That night Joe went posting round to Mawson’s with the news. Mawson was silent for a long time, sitting upright in his chair, clasping his stomach with both hands, his high bald forehead creased, his small eyes fixed thoughtfully on Joe.
“Well,” he reflected. “This is goin’ to be helpful.”
In spite of himself Joe grinned.
“You and me’s goin’ to do well out of this, Joe,” Mawson said unemotionally, then raising his voice he bawled: “Mother, fetch me and Joe a bottle of Scotch.”
They finished the bottle between them, but towards midnight when Joe walked home the thrilling intoxication in his blood was not due to whisky. He was drunk with the sense of his opportunity, the chance of power, money, everything. He was in it at last, as Jim had said, absolutely set right up to the ear-holes in it, in with the big men, he only had to watch himself to be big himself, bloody big. O Christ, wasn’t it great! A great place, Tynecastle, wonderful air, wonderful streets, wonderful buildings — there was an idea now, property, he’d have property, a hell of a lot, some day. What a wonderful night it was. Look at the moon shining on that white place over there. What was it? Public lavatory, eh? Never mind — wonderful public lavatory! At the corner of Grainger Street a tart spoke to him.
“You little bitch,” said Joe kindly, “get out!” He strode on, laughing, wide awake, exultant. Better than that, he thought, much better than that. He gloated upon Laura, her fastidiousness, her aloof charms. To hell with tarts. Women like Laura were different, see, different. His idyllic fancy took him far with Laura that night, especially when he reached his lodgings and went to bed.
But next morning he was at Platt Lane upon the tick of nine, fresh as a daisy and more deferentially alert towards Stanley than ever. There was an astonishing number of things to be gone into. Joe was thoroughness itself: nothing escaped him.
“Good lord, Joe,” Stanley exclaimed, yawning, after they had been hard at it for a couple of hours. “You’re a regular tartar. I’d no idea you’d got such an eye for detail.”
He patted Joe on the shoulder gaily. “I appreciate it immensely. But in the meantime I’m going out to have a spot with Hampson. See you later.”
There was a queer look on Joe’s face as he watched Stanley’s figure disappear briskly through the office door.
The days passed, the final arrangements were completed, and at last the afternoon of Stanley’s departure for Aider-shot arrived. He had arranged to drive over to Carnton Junction and join the express direct, instead of taking a slow local from Yarrow. As a special sign of his regard he had asked Joe to come with Laura to the station to see him off.
It was a wet afternoon. Joe arrived too early at Hilltop, he had to wait ten minutes in the lounge before Laura came in. She wore a plain blue costume and a dark soft fur which gave her pale skin that queer luminous quality which always excited him. He jumped up from his chair, but she walked slowly to the window as though she did not notice him. There was a silence. He watched her.
“I’m sorry he’s going,” he said at last.
She turned and considered him with that secret look which always puzzled him. He felt that she was sad, perhaps angry too; she didn’t want Stanley to go; no, she didn’t want him to go.
Here Stanley entered breezily, as if a row of medals were already on his chest. He rubbed his hands cheerfully.
“Filthy day, isn’t it? Well, the wetter the day the better the deed, eh, Joe? Ha! Ha! Now what about the rum ration for the troops, Laura?”
Laura rang the bell and Bessie brought in a tray of sandwiches and tea. Stanley was dreadfully hearty. He chaffed Bessie out of her long face, mixed himself a whisky and soda, and walked up and down the room munching sandwiches and talking.
“Good sandwiches, these, Laura. Don’t suppose I’ll be getting this kind of stomach-fodder in a week or two. You’ll need to send me some parcels, Laura. A fellow was saying last night that they absobloomingutely look forward to getting parcels. Varies the jolly old bully beef and plum and apple.” Stanley laughed. He could now say plum and apple without a blush. He could laugh, really laugh at the Bairnsfather cartoons. He crowed: “Hampson, old dodger that he is—” another laugh, “was telling me of a scheme they have for making Irish stew in a ration tin. Some of the batmen are wonderful. Wonder what my luck will be. Did you see the Bystander this week? Good it was, oh, damned good!” Then he began to be patriotic again. Swinging up and down the room he talked glowingly of what the Major had told him — counter-attacks, gas-masks, pill boxes. Very lights, the musketry handbook, number nines and British pluck.
While Stanley talked Laura sat by the window, her almost sad profile outlined by the dripping laurel bush beyond. She was listening loyally to Stanley’s patriotism. Suddenly Stanley slapped down his tumbler.
“Well, we better get along now. Mustn’t miss the old joy waggon.” He glanced out of the window. “Better put your mac on, old girl, looks like more rain.”
“I don’t think I’ll mind,” Laura answered. She stood up, arresting all Stanley’s fussing by the perfect immobility of her manner. “Have you everything in the car?”
“You bet,” Stanley said, leading the way to the door.
They got into the car, not the office car, but Stanley’s own, an open sports model now two years old, which stood with the hood up in front of the porch. Stanley jabbed at the starter with his thumb, threw in the gear and they drove off.
The road ran uphill through the outskirts of Hillbrow, left the last isolated villa behind and stretched out across open country towards the moor. Stanley drove in a kind of exhilaration, using his cut-out on all the corners.
“Goes like an aeroplane, doesn’t she?” he threw out high-spiritedly. “Almost wish I’d joined the Flying Corps.”
“Look out you don’t skid,” Joe said, “the roads are pretty greasy.”
Stanley laughed again. Joe, alone in the back seat, kept his eyes on Laura’s calm profile in front. Her composure was both baffling and fascinating: Stanley driving like a mug, and she not turning a hair. She didn’t want to come to a sticky end yet, did she? He didn’t, at any rate not yet, by God, no!
They flashed past the old St. Bede’s Church, which stood grey and gauntly weatherbeaten, surrounded by a few flat, lichened tombstones, isolated and open on the edge of the moor.
“Wonderful old building,” Stanley said, jerking his head, “Ever been in, Joe?”
“No.”
“Got some wonderful oak pews. Some time you ought to have a look at them.”
They began to slip downhill, through Cadder village and a few outlying farms. Twenty minutes later they reached Carnton Junction. The express was late and after seeing to his baggage Stanley began to walk slowly up and down the platform with Laura. Joe, pretending to make affable conversation with the porter, watched them jealously from the corner of his eye. Damn it, he thought, oh, damn it all, I believe she’s in love with him after all.
A sharp whistle and the thunder of the approaching train.
“Here she is, sir,” the porter said. “Only four minutes behind her time.”
Stanley came hurrying over.
“Well, Joe, here we are at last. Yes, porter, a first smoker, facing the engine if you can. You’ll write to me, old man. I can leave everything to you. Yes, yes, that’s all right, splendid, splendid. I know you’ll do everything.” He shook hands with Joe — Joe’s grip was manly and prolonged — kissed Laura good-bye, then jumped into his compartment. Stanley was to the core a sentimentalist and now that the moment of departure had come he was deeply affected. He hung out of the window, feeling himself every inch a man going to the front, facing his wife and his friend. Quick tears glistened in his eyes but he smiled them away.