The Mapp-Flints returned to Grebe. There they found a certain amount of disorder; a military vehicle had used their garden as a shortcut, squashing a number of sweet flowers flat, and a nest of cigarette-ends came to light under the plum-tree. Elizabeth moaned when she saw these desecrations, while the Major, who had never completely shared his wife’s love of flowers, said that he supposed things were worse in occupied France and the best thing would be to turn the wrecked flower-bed into another vegetable patch. Elizabeth gave a strangled sob at this insensitivity and fled into the house to count her Tilling pigs.
Evie’s forecast of lavish entertainment at Mallards proved to be correct. Feasts exceeding even the quantity and quality of peacetime were staged there once or twice a week. Georgie insisted on conducting what he called consumer research, and his assistants in this vital work were only too pleased to co-operate. All thoughts of reciprocal hospitality were quickly abandoned, for no one could hope to match the Homeric opulence of Mallards, and besides, it was their patriotic duty to eat the delicacies that Mr. Georgie’s talented hands prepared for them. Rarely in the political history of the world have citizens been so quick to answer their country’s call as the folk of Tilling. To round off the pleasure, there was the thrill of hearing the recipes they had eaten on Fridays (in the development of which they had all played their parts) broadcast by the B.B.C. on the following Mondays. An actor had been found who could reproduce Georgie’s voice exactly (he also did Mr. Churchill when the need arose) and so Georgie simply wrote the scripts and sent them to Teddy Broome in London. What with eating out and listening in, most Tillingites spent a large proportion of their lives at Mallards, with a corresponding saving in fuel and electricity. As a result, Lucia’s authority over the town was to all intents and purposes absolute, for Elizabeth had capitulated entirely.
This was, perhaps, the most fascinating part of it. When Georgie started to give courses in elementary domestic science, Elizabeth and Major Benjy were among the first to enrol. They listened with apparently insatiable curiosity to Chopin, Elgar, even Berlioz, and were always insistent on Just one more delightful air, sweet Lucia. Although Elizabeth wore her uniform during the day, she never wore it at Mallards, and the civilian clothes she wore were deliberately dowdy, so that Lucia was undisputed arbiter of elegance in matters of apparel. Only at the Bridge-table were traces of the old Eve to be distinguished, and even these seemed to vanish at the slightest mention of Royalty. The more percipient of the spectators in this curious drama soon observed that a reference to court cards or speculation as to the conventions of Bridge employed at Balmoral or Sandringham quickly rendered Elizabeth as meek as a lamb.
‘I see, Lucia, I should have played the eight of clubs there. So sorry.’
Even when out of the presence of her sovereign, Elizabeth could not be induced to utter a word of treason, so that the Padre speculated openly whether she was afflicted with some sort of nervous strain.
So drastic was the change in Elizabeth’s character that even Major Benjy became aware of it. On one of the rare evenings when he and his wife dined at home, he decided to explore (tactfully, of course) this unexpected change of character. All in all he was in favour of it, for he ate better now and had more access to wine than before the war.
‘May I says something, Liz?’ he ventured.
‘By all means,’ she replied.
‘Don’t quite know how to put this,’ he continued. ‘I am only an old soldier, although I hope, by God, a gentleman, but I feel I must say how pleased I am with the reconciliation between yourself and Lucia—Mrs. Pillson,’ he added quickly, in case there hadn’t been one. ‘It always struck me as a shame that the two ornaments of Tilling should always be at each other’s throats like that.’ He paused. Talking of throats, his was dry and he felt distinctly uncomfortable. ‘I’m glad you seem to see eye to eye more these days. Twin Flowers entwined in harmony, don’t you know.’
He stopped and peered anxiously at his wife. She seemed in the grip of strong, conflicting emotions, like a pool of water blown by two powerful winds.
‘Yes, isn’t it nice?’ she said at length. ‘So harmonious. All quarrels put aside in the face of the common enemy.’
‘Ah,’ said the Major. But something still troubled him. He drank some soup in silence, but he still felt vaguely dissatisfied. ‘It’s odd,’ though, he said. ‘A few weeks ago, you two didn’t seem to be getting on at all. Then, after you got back from Windsor .... Perhaps I’m wrong, but that’s how it struck me, anyhow.’
There was another long pause. Elizabeth laid down her soup-spoon and was staring at her plate as if the soup was full of vipers.
