Authors: Mark Latham
When I remarked that I had no idea where I would room, Captain Denny became quite animated.
‘My dear fellow,’ he exclaimed, ‘it seems the world is your oyster! You must ride with us to Westminster and seek suitable accommodation.’
I baulked at the idea, and he realised almost before he had finished speaking that lodging in Westminster was beyond my means. Not that I truly understood what my means were, but the bookkeeping would also have to wait for now.
‘Of course, if you desire something more, ah, “homely” while you become acclimatised to the city,’ he continued, correcting himself as he went along, ‘then I can show you some marvellous guesthouses. Let’s get you some rooms, courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces, eh? I know a good place in Bloomsbury if it suits.’
He smiled warmly, and I could detect no real snobbishness. The army looks after its own, and until I had seen the state of my accounts I was rather glad of someone to pick up the bills and organise things for me. I accepted his offer, and he instructed the driver to take us to the north end of Gower Street. I knew the area of Bloomsbury to be an unassuming district, with a reputation for being frequented by intellectuals, artists and dreamy dilettantes, and I was sure it was a place in which I could be anonymous. I craved peace and quiet, at least for a while, without the pressure of keeping up appearances. I felt agoraphobic, like an animal too long in captivity, uncertain of the conditions of its release. I tried to put aside such foolishness but, as we rode, I confided in Denny that there was more to my choice of lodgings than just assets.
‘In truth,’ I explained, ‘I do want somewhere homely, as you put it. I’ve been away for too long, Jim; experienced more than anyone’s fair share out East. I don’t mind telling you that I was already feeling stifled when I reached the embassy in Hong Kong—every dinner a formal one, every conversation stuffy and centred on politics. I just want to lay my head on a soft pillow and eat some hearty food that hasn’t been prepared by the finest chefs money can buy. A comfortable boarding house sounds far more appealing to me right now than a stuffy hotel or large, empty townhouse. Does that make any kind of sense?’
Jim tipped his head back and laughed. ‘Not really, old boy, I’d live in first-rate hotels all my life given half a chance—but I think if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t make much sense either.’ I couldn’t help but laugh with him, and yet I wondered what would happen to him if he were sent out to the front line, far away from the finer things in life to which he was so obviously accustomed. Would he be so ready with a jest if he’d seen all that I had?
* * *
The growler rattled its way along cobbled streets, the sound of the horses’ hooves almost drowned out by the rhythmic clattering caused by the steel-rimmed wheels of the carriage. I gazed out of the small window as Jim prattled on about all that was current in London; the latest stage shows, museum exhibitions, fashionable writers and society scandals. He was rarely serious, and I wondered how on earth he could command the respect of his men. One soldier rode with us, whilst the other accompanied the driver. The man in our cab was a youthful private, not a day over eighteen I guessed, conspicuous by his silence.
‘You know,’ said Jim, ‘our fathers knew each other. Colonel Denny often talked about Brigadier Hardwick. He was a good soldier, by all accounts.’
‘Yes, he was. It was all he knew. And Colonel Denny? Is he…?’
‘Oh, he’s very much alive, the old goat,’ Jim laughed. ‘Terrorising the servants, running the old house like a military academy.’
‘I know that part,’ I said, staring out of the window. ‘I often think I should have just given in, and joined up sooner.’
‘But you had other dreams. Fathers always want their sons to follow in their footsteps, whether they want to or not. I’ve seen it before—luckily, when I was a boy, I just wanted to be a cavalryman; and here I am.’
‘I wish you more luck than I’ve had,’ I said, earnestly. ‘Following in my father’s footsteps hasn’t been quite what I’d expected.’
‘Ah, yes. I heard you had a rough time of it. Wounded? Or captured?’ He looked as though he regretted the question as soon as it escaped his lips.
‘Captured. Six months, near as damn it.’ Jim looked at me, partly pityingly, partly in wonder.
‘I hear conditions out there…’ Jim stopped short.
‘The Burmese rebels have methods of torture that are alien to an Englishman. Even now the memories are… well, let’s just say I don’t like to dwell on it. It was only after my release that I discovered how long I had been imprisoned.’
‘I don’t mean to pry, old boy…’ Jim said.
