38

The carriage drive from Hamilton to Somerset was a long journey into Patrick MacQueen’s boyhood, and a hundred memories returned to him with every mile. The coral road was alternately lined with oleanders and low stone walls, mossy and grey with age. The vivid panorama of the Great Sound revealed itself on their right, sweeping in a great arc towards Ireland Island and the distant horizon that blended unnoticeably with the sky. Private islands were scattered nearer the shore, one of which—Vivienne’s—was a white scar of limestone where the US Marines were building an airstrip. I’ll bet she didn’t donate that to the war effort, reflected Patrick with a touch of bitterness.

The carriage itself was painted black and had shiny brass fixtures, and their seats were surrounded with wicker. Driving on the left side, the coachman was proud of his rig and sat on his box in immaculate white, with a white sun helmet on his head. He wielded a long whip very sparingly, and the horses glistened with sweat under the straps of the glossy harness.

MacQueen realized that, as a boy, he had stepped into the full twilight of a passing age. Jeeps were making occasional forays out of the military bases, and would soon be a familiar sight. Trucks and other obnoxious vehicles would follow, and the horses would retreat in importance and become obsolete. It had happened everywhere else, and nothing could prevent it here.

These poignant ruminations were carried on against the backdrop of continual social chatter from the countess and insufferable yelps from her Pekinese. The carriage swayed as the horses broke into a trot on level ground and then slowed to a walk on the hills. The two men sat riding backwards, facing towards the ladies. Over their heads was a large parasol hanging from an iron hood and secured with fishing line.

“We’ll stop at the Waterlot Inn for a bite,” said the countess to the coachman. She turned to her neighbour. “You know Claudia, my dear. She is very down-to-earth but serves a good lunch.” The Waterlot Inn was located in Southampton Parish, on the shore of the Little Sound and just below the towering lighthouse on Gibb’s Hill.

“Well goddamn it,” greeted Claudia, sweeping her arms wide and stumbling dazedly into the sunshine of the driveway. “How the hell are you? You haven’t forsaken ol’ Claudia, eh?” She was wearing a Hawaiian muumuu that covered every swell and mound of her great body. She was trailed by two black servants in white jackets; a number of people peeked around the oleanders to see who deserved such a regal greeting from Claudia. The countess, with the yapping dog in her arms, descended carefully, assisted by the lieutenant.

“Claudia, darling,” said the countess. “Have you anything to give my poor Mathilde? She is simply starving and is losing her sang froid.”

Claudia gazed with open disdain at the dog’s crumpled and defiant little face. MacQueen sensed that an explosion of expletives was imminent and glanced at his mother. She rolled her eyes to the sky then charged into the fray to defuse the looming crisis.

“Claudia, my dear,” said Eva MacQueen. “I will take Mathilde to the kitchen. You do remember Vivienne, don’t you? She is Countess Bernstog again….”

Claudia shook her head; then a gleam of recognition came into her eyes. “Yes, I remember the countess,” she said. “We were neighbours in Texas in the old days, eh Countess? Anyone within five hundred miles is a neighbour in Texas.”

These two formidable ladies locked eyes and realized that neither was going to yield an inch. Vivienne surrendered the dogthen took the lieutenant’s arm possessively. The horses neighed as the coachman urged them into the shade. Vivienne glanced at the buildings. “This always reminded me of a lodge at the viceregal park in Delhi,” said Vivienne slowly, once again locking eyes with Claudia.

Claudia decided the remark was a tribute, and the original roles were resumed. “I suppose you dropped the ‘von’ for the duration, Countess?” asked Claudia, not unkindly.

“The war is so difficult,” agreed the countess. “One is even forced to change one’s name.” She sighed at the perversity of the world. The two servants led her toward the main building, with Lieutenant Cyples at her side like an aide-de-camp.

Patrick glanced at the coachman, who was standing impassively beside his horses. “Why not feed them, then get a bite yourself somewhere?” he asked.

“I carry everything with me, young master,” answered the coachman, a smile flashing across his dark face. It was a long time since anyone called me that, thought MacQueen. His ingrained sense of the naturalness of things was more pleased than he would dare to admit. To him it was not a salutation, it was a deep chord in the universe. It contained no humility and little significance, except that two centuries of revolution have debased the courtesies of men’s relationships with one another. If the coachman had been a king, the injured young soldier would have had no trouble in addressing him as Your Majesty. But he was the coachman, and he had gently reminded MacQueen of his obligations. It was a graceful gesture, more effective than all the posturing of MacQueen’s companions.

“I have sub-let my flat at Marble Arch to an American film actor,” babbled the countess. She produced a pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses hinged on an ebony rod, and focused them on the large menu. There was a square of surfaced concrete on the lawn between the table and the sea. It had a bandstand at one end and was surrounded by metal tables with the chairs upended on top of them. Nearby was a field of opening lily blossoms that weighted the air with aroma and induced lethargy. Patrick collected his mother from the kitchen, where the dog was growling and eating at the same time. It was firmly tethered to a garbage pail. He delivered his mother to the table, requested a club sandwich, and then went in search of a toilet. Lieutenant Cyples followed him.

“How do you like being Alice in Wonderland?” asked MacQueen, running a comb through his hair. The lieutenant flushed the toilet and joined him in front of the mirror.

“Christ!” he replied, rinsing his hands. “At one end you get your head blown off; at the other end they cut your balls off! There must be a medium ground somewhere?”

“Sure there is,” replied Patrick, looking at the badge of the Winnipeg Grenadiers. “Arrange to have a rich grandfather! Everything else is corruption. Does your father know about all of this?”

“Shit no!” said the lieutenant. “Why complicate his life? As a champion of the proletariat, he would rather see me swinging by the neck from that lighthouse than farting around with our phony countess!”

Their roles seemed oddly reversed from the experiences in Canada. Patrick was now seeing his world through a friend’s eyes, and the landscape was notably altered. In the past he had taken so much for granted, but it was now coming into focus.

“What are your duties, anyway?” asked MacQueen.

Lieutenant Cyples adjusted his tie, straightened his shoulders, and patted his stomach. “My platoon guards the dockyard,” he said. He shoved his tongue out between his long teeth and examined it in the mirror. “Twenty-four hours on and twenty-four hours off, with every other weekend. Without your mother’s dances, everyone would go crazy with boredom.”

“You are now an officer garrisoning the empire,” said MacQueen. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Presto—and you’ve got it! Don’t analyze paradise—you might find a snake in the garden.”

“Who is Jack in Ottawa? The man who evidently arranged my transfer?” asked Lieutenant Cyples as they sauntered across the lawn towards the table.

“Dad’s cousin, one of the family colonels,” answered Patrick, adjusting his checkered jacket over the sling. “He’s got a rich wife….”

The lawn was dappled with shade from the juniper-scented Bermuda cedars, and two palm trees rustled gently in the trade winds. The Union Jack stood out straight from the flagstaff of the lighthouse, and white canvass triangles speckled the opaque waters of Little Sound. They rejoined their party.

“I think Claudia waters her drinks,” said the countess with the unseeing violet eyes. “You’d better order another round.”