16

MacQueen volunteered to wash the dishes, citing his experience in the sergeants’ mess as qualification. Sergeant Bill Cyples escorted Barbara on her first taxi drive in Kentville, and, inspired by Sergeant Browne’s remark, they headed directly downtown, to the local men’s haberdashery store. There Sergeant Cyples bought a blue and buff dress hat for himself, along with a shiny broach of the regimental crest for Barbara. He tucked the khaki cap into his blouse pocket and angled the blue one over his right eye.

“Pat will appreciate that,” said Barbara. He pinned the broach onto her dress and gave her a kiss like a French general. She reddened and laughed and glanced at the clerk, who was a classmate in high school and stood beside them in an anguish of jealousy.

Barbara then led the sergeant into her father’s pharmacy and introduced them. Her father was an honest merchant who suffered nightmares from raising two attractive daughters alone in a town full of soldiers.

“It is only a trick,” explained Barbara to her harassed father. “We are going to meet Pat at the dance but they can’t go together so Bill is taking me and we will join up there.” Barbara was in a state of mild exultation, and her father was by nature a worrier. Nonetheless, he presented the sergeant with a package of American Lucky Strike cigarettes and told them to have a good time.

It was eight thirty, and the streets were crowded with soldiers and farmers and youths promenading. Most of the A Company seemed on the loose, and they greeted their popular sergeant and admired his slim, blonde girlfriend. The sergeant smiled and waved as he guided Barbara with a hand on her arm. Barbara felt like Lana Turner, and her schoolmates suddenly seemed both shallow and hollow. “Hi, Barbara,” they said nervously as they passed, glancing at the craggy sergeant holding her arm, the blue cap cocked over his eye. No one would have been surprised if he had thrown her over one shoulder and mounted a horse. He looked the type.

Sergeant Bill Cyples was not at any time unaware of the effect he produced. His theatricality was all a part of the process of edging along the abyss and constantly courting disaster. He trusted his own instincts, which told him just how far he could push things before they became counterproductive. He enjoyed teetering on that line and how it alerted everyone around him. He constantly juggled his fate like six eggs in the air, and he had become quite expert at the art. It was a modest accomplishment in his circles, but he wasn’t ready for the big stage just yet, and he knew it.

The fact remained that the performers on that stage weren’t interested in jugglers, and they opened their doors to very few. The price of admission was what the sergeant was trying to learn from MacQueen. He knew that his rapacious talk of pure power would get him nowhere with the real power brokers. Shouting and bullying were fine for sergeants, but he had seen a miniature navy run efficiently without one officer raising his voice. They were obeyed because there was absolutely no question of their authority. It was to that laconic landscape that the sergeant was drawn—that was the promised land of power, disguised as beauty. That’s where the gentlemen were, and it didn’t matter what colour or creed or nationality. They all sat at the same table.

The sergeant escorted Barbara up the stairs and into the dance hall. It was close to the railway station and open until midnight—no one danced on the Sabbath in Kentville. It was only half full, brightly lit, and the eager orchestra was blaring “Tuxedo Junction”. Groups of shy soldiers awkwardly clustered in corners and in the hall; to most of them, this was high sophistication. They all had bony heads and skinny necks, and wore enormous boots. A few from the camp staff wore blues and sat at tables with women. Only a half dozen couples were dancing, but the crowd would increase when the early movie was over at nine o’clock. Bill Cyples was the only sergeant. He selected a table—and everyone avoided it as though he were royalty. Barbara loved the distinction and tried hard not to seem condescending to any of her schoolmates who passed in awe.

MacQueen entered and waved. He joined Pineo and a few others at another table for a brief talk, then walked straight across the dance floor to join them. He made an exaggerated gesture of greeting and shaking the sergeant’s hand. It was plain for all to see, though no one was fooled. The two military policemen duly noted the performance, which was important if alibis had to be verified. Sergeant Cyples always took care of the military police as a matter of course, and they were both smoking Lucky Strike cigarettes for the first time. Tobacco was a greatly more important currency than money.

“How do you like my new broach, Pat?” asked Barbara proudly. “Bill says that I am a daughter of the regiment.” She was developing in the right places, and it looked very good indeed.

“Is that a down payment?” laughed MacQueen. He noticed the blue dress hat in the sergeant’s epaulette. “And a pansy hat, I see?”

The sergeant put the hat on his head and angled it over one eye. “How’s that?” he asked.

It is a touch of what is needed, thought MacQueen. If he could calm himself and turn off the light behind those eyes, he would cease making people so nervous. He seemed to carry a chip on his shoulder and was always daring someone to knock it off. That attitude might be great in combat, but it would never get him into the officer’s mess.

“I appreciate that, Bill,” said Patrick MacQueen seriously. “I know what you were thinking.”

“I’m just as vain as you are, MacQueen,” said the sergeant with a dry laugh. “Only you’re better looking than me.”

“I don’t know,” said Barbara, looking at one and then the other. “You’re different types. But I’m better looking than both of you!” They laughed.

MacQueen brought ginger ale and the sergeant produced a flask of rye whisky. Barbara had a taste, but didn’t like it. The orchestra played “Red Sails in the Sunset”, and they took turns dancing. The dance hall filled and grew hot and smoky. After a couple of hours, they were ready to leave, separately, of course, and made arrangements to meet.

The sergeant drove Barbara home in a taxi then picked MacQueen up under a lamp by the bridge. “I’ll let you off a hundred yards or so from the gate,” he said. “Is your pass okay?”

“Yes,” answered MacQueen. “This is a tough way to meet. It was fun and you were great, but it’s kind of complicated.”

“Something always turns up,” said the sergeant.

MacQueen got out of the car into the dark. “Thanks,” he said.

“De nada,” said the Sergeant. “I’ll make the next move.”

MacQueen marched towards the guardhouse under the stars.