‘Oh Benjy!’ she exclaimed at last. ‘It’s too cruel! And it’s all my own fault. A moment’s weakness, that’s all. And it wasn’t really a lie. She was unavailable at the time, and we didn’t really know when she was coming back. Oh what shall I do?’
‘What on earth’s the matter?’ asked Major Benjy.
‘I see I must confess everything,’ said Elizabeth, her hands moving imaginary beads. ‘The invitation to Windsor Castle was for Lucia. She was away so I opened the letter to see if it was important and because I thought she would be unavailable for the party I wrote back, as deputy head of Tilling medical services, to inform them. I know I should have telephoned Lucia, but I couldn’t find the number in London. I did look. Then the people at Windsor sent another invitation for me to go in Lucia’s place. When at last I did hear from Lucia, she said she would be away for at least another fortnight—poor Mr. Georgie. Well, I couldn’t face telling her how I had opened her letter—you know how she finds wickedness in the most innocent of actions—and so I went to Windsor in her place. I went as a sort of ... well, you know. And while I was away, she found the original invitation and jumped to the most outrageous conclusions, and now she’s threatening to show it to all our friends in Tilling if I do anything to cross her or contradict her. It’s too wretched and life isn’t worth living.’
There was hardly a word of this story that was not, at least to a certain extent, literally true. Admittedly the order of some of the events had got jumbled up a little and some minor details had been omitted altogether, but any historian, from Thucydides to Lord Macaulay, would testify that all historical narrative must of necessity incorporate a certain degree of interpretation.
‘Damnable!’ cried Major Benjy, unaware that he was echoing the very sentiments that Mr. Georgie had expressed on hearing the tale. ‘Blackmail, that’s what I call it. Why, you were simply acting in the best interests of the town. How dare she hold you to ransom like this? When all you were doing was acting as her ambass— ... as her representative while she was off gallivanting in London. Scandalous!’
Elizabeth doubted whether everyone would see it in this light, although this was evidently the light that favoured it most. Could Lucia’s blackmail cancel out her crime? Dare she?
‘Everything I have ever done I have done in the public interest,’ she said solemnly. ‘Pro bono publico. Oh what a wretched life a politician must lead! I expect this sort of thing is daily bread to them. But I can’t cope with it, Benjy, not poor, innocent I. She will tell you that I deliberately took advantage of her hospitality to get myself invited to Windsor Castle. But think how it would have looked to His Majesty if I had written to say that Mrs. Pillson cannot attend the reception because she is on holiday!’
‘I thought you did,’ said Benjy.
‘Of course I did not phrase it like that,’ said Elizabeth quickly. ‘Imagine His Majesty’s feelings if he had thought that no one here was prepared to accept his invitation. “Very well, then”, he would have said, “if Tilling is too busy to attend my party, I shall not ask them again.” But that’s so like Lucia. She takes it upon herself to secure the most illustrious public offices and then leaves all the work to her deputies. As her Mayoress, I was continually called upon to perform her duties for her.’ (Lucia had once asked Elizabeth to present the prizes at the school’s speech-day, since she herself was in bed with a temperature of a hundred and four.) ‘And now, I suppose, I must see myself made a laughing-stock, with the threat of total humiliation hanging over me.’
‘There must be something we can do.’
‘What? Am I to ask you to break into Mallards at dead of night to abstract the document?’ The thought had crossed her mind.
‘If she were a man,’ said the Major, ‘I would challenge her to a duel.’
‘Oh Benjy, how chivalrous! You are a brave, kind man and I don’t deserve such a husband, I truly don’t. But she isn’t and you can’t. It’s tantamount to obtaining money by menaces,’ she continued, warming to her theme, ‘for every time I play Bridge against her, I feel obliged to lose on purpose, and so she fills her purse with my sixpences. What a tragedy it was when that woman first came to Tilling. First my house, now my reputation.’
‘Cheer up, old girl,’ said Benjy, ‘we’ll think of something, mark my words. Let her show everyone the invitation! Publish and be—blowed to her. You tell everyone the truth, just as you’ve told it to me, and then they’ll know just what sort of woman she is. That’ll stop her mouth for her.’
Elizabeth toyed with this attractive notion. Nobody could tell the truth like she could. But the stakes were too high.
