The year ran on, turned the winter’s solstice, and climbed slowly into spring.
McCann, like a half-million other men, spent his gratuity, wore out his demobilisation suit, and began to get on the nerves of his nearest and dearest. Miss McCann showed no signs of irritation with his growing moodiness. Only once, in fact, during those weeks, did she display any animation at all, and that was when two cast-iron finesses failed and she went three down doubled and vulnerable.
She did, however, at about this time, abandon British Israel (on account of the unwarrantable fuss which the Jews were making over immigration into Palestine), and became instead a keen worker for the Young Conservatives.
Nothing very exciting or unexpected happened – if we except the defeat of Scotland by England at Twickenham – and McCann began to forget the little melodrama in whose opening acts he had been involved. Once, as he passed Scotland Yard in his wanderings, he stopped to wonder how Chief Inspector Hazlerigg and his colleagues were progressing.
He read, and for some time cut out and collected, the numerous accounts of larcenies in shops and burglaries in private houses which were filling the papers, and possibly it was this preoccupation which caused him, one night, to dream rather a disturbing dream. It was one of those curiously realistic dreams in which three-quarters of the sub-conscious does the work while the other quarter remains critical. For instance, he knew perfectly well that he was in his own room, in bed – but at the same time was prepared to accept the fact that a flight of stairs had somehow sprung into existence, ending in a landing outside his window. Footsteps were climbing the stairs, and he realised, with terror, that he would soon be forced to see, through the glass, the face of the man who was climbing up. This, he most definitely did not want to do. “Shut your eyes, then,” said the common sense part of him. Immediately a succession of huge, misty faces began to swim across in front of him. First came his late Regimental Sergeant-Major, followed closely by a boy whom he had once defeated in the finals of the boxing at school – and had not thought about since – and quite suddenly the features dislimned and faded and formed again, becoming the face of a dead German with whom he had shared a slit-trench in Sicily for a memorable forty minutes whilst being shelled by the British Navy.
One of the shells burst very close. McCann heard the crump and actually felt the crash and sat up to find that his reading lamp had fallen on top of him. He cursed, disentangled the flex, and took two aspirins, thereafter sleeping so heavily that his sister had to recook his breakfast.
The manner in which she said nothing about the trouble which this caused her was exemplary.