terms that he get his drawers off. Kingsley thought that this might spoil the illusion.

‘Another case for our friend Freud if you ask me,’ Nurse Murray giggled. ‘A man pretending to be a woman, with a whole lot of other men wanting to see him naked even though they know damn well he’s a man?
Very fishy
in my opinion.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Kingsley said. ‘I think it’s all just good clean fun.’

‘Ha!’ said Nurse Murray.

An officer behind them went shush and Nurse Murray made a naughty-little-girl face.

‘If he does get his togs off,’ she whispered, ‘I hope he gives me his silk stockings. Can’t
think
where he got them.’

‘Where did they get any of it, wigs, dresses, pearls?’ Kingsley whispered back.

‘Well, these concerts mean a lot to the men. Everybody chips in, and of course the drag acts are by far the most popular part. Personally I hate them with a passion.’

‘Really, why?’

But the officer behind them shushed again and Nurse Murray did not explain further. The concert progressed through numerous patriotic songs, dance displays, sketches about regimental sergeant majors and the inevitable Charlie Chaplin impression, which, unlike most such impersonations, had real charm and captured something of the grace and pathos of the Little Tramp’s persona.

‘That’s the same chap who did the drag act,’ Nurse Murray whispered. ‘Damned good, isn’t he?’

Kingsley agreed wholeheartedly. He
was
damned good.

After the show the colonel lumbered forward on his stick — he had been wounded earlier in the week — and made a brief speech in which he thanked all those involved for a ruddy splendid effort.

‘Do you know, I’ve seen shows in London that weren’t half so good,’ he said, to considerable cheering. ‘And the girls weren’t as pretty either!’ at which the cheering redoubled.

Afterwards tea was served for NCOs and men and a small reception was held for the officers, with whisky donated by their mess. Nurse Murray, the youngest and prettiest of the female nurses in attendance, was a major centre of attention. However, she seemed happy to stick by Kingsley’s side.

‘So why do you hate female impersonators?’ he enquired.

‘Because they’re not female impersonators at all,’ she answered loudly, clearly happy, in fact even anxious, for as many men as possible to hear her views. ‘They don’t
impersonate
women, they represent a
male fantasy
of women. If they were impersonating women they might show them making shells or staffing the buses as they now do — and do every bit as well as the men,’ incidentally — or discovering radium like the wonderful Madame Curie.’

‘Hmm. Yes. Might be a trifle dull. I mean theatrically speaking, collecting fares and staring into a microscope.’

‘I don’t see why. Certainly no duller than kicking your legs about and pretending women are coquettish, brainless, ankle-flashing idiots. That’s not what women are, it’s what men
want
women to be.’

‘Surely that’s the point, isn’t it? I mean this entertainment is
for
men after all.’

‘But is that what men
really
want us to be? Is that the sort of women they claim to be dying for? Brainless fools concerned only to make themselves pretty for men?’

‘Here here!’ one of the officers enjoined. ‘It’ll do for me!’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ said another, raising his glass. ‘I say, you fellows. The ladies. Bless every one of them!’

There followed a small toast, during which Nurse Murray quietly fumed.

‘Bloody idiots,’ she muttered under her breath, which drew an admonishment from a lieutenant colonel who was hovering in the vicinity.

‘Never liked to hear a woman swear, my dear,’ he said. ‘Can’t abide it.’

‘I’m sorry if my language offends you, Colonel,’ Murray replied tartly. ‘I can assure you I hear a great deal worse from your men when they’re screaming in the night, imagining themselves breathing gas and calling out for death or Jesus or their mothers. Perhaps I’ve picked it up from them.’

Kingsley really liked Nurse Murray. Of course she was rather earnest, as he had found many Suffragettes to be, but he had to admit that they had a great deal to be earnest about. Anyone who had been a victim of Asquith’s appalling Cat and Mouse Act had every right to be angry about men’s attitude to women.

A nervous, polite voice intruded on Kingsley’s thoughts.

‘Hello, Nurse Murray.’

A young subaltern had approached the group. A slim, sensitive looking young man, despite the absence of the heavy make-up he had worn he was easily recognizable as both the sweetest of the show ‘ladies’ and the excellent Charlie Chaplin.

‘Ah, Lieutenant Stamford,’ Nurse Murray replied. ‘Well done on the show, most amusing.’

‘Did you really enjoy it? Honestly? I call my girl Gloria, after Gloria Swanson. I love playing her. Do you know, one or two of the fellows have actually asked me out!’

‘I don’t jolly well doubt it.’

‘Jokingly, of course,’ the young man added quickly, reddening. ‘Hmm. Yes. This is Captain Marlowe. He admired your Chaplin.’

Stamford’s face lit up.

‘Really? I say, that’s splendid. I mean did you really? Honestly? I shan’t mind at all if you’re just being kind.’

‘No, no,’ Kingsley reassured him, ‘I thought it was beautifully observed. You really captured the marvellous liquidity of his movements. I have always thought that the world lost a truly great ballet dancer when Chaplin became a clown.’

‘Yes. Yes, you’re right! ‘ Stamford agreed eagerly. ‘When I watch his films, all the fellows are laughing and rolling about and of course I think he’s funny too, but what I’m really feeling is just how beautiful he is. Very, very beautiful…And Edna Purviance,’ he added quickly. ‘I mean, we’re all in love with Miss Purviance, aren’t we?’

‘She has great charm. I wouldn’t be surprised if Charlie wasn’t a little sweet on her himself,’ said Kingsley.

‘Well, it certainly looks that way on the screen. What a marvellous life they must all lead. So glamorous and fulfilling. I should love to be an actor in the moving pictures.’

‘A dream I think you share with every young man and woman on the planet.’

‘Well,
I
should love to see one picture heroine who is not a helpless ingénue,’ said Nurse Murray. ‘Captain Marlowe is here to investigate the death of your friend Viscount Abercrombie,’ Lieutenant.’

Pain came into the young man’s face.

‘What would you investigate? He died in battle,’ he said.

‘Hmmm. Yes, I’m sure,’ Kingsley replied. ‘How well did you know the viscount?’

‘Not
very
well but we served together, you know, just for a little while. He helped me a lot. I’m quite new, you see. Alan showed me the ropes and all that. And of course he was terribly famous.’

‘You liked that about him?’

‘Well, gosh, who wouldn’t! I mean, to have met Ivor Novello! Gosh. That
is
something, don’t you think? He told me that they’d dined together at the Savoy Grill and that as they entered, the band played ‘Forever England’. I don’t suppose anything gets much more thrilling than that, do you?’

‘Not much, I imagine,’ Kingsley agreed. ‘You visited the viscount while he was here at Château Beaurivage,’ did you not?’

‘Well, yes, I did actually. You know, just to be nice…you know, as a pal. I thought it might cheer him up. No sweethearts to visit a fellow here, are there?’

‘Aren’t there?’ Kingsley responded, looking hard at Stamford.