‘No, Benjy. Your courageous heart prompts you to direct and straightforward action, but I am only a weak woman’ (with an effort she prevented herself from adding that she had the heart of a prince) ‘and I fear that I must capitulate. And now we’ll say no more about this horrible business. Tell me some good news. How about the Home Guard? You told me it would not be long before they were ready to face any soldiers in the world.’
‘Bad news on that front, I’m afraid. My sergeant, who was the only man in the whole bunch worth tuppence, got his calling-up papers this week. Without him, the whole lot of them will go to pot. Must have a good sergeant, you know. Backbone of the military unit, the non-commissioned officer.’
‘And is there no one to take his place?’
‘No. Well, there’s Hopkins the fishmonger. Early fifties, fine figure of a man. He could do it standing on his head.’
‘There you are, then,’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Hopkins it shall be.’
‘Unfortunately he won’t join up. Says he’s far too busy to fool about playing at soldiers when he’s a shop to run. Treason, that’s what I call it. Sabotage. In fact, I have my doubts about Hopkins. Spends all his time down by the Harbour, claims to be buying fish, but you can never tell.’
‘I shall buy my fish from the other fish-shop,’ said Elizabeth firmly, ‘even though he rarely has anything worth eating. We must show Hopkins what we think about his behaviour.’
‘The other chap won’t join up either. Pity. If one of them joined up we’d be sure of a decent bit of fish from time to time, instead of the muck we usually have to put up with.’
Gloomily he returned to his soup, which was cold. His mind moved upon the problems that beset him, Lucia’s malignity and the intransigence of fishmongers. As he turned them over in his mind, a quite brilliant idea struck him. What if he were to offer the sergeants stripes to Pillson? The man would jump at the chance—any man whose soul had not been poisoned by prolonged contact with fish must surely do so—and then he would have no time for cooking and arranging dinner parties. If there were no more dinner parties, Lucia could no longer oppress Elizabeth at them, would no longer be able to entertain in magnificent style. That would jolly well serve her right. It was an ingenious idea, although it would involve him in considerable inconvenience. He would lose all those excellent dinners at Mallards, unless, of course, the new sergeant could be prevailed upon to throw together a little supper for his comrades-in-arms after a night’s patrol. But Imagine trying to make a soldier out of Miss Milliner Michael-Angelo Courvoisier. He could scarcely bring himself to be civil to the fellow at the best of times. Civility, however, was not normally a part of the intercourse between sergeant and commanding officer; once Pillson had signed on the dotted line, he had better watch his step. All in all, it was a good plan. It would make Liz happy, and a happy Liz was a damn sight easier to live with than the other sort. Best not tell her, though. Let it be a surprise for her.
Having thus resolved upon independent action, Benjy prepared to seize the first opportunity to confront Georgie and force the King’s shilling into his hand. But how to do it? He weighed up the various alternatives. He could go to Mallards, demand an audience and, backing him into a corner of the garden-room, of which there was only one door, point a military finger at him and exclaim, ‘Your country needs you!’ Such a manoeuvre could not fail to make an immediate impact, but it seemed to lack the finesse necessary when dealing with a slippery customer like Pillson. He could send for him; a Home Guard private sent to Mallards, an urgent summons, a situation had arisen, best man for the job, special talents. Try as he might, Major Benjy could think of no special talents that Georgie possessed bar one, and that was not obviously relevant to the field of battle. Perhaps a gentle hint dropped over the port. But would Pillson take such a hint? Difficulties everywhere.
Gloomily the Major walked through the Landgate on his way to the Institute, where his soldiers were waiting for him. There was Pillson, sitting on a camp-stool sketching the arch, as had been his habit in more tranquil times. Georgie’s heart was not in it, however. It seemed a frivolous thing to be doing, and at the sight of the Major in his khaki Georgie’s conscience pricked him. Rain or shine, he thought, there’s old Benjy, out on patrol with the Home Guard, while I fritter away my spare time making sketches. Olga wouldn’t approve. Wouldn’t she be impressed by me in a uniform? Probably not, he concluded, for he was a realist.
Major Benjy was a firm believer in Destiny and he decided to speak his piece.
‘Afternoon, Pillson!’ he cried.
‘Good afternoon, Major,’ replied Georgie. ‘Such good light for sketching, don’t you think?’