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, somewhat disingenuously. I wondered if Jim had been ordered to coax answers from me. I had experienced plenty of that recently, but I had no desire to hide anything from the army, no matter how painful the memories.
‘Why did the rebels release you? Did you ever find out?’ Jim asked.
‘No one knows. It was sudden and unexpected—maybe they realised I wasn’t going to talk, and decided that they should get some value from me rather than kill me. The rebels contacted the Burmese police only on the morning of my release, and arranged an exchange—six captured rebel fighters for me. Thankfully, a British corporal had been stationed nearby with local forces, and had sanctioned the deal—otherwise I would probably still be languishing in a cell, or dead of malnutrition, or worse. I don’t even remember being transferred to their care. In fact, I barely remember anything before I reached Rangoon almost two weeks afterwards. My old commanding officer, Colonel Swinburne, was waiting for me. It took three weeks before I was able to walk without a cane. I remember strolling with him in the grounds of the barracks, smoking cigars and taking a glass of brandy, when he told me that my tour of duty was over; that I was going home. Despite ten years’ service, six of those spent overseas, I put up no resistance. Once the colonel decided I was well enough to travel, I donned my uniform for the last time and headed overland to our territory in China.’
‘And then in Hong Kong… you were discharged with full honours? Must have been a relief, after everything.’
‘I suppose so,’ I smiled unconvincingly. ‘At Hong Kong I spent a single day and night in the company of a group of British officers at the embassy, and that was the end of my service to the Crown. I took ship the next day as a civilian. I cannot feign disappointment—after everything I had been through I must confess that I’d found it difficult to look to my future career in the army. But now here I am at home, and I have no idea what to do with myself.’
Jim looked at me sympathetically. I avoided his gaze. My honourable discharge from the army had left me reeling. I knew that I would receive a fair pension, and that I had at least a small income from my father’s old holdings, though I expected no inheritance from him. But I had known little except a military life, and with no family or property to speak of, I knew it would be hard work to carve a niche for myself back in England. I suppose the prospect was daunting, for I had spent months outside anything resembling normality, and the last few weeks in a sort of dream-like state where my convalescence could happily have taken for ever.
‘After all that—you miss it, don’t you?’ Jim asked.
‘It made me sad in a way that I can’t really explain. Yes—I miss it. Out there a soldier can make a difference, if only he does his duty. Here… I don’t know what a soldier can do here. And I’m not even a soldier any more, am I?’
Jim patted me on the arm. ‘This is London, dear boy, seat of the Empire; greatest city in the world. You can do anything you put your mind to. Write your memoirs, make your fortune. You’ll soon find your feet, you’ll see. And besides, the army looks out for its own. We’ll help you find your feet.’
From that point on, Jim seemed determined to talk about other things, and to take my mind off the past. Jim was a bit of a dilettante, perhaps, but he was a cheerful sort, and he helped the journey pass quickly. We followed the great curve of the Thames from the docks at Wapping to the City proper. We passed the yawning, open mouth of London Bridge, which was already busy with traffic even before seven in the morning. Great overladen carts rumbled towards the many docks with their goods, while omnibuses trundled behind, early morning workers stuck behind the trade traffic in their bid to get to their shops and offices on the opposite side of the river.
We entered the quieter streets of Blackfriars and the tree-lined Victoria Embankment, before sweeping northwards past Whitehall and up Tottenham Court Road. The great thoroughfare was like an avenue passing through several towns—so many high streets, each with their own character. On some, the fishmongers were gathered outside with their stalls of fresh fish from the early deliveries. On others, tailors, cobblers and haberdashers were setting up shop, and on others still were costermongers selling fruit, vegetables, salted pork and more. Young boys in flat caps ran back and forth with messages, parcels and bundles of newspapers. It seemed the further up the road we travelled, the livelier and busier London became, as the morning broke.
Just as I thought the traffic up ahead would delay us, the driver veered along a side street and finally out onto our destination, which was not Gower Street as I’d expected, but George Street to the north. I shot a quizzical look at Jim.
‘Oh, yes. It’s not quite as run-down as you expected, eh? I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s a top-drawer lodging, but the proximity to Euston makes the rent a snip.’ He grinned.
