Joan Lumb proudly showed her brother around the Shrapnel Academy. It was warm inside, almost uncomfortably so; it was possible to ignore completely the north wind rising on the other side of the thick stone walls. Corridors were well carpeted, walls well insulated; lights illuminated dark corners, and spotlights shone from strips upon paintings by artists of note, even in the remoter parts of the building. She showed him the library, second in pride only to that of London’s Imperial War Museum, where every battle, every campaign, every victory, every defeat of recorded history was described and depicted with that mixture of awe and horror and excitement which moves even the most sober of military historians.
‘A favourite room with our students,’ she said. ‘The more sensible of them realise that wide background reading is the key to good exam results. We have Sergei Wootton – you know Sergei, the art historian? He had his own arts programme on the television not so long ago. I didn’t watch it myself but those who did said it was excellent.’
Victor said he hadn’t heard of Sergei Wootton but looked forward to meeting him. Shirley said she’d seen the programme but Joan Lumb took no notice, only looked as if she wondered why Shirley was tagging along.
She took Victor to the Games Room which, besides the pool table, the dartboard, and so on, had its own little shooting gallery, where cardboard cutouts of the Russian Premier travelled along at the back of the range, and must be hit in the head if points were to be scored.
‘Such fun!’ said Joan Lumb and Shirley shuddered rather pointedly, and loudly. Victor frowned at her slightly.
‘Sorry!’ she whispered. ‘Couldn’t help it!’
‘She is my sister!’ he reproached her, as Joan went to retrieve two stray ping-pong balls, un-swept up by a careless staff.
‘The servants are terrible,’ Joan announced. ‘They are absolutely incapable of using their own initiative. And one simply can’t think of everything oneself.’
So her mother had spoken: so no doubt her daughter would, did she have one. Perhaps it was fortunate she did not. She took Victor to the lecture rooms, and the dining halls, and the press office, and he pretended to be interested, out of kindness. She wanted him to be proud of her. She said that the heating bills were phenomenal and the electricity bills astronomical: power lines had to travel over hill and dale to reach the Academy, and were vulnerable to weather, so she had an emergency back-up system installed. It was fortunate the Academy was so well funded. At least she did not have to scrub around for money, as she understood so many other institutions did.
‘People realise the importance of defence,’ she said. ‘And the importance of ideas in the war against communism. The army, the government, and insurers are all generous. We are particularly fortunate in bequests.’
‘I see you love the job,’ said Victor.
‘Sometimes,’ said his sister, ‘I’m almost glad the Colonel died. I would never have thought of taking up this post if I had not been a widow. A wife’s first duty must always be to her husband. He must have first call on her time and attention.’
‘What about the children?’ asked Shirley. ‘Shouldn’t they come first?’
‘Shirley,’ said Joan Lumb, ‘if you want to go to your room, Muffin will show you the way.’
But when she went looking for Muffin, Joan Lumb found that she was not available. Baf had arrived and Muffin was showing him to his room.
‘That can’t take forever,’ said Joan Lumb crossly, but the look on Acorn’s face suggested that it might take some considerable time. Joan Lumb sighed, but could not give the matter her proper attention because Acorn told her that Murray Fairchild had arrived and was waiting in the blue living-room. Joan went at once. She was wearing a new silk dress in reds and oranges which she knew suited her; they were Murray’s favourite colours. He had once told her so. When he was a child, he said, his blanket was in red and orange, and he had often hidden beneath it to avoid trouble. Now he associated the colours with safety, warmth, sleep.
Joan Lumb had allocated the Gustavus Adolphus Suite to Murray Fairchild. These were her favourite rooms. The furniture was heavy oak and very old; the walls were panelled. The bed was big and soft; in the bathroom a heavy white bath stood proudly on little Victorian feet, and water gushed from a wide faucet. The television set was cunningly hidden in a mahogany commode. The words ‘Gustavus Adolphus’ were embossed in gold above the door.
Reader, you now fear you are going to hear all about Gustavus Adolphus. How right you are! Gustavus Adolphus assumed the Swedish throne in 1611. Adolphus was one of the Military Greats: tactician, strategist, administrator, leader of men, educated in the military arts from an early age, knowing everything the human race had so far worked out about gunnery, horsemanship, siegecraft, employment of fortifications, drill and logistics. What he didn’t have was an army, or a war. Gustavus introduced national conscription, hired mercenaries, and one way and another invented the modern army. He formed artillery regiments, cavalry squadrons, and got rid of cumbersome, heavy guns. He invented the sturdy 3-pounder, the regimental gun, with packaged cartridge and simplified loading, which gave such a good rate of fire. By 1631 he had a state army, 30,000 strong: an army strict and democratic, no longer confined to the nobility and the peasants, but now drawing in the middle classes too. The wars came thick and fast. (If you own a new nut-cracker, you pretty soon have nuts to crack.) His influence on European warfare was profound. The casualty rate remained high, at 30 per cent for those he defeated and 20 per cent of his own victorious troops blown up, slashed, or trampled by the hooves or artillery of both sides, but it was with Gustavus Adolphus that the Age of Gunpowder really got under way. He was one of the Men of History whom Joan Lumb most admired, and she knew that Murray would be happy in the room.
If we are to get the better of Joan Lumb, we must know more than she does: that is why we have had these boring lectures on Tiglath-Pileser, Adolphus, Augustus, and so forth. We must also know more about ourselves, which is on the whole more entertaining, and that is why Bella Morthampton, Leo Makeshift, Ivor the chauffeur, Victor and Shirley Blade and the little Blades, Baf Winchester, Murray Fairchild, Panza Jordan, Sergei Wootton, Muffin Aldred and Joan Lumb are all gathered together under the sound and well-funded roof of the Shrapnel Academy. For what is the point of fiction except self-discovery?