‘Sketching,’ snorted the Major. ‘Don’t know how you can think of sketching at a time like this. Still, you carry on.’
Guiltily, Georgie sharpened his pencil. The voice of Duty was growing ever louder inside him, and this seemed uncommonly like an omen.
‘Pardon my bluntness, Pillson, but shouldn’t you be—ah—cooking something for the Government?’ A picture rose up in Georgie’s mind of the Cabinet, rattling their spoons on the table. He dismissed it.
‘Not today. Very glad, really. So tar’some, being cooped up all day in the kitchen. They tell me I’ve invented so many useful recipes that I mustn’t send them any more for at least a month, because it will take that long to use up the ones they’ve already got. Isn’t that exciting?’
The Major paused and summoned up his powers of eloquence.
‘Excellent, excellent, but you know, we can’t really do too much for our country, can we? We’ve come to expect a lot from you, Pillson,’ he said, feeling his soul blacken within him at this perjury. ‘Greatly respected in Tilling, if I might make so bold to say so. A civic leader. A setter of examples. If you do something everybody’s bound to follow. A little more shading there, perhaps? No, maybe not.’
Georgie sat spellbound. He a civic leader! A setter of examples! Admittedly Mr. Wyse had said that he had always wanted a dinner-suit like his, but that was scarcely the same thing.
‘Magnificent arch, what?’ said the Major, who felt badly in need of a whisky-and-soda. ‘Military in origin, of course. A last line of defence against the Spanish. Or the Dutch. Or was it the French? Of course the art of warfare has progressed a great deal since this was erected. Gunpowder, you know, and bombs and machine-guns.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said the civic leader. What was Major Benjy getting at?
‘No use relying on old stones these days,’ said the Major. ‘We need men, not old stones. Good men and true. Trouble is, all the good men are away at the front, and only the old crocks like myself are left. We do our best of course, but I don’t think we’d have much of a chance if the Hun decided to have a go. Old fossils like myself,’ he added significantly.
‘That’s being rather defeatist, isn’t it?’
‘What we need is some young blood,’ continued the Major. What he needed was a strong whisky-and-soda. ‘Able-bodied men, not so young that they’re needed at the front, but men in the prime of life. Men like yourself. To be frank with you, Pillson, I must admit to being a little bit disappointed in you. Considering what a high opinion of you I have, I mean, a very high opinion, but disappointed nonetheless.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgie. What did the Major want him to do? Cook the Home Guard Annual Dinner, perhaps?
‘I mean, invaluable work, yes. Army marches on its stomach, as Hannibal said to Alexander the Great, and the same goes for civilians. But you yourself said that you don’t spend all your time cooking, dammit. No, you fritter away your energies on sketching and Bridge with a lot of old cats. Dinner parties. Tea parties. Pshaw! That’s all right for the ladies, God bless ’em. Takes their minds off the war. But we men shouldn’t let our minds be taken off the war. We should think about it day and night.’
‘How unpleasant,’ said Georgie, but the guilt throbbed in his breast.
‘We must face facts. Jerry’s out there,’ Benjy cried, waving his hand in the general direction of Hastings. ‘He’s biding his time, waiting to pounce. And to make matters worse, my sergeants been called up. Terrible! Ah well, there it is. It’s here he’ll attack, you mark my words. Think of William the Conqueror,’ he added darkly.
‘He was French,’ said Georgie.
‘Ah, but the French were our enemies then. Puts a whole new complexion on the matter. Now, if I had a good man as my sergeant, a man in his—his late forties, let us say, in the prime of life, a man of intelligence as well as a fine physical specimen, a man of parts, well, I should feel much happier about it all. But there it is. You can see why I lie awake at nights. And now I find you. Instead of devoting your talents to the well-being of our little town, you are frittering away your time—pardon my strong language, old fellow, but I feel this deeply—in sketching and idleness. Why you’re just the sort of chap .... But there it is.’
Major Benjy turned and faced the arch. He felt satisfied that he had combined all his possible approaches—the gentle hint, the direct appeal, tact and bluntness—in one powerful address. Oh, for a whisky-and-soda!
‘You mean me?’ said Georgie, suspiciously. This was most unlike the Major. Perhaps he was drunk.
Major Benjy closed his eyes and prayed to heaven for patience. He turned on his heel and faced Georgie.
