LITMIR.BIZ

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now?’ Jock opened and closed his mouth once or twice.

      ‘I’ve got a mouth like a parrot’s cage.’

      ‘That doesn’t surprise me. It’s time you gave up whisky, and that’s a fact.’

      Jock had grown used to the light now and he swung his legs over the side of the low bed. At some stage he had taken off his kilt and his stockings had dropped to his ankles; the red garters trailed loose round his feet. As he pulled up his stockings Mary noticed that he had climbed between the sheets.

      ‘You’d no need to get between the sheets,’ she said a little sourly, but Jock did not listen to her. He still looked half stunned, as if he were trying to remember something.

      ‘What’s the time?’

      ‘It’s twenty-five to eight. I’m off to supper in another five minutes.’

      ‘Aye. Good for you.’ He walked over to the radiator by the curtained window, and picking up the towel there he wiped his neck with it. Then he shivered. The room was very cold and untidy, and nobody likes waking when it is dark.

      ‘That’s bloody strange, Mary. I was having some sort of dream.’

      ‘It sounded more like a nightmare.’

      ‘A-huh,’ he said gently: he wanted to talk. ‘That’s what’s so strange. Christ, I’ve been sweating.’ He chucked the towel over the back of a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. His eyes were much brighter than usual: they did not look flat any more. ‘I’m thinking it wasn’t so bad. The dream wasn’t so bad. No.’

      ‘Well, you were fairly yelling for me. Here’s your kilt. I was thinking of waking you up, anyway, when you started to cry.’

      ‘I wasn’t crying.’

      ‘Then it was something very near it.’

      ‘I’d no call to cry, lass. The whole Battalion was on the move.’

      But Mary was too busy to listen to dreams.

      ‘Here; take your kilt. I’ll be through next door.’

      She turned away, but as Jock sat down on the bed again he wanted her to stay.

      ‘Mary, Mary, bide,’ he said and she hesitated. ‘It was a good dream. I was telling you.’

      ‘Och, for heaven’s sake, Jock.’

      He gave a little smile. ‘I was only wanting to tell you.’

      ‘All right; all right. I’m glad it was a good dream. But it’s time you were awake, and out of here.’

      ‘That’s the way of it?’

      ‘Och.’

      ‘Hi, Mary. What’s the time?’

      ‘I told you.’

      ‘Did you?’

      ‘It’s after half-past seven.’

      ‘Ach, to hell. I’m too late for the Mess.’

      ‘Then you’d better go home.’ She was standing holding on to the door, half in the room and half out. Jock was as anxious as a child that she should stay.

      ‘I told Morag I’d be out.’

      ‘She’ll give you a boiled egg, I’m sure.’

      ‘A-huh.’ He smiled and bent down stiffly to collect his shoes. ‘I’m no much good at amusing us, so it seems.’

      ‘So it seems.’

      Then Jock returned to the dream. ‘I can’t just mind what the hell it was all about. But it wasn’t a nightmare: not really. It’s cold, Mary. Is it snowing?’

      She knocked her knuckles against the door with impatience.

      ‘How should I know? I haven’t left the flat.’

      ‘You would have been as well in bed beside me then.’

      Again she was about to leave.

      ‘Mary?’

      ‘I’ve got company,’ she said and Jock looked up from his laces.

      ‘Who the hell?’

      ‘It’s all right: it’s a friend of yours. Never mind about the bed: I’ll make it later.’

      Jock was not very grateful. ‘If you make it at all,’ he said.

      Charlie Scott was lying on the sofa with his head tipped back on the arm, and he did not move when Jock came into the room. When Charlie sensed danger all that happened was that his movements were a little slower, and his speeches even shorter. He was known for that. There was a live newsreel taken of his company going into an attack during the Italian campaign and Charlie had been something of a star in it. As the smoke thickened and his men deployed along the line of tanks, a runner came up with some message. There is a wonderful picture of Charlie taken on the spot, and you see it repeated from time to time when they show old shots of battle. The runner has a long message which you do not hear, and Charlie listens to him. He nods, and brushes his big moustache: he does not look flurried or afraid. You hear his voice, with the tanks behind.

      ‘Tell Mr McLaren from me,’ he says, ‘that he must bloody well bide his time.’ The message, though never understood or explained, served as a catch phrase in the Battalion for some time after that. And it was the same calm, dumb expression that confronted Jock when he came into the room.

      But Jock could not disguise his astonishment.

      ‘Charlie Scott. What the hell are you doing here?’

      Then he looked at Mary’s back. She was bending over a table at the far end of the room, pouring out some drinks, and it was all suddenly plain.

      ‘Bit worried about you. Thought you might have tottered along here, old boy.’

      Jock looked at him hard, looked at Mary, and looked back at him again. He blinked; then he smiled.

      ‘Aye. Old boy, old boy. And you’re a bloody liar, Charlie Scott. But you’re a bloody bad liar. I’ll give you that.’

      ‘No, Jock lad, I …’

      ‘Och, it’s no business of mine,’ Jock said irritably, turning away, and now Mary put a tumbler in his hand. ‘I was just surprised.’

      As casually as she could, Mary said, ‘Don’t worry, Charlie; Jock always judges others by himself.’ But Jock shook his head. She was as unconvincing as Charlie. He chuckled as he said, ‘And I’m always right.’

      ‘Here’s to us,’ Mary said; then she put her glass down on the bookshelf and disappeared into the bedroom.

      Charlie sat up and he raised his glass with a flippant little jerk.

      ‘Astonishing good luck.’

      ‘Aye,’ Jock said, and he took a gulp. When he noticed it was brandy he was drinking he made a sour face. ‘I suppose the whisky’s done. Was it your bottle, Charlie?’

      ‘Lord, no.’

      ‘I’ll repay you, sometime.’

      Charlie sat silently and Jock walked up and down the room for a moment or two, touching things. Then he glanced at the door, and stepped back to Charlie. He bent forward and spoke in a low voice.

      ‘Charlie; you’re a bloody idiot, man. It’s time you got out and got yourself married. You can’t go on like this all your life.’

      It was just like that newsreel. Charlie’s face was without expression. At last he said slowly, ‘You must have had the hell of a dream,’ and he took a sip of brandy, but he did not much like the taste of brandy, either.

      Jock looked at him earnestly then he straightened his back again, and he said, ‘Aye; the hell of a dream.’ He walked

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