I laughed, and made work of climbing down from the growler. I was about to get my bags, but the two soldiers were there before me.
‘Now,’ said Jim, ‘I must introduce you to your landlady, Mrs. Whitinger. Let me do the talking; if she sees you with that beard at this hour I’m sure she’ll think you’ve come to rob her. You must shave it off at your earliest convenience, by the way—it’s simply not the fashion for the younger man.’
I started to understand Jim’s character. I imagined that, in his dress uniform, medals, sabre and hat he cut a fine figure at society balls. I didn’t fancy his chances in battle, but I also did not hold that against him. Let him make japes and dance, and woo the eligible young ladies while he could, as perhaps I should have done a decade ago.
‘Are you sure Mrs. Whitinger will have rooms?’ I asked uncertainly.
‘Oh, quite sure. She keeps the middle apartment free for officers in need. The last tenant was my friend Daniel, but he got a promotion last month and moved out. Been vacant ever since.’ That wink again. ‘The flat, that is, not Dan.’
We stepped onto the broad stone steps to the entrance of 11 George Street. It was an unassuming terraced house of dark brick, with large sash windows on each of its three floors. The front door was clean and looked as new, and the window boxes outside the ground-floor windows were tidy, and full of daffodils in bloom, betokening a house-proud occupant. The frosted glass rose above the door glowed with the light from within. Thus seeing that at least one resident was indeed up and about, Jim rapped firmly at the door. We waited less than half a minute before hearing the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and the door opened. Before us stood a small yet stern-looking lady of advancing years, wearing a cornflower-blue dress and a white linen apron. Her silver hair was scraped back into a bun, and her grey eyes looked us over keenly.
‘My dear Mrs. Whitinger,’ said Jim, ‘I hope you are well on this fine morning.’
‘Oh, it’s you Master James. I wasn’t sure you’d be coming, least not yet. Have you brought me a new lodger?’
‘I have indeed my good lady. This is Captain John Hardwick, retired.’ He announced me with exaggerated grandeur, and as he had intimated to me earlier she eyed me with suspicion.
‘Do not worry, Mrs. Whitinger, I can assure you Captain Hardwick is a gentleman born. He has just returned from a tediously long sea voyage after many years abroad, and is in need of comfortable rooms, a good breakfast, and a long-awaited brush and shave.’ Jim turned and gave a wink, and looking past him I saw that Mrs. Whitinger’s demeanour had softened.
She invited us inside, and bade the two privates take my few bags up to the first-floor landing. She clearly had an affection for Jim, who chastised her with a laugh for calling him Master James. ‘I’m a grown man now, Mrs. Whitinger, and a captain of Horse Guards. Really, John,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I despair. I believe I will always be a fresh-faced ensign to Mrs. Whitinger.’
Mrs. Whitinger showed me up the stairs to my rooms, and Jim followed along. It was almost as I had pictured. There were three rooms—a large lounge ran the length of the house, with a window overlooking the street and a good-sized fireplace in the far wall flanked by two comfortable-looking armchairs. A small Chesterfield sofa, breakfast table and chairs, mahogany sideboard and a tall, half-empty bookcase completed the furnishings. Two rooms led off from that one, a bedroom at the rear of the house away from the hustle and bustle of the main street, and a small study at the front. The apartment overall was of a modest size, light and airy, but with a fussy décor, all flowers, figurines and soft furnishings. It looked homely. I guessed that Mrs. Whitinger had been expecting a new lodger—the bed was freshly made and a small posy of daffodils filled a vase on the windowsill of the lounge. It turned out that she had received a message the previous evening from an administrator at Horse Guards, informing her that an officer might be coming to stay the following day, and to have the apartment ready just in case.
Seeing that I was pleased with my lodgings, Jim began to take his leave.
‘The first month’s rent shall be paid on the morrow,’ he said, and Mrs. Whitinger thanked him. ‘I leave you in the good hands of Mrs. Whitinger, John, and shall call on you this evening. I trust you will dine with me?’ he asked, although he gave me no time to refuse. ‘And don’t be too frightened by Mrs. Whitinger; she may look formidable but she’s a dear thing really.’ Before the old landlady could reply, he was taking off down the stairs, chuckling as he went, leaving Mrs. Whitinger exasperated.