‘Your country needs you, Pillson!’ he thundered, shooting out a massive forefinger that punched a neat hole through Georgie’s sketch. ‘Oh, sorry about that. Yes, I mean you. The only man in Tilling, apart from those dratted fishmongers. And they haven’t an ounce of brain between them. You have. More than an ounce. Pounds.’
Georgie looked at his ruined sketch and then at the Major. Now there was an omen if ever he saw one. The vision of himself in uniform, which had haunted his mind sporadically ever since he had first seen the Home Guard, returned to him now, with no saucepan-clad Irene or jeering children to mar it. His heart had yearned for many things in his life; he had wanted to be a talented pianist, a celebrated singer, a famous artist, a romantic lover—he was none of these, and never would be. Instead he was a talented and useful cook, and although that was very pleasant as far as it went, it was a little humiliating to have won his place in history as the man who could disguise the chemical taste of powdered egg. Inside George Pillson, he knew there lurked a man of steel, and although this man of steel had hitherto been too timid to venture out into the light of day, he knew the hour would come. Aeschylus, he recalled, had fought at the Battle of Marathon.
‘Well?’ said Major Benjy. He looked hard at the vacillating Georgie and wondered if his monumental efforts had gone to waste. He was generally a man of few words and, except when tipsy, he preferred to express himself in terse, military language. But the thought of what Elizabeth would say when she heard that he had subverted the mainspring of Lucia’s dinner parties, cut the supply-lines of her table and thereby silenced for ever the batteries of her wrath, filled him with hope. He planned a little deal; Lucia would get Georgie back three nights a week in return for the document. He puffed up his chest and prepared to drive the point home. Silver-Tongued Benjy, they had called him in Rangoon.
‘What I’m getting at,’ he said, ‘is this. We need a sergeant for the Home Guard. The chap we’ve got at the moment has been called up. Will you take his place?’
‘Me?’ said Georgie. ‘Well, I don’t know.’
The man of steel clanked within him and he forced his face into a stern expression.
‘I don’t know about that, Major Flint. I do have rather a lot on my plate at the moment. Cooking,’ he said gruffly. Preparing recipes. The war cannot be won at the front if the back—the Home Front—is neglected. Morale.’
This ponderous statement silenced them both for a while. The Major thought it might be a refusal, while Georgie was waiting to be wooed further. What if the Major said, ‘Oh, very well, then,’ and went off to enrol the newsagent or someone?
‘And besides,’ Georgie added, ‘I couldn’t just become a sergeant straightaway. I would have to be a private first, then a corporal, then a lance-corporal. Too tar’some.’
‘Nonsense, man, you’d go straight to the sergeant’s stripes. Sergeant-major, even. Your dear wife, for instance. Think how she’d admire you in the King’s uniform.’
The thought of Lucia sent the man of steel scuttling away like a crab.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ he said, grabbing his easel and camp-stool. ‘Such a decision! Goodbye!’
‘Damn the man,’ muttered the Major, as the potential sergeant dashed away up the High Street. ‘Now he’s run off and I’ve put myself through all that for nothing. I’m going to go and have a drink.’
Which he did.
Georgie let himself into Mallards and collapsed into a chair.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed to the empty room. ‘What shall I do? Major Benjy’s right, of course. And if I’m expected to set an example .... But what will Lucia say?’
And then it occurred to him that what Lucia said did not matter at all. He had had one moment of glory, as cook and broadcaster. But somehow, he was not sure how, Lucia had brought him home and an actor now broadcast the recipes that he wrote with such an effort. Now he spent all his time at home, like a prisoner, cooking not for Mr. Churchill and Teddy Broome, but for Lucia’s guests and Lucia’s dinner parties. It was wonderful to be good at something; but there was no reason why he should do it all the time. Ever since Lucia had found that invitation, he thought, she’s been insufferable, worse than when she was Mayor. There’s no one to keep her in check now, and she thinks of nothing but humiliating Elizabeth. Elizabeth may be a nuisance at times, but it’s sheer cruelty. And there’s no fun in life any more, and it’s all because Lucia’s defeated Elizabeth. Why, what with tormenting her at tea parties and ticking her off at Bridge, Lucia’s forgotten all about the war, because of my food, which I should be using for recipes. She’ll turn everyone against her if she goes on like this. She objected to me having an afternoon off today. It’s like being her servant. Well then, if that’s what she thinks, there are others who think otherwise. Even Major Benjy! I’m a civic leader, it seems, a setter of examples. Then I might as well be a teacher of lessons, too. She’ll find she can’t impose upon the pride of Tilling. That makes me sound like a steam-engine—but so I am, drawing the whole town behind me. And I do think I’ll look well in uniform.
‘Damn’, damn’, damn’!’ he said aloud, and leapt to his feet. Then he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and stood awhile contemplating it. He was getting very pale, and no wonder, seeing that he spent all day in the kitchen.
‘Sergeant Pillson,’ he announced grandly and stood motionless, almost, but not quite, to attention.
Lucia had been shopping in the High Street. Although she scarcely needed to buy provisions these days, it was pleasant to join the queues in the shops and exchange news with her fellow-citizens. Elizabeth would be there, of course; today she had given up her place in the queue, so that Lucia had managed to get the last of the sausages. That was delightful in itself. With Elizabeth’s malice stopped up at source, life had become most enjoyable.
‘Georgie,’ she said, as she laid down her market-basket when she got home, ‘I’ve come to a decision. We play too much Bridge in Tilling.’
‘What do you mean?’ cried Georgie, startled. He turned away from the mirror and looked at her.
‘Gambling is all very well,’ she went on, ‘though, personally, I play for the interest of the game, the skill, the mental exercise, not for the shillings or sixpences, which for Elizabeth, for example, are the gauge of success or failure. But it is frivolous to be forever filling our minds with kings and aces and trumps and revokes when we should be thinking of higher things. Yet it is all that the town cares about. They have Bridge at teatime, then they dress for dinner and play Bridge all night. It’s only a card-game, designed to while away an empty hour, yet they all work at it like a profession. They are devoted to it, as to a religion.’
‘You enjoy a game of Bridge,’ said Georgie. ‘When you are winning.’
Lucia took no notice.
‘I think we shall have less Bridge from now on. Let us reserve it for the afternoons and leave our evenings free for music, poetry and philosophical discussion. We had no Bridge at Riseholme, and yet I fancy we were able to amuse ourselves fairly well. Now that Elizabeth no longer opposes every little change that I attempt to make in our daily routine, I feel I ought to use my influence—I can say, in all modesty, that my example is generally followed in Tilling—to do some good in the community.’
Georgie felt he ought to interrupt this torrent of words, but he decided not to bother. There was no telling her anything when she was in this sort of mood.
‘We are in Plato’s cave, Georgie,’ Lucia continued in her most infuriating, speaking-to-Elizabeth drawl. ‘We should not be playing silly games of chance, but contemplating the Forms of Beauty, Philosophy and Art. There, I knew that you would agree with me, for you and I are of one mind in everything. Think how few of our friends play a musical instrument! I see now that I shall have to teach them. Piano-lessons, Georgie, and you must help me. You shall instruct them in the basics—scales and such—while I shall teach them to interpret, to make music. I feel that some of our friends will make fine musicians—Mr. Wyse, for instance. Others will never rise to great heights—dear Diva, and just think of Elizabeth! But we shall teach them at least the rudiments of music; that must be our task. And that ought to fill up the long evenings when we are not playing Bridge.’
Georgie had been waiting for this awful speech to stop, as a soldier in a trench awaits the end of the enemy barrage. When he was satisfied that it was safe to come out, he made one last attempt to reason with her.
‘But Lucia,’ he pleaded, ‘are you sure? No more Bridge, and compulsory piano-lessons? They’re all very set in their ways, you know. I think Diva and Evie Bartlett and even Elizabeth might object if you took away their Bridge. In fact, I think they would object very much. I’m sure of it.’
‘Elizabeth will do what she’s told,’ replied Lucia coolly, ‘and all the others will fall into line. Just you mark my words. They will come to see the sense of it for themselves, with no Elizabeth to cause trouble.’
Georgie knew that she was right. His fellow-citizens were as weak as he when confronted by Lucia in purposeful mood.
‘You must do what you think is best,’ he said enigmatically, and left the room.
In his bedroom, with the door locked, he took out his embroidery things, so long neglected. He cut out a chevron of black felt and took some mellow gold silk, of the sort he usually reserved for cornfields. As he stitched, the design of a sergeant’s stripes slowly began to take recognisable shape.