The Adjacent Page 9

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yes, I told you I had been to France, but in fact I went up to the lines near Ypres, which is in Belgium. I suppose you know what the conditions are like at the front?’

  ‘Well, yes. The newspapers don’t tell the whole story, but I think I understand the trenches have become a hell.’

  ‘Hell is an understatement. The trenches are unspeakable, and unspeakably dangerous. So here is my next question, Lieutenant Trent. If you are going to the Western Front as a naval officer, and you have no illusions about what things are like, what the devil do you need with a satin cloak?’

  He was in earnest, but he had a merry look in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘I was intending to explain—’

  ‘And, while I am on the subject, why is it a satin cloak with silver and gold stars sewn into it?’

  The garment in question was still where I had left it, pressed up in something of a heap against the carriage wall. When I put it down I had deliberately folded it so that the satin side with the stars was not uppermost, but I must have moved around while I slept, exposing the gaudier side of the garment.

  I was embarrassed by Bert’s question. Now that I was here, really here, in a theatre of war, or at least in its imminence, I saw everything in a new light. At home I had assumed I was being summoned to the front lines to entertain the troops. Entertainment is my job, my career, my vocation. I knew of music hall artistes, singers, dancers and comedians, who had already travelled out to perform for the soldiers at the Front. If I was to perform my act I would need my usual apparatus and props, and that included my cloak.

  After searching around for adequate words I finally said, ‘You told me you thought my name was familiar.’

  ‘I can’t say more than that.’

  ‘Then the situation is this. Tommy Trent is my real name, but I also used it for a long time as a stage name. I am a music hall artiste, an entertainer. Does that help?’ He shook his head. ‘These days I am billed as The Lord of Mystery, but until two years ago I performed as Tommy Trent, Mysterioso.’

  ‘You are a magician?’

  ‘I prefer to be known as a conjuror. Or as an illusionist. But yes.’

  ‘If I may say so it explains everything, and nothing at all.’

  ‘Then we are in accord,’ I said. ‘I know almost nothing about why I am here, dressed up in the uniform of a naval officer, heading for the Western Front.’

  I briefly related my story, such as it was. About five weeks earlier I had been performing at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith, in west London. After the Saturday night show I was relaxing in my dressing room when one of the theatre staff brought a visitor to see me.

  His name was Flight Lieutenant Simeon Bartlett, a serving officer of the Royal Navy. He complimented me on my performance, saying he was much impressed by one particular illusion. This was the trick with which I normally brought my act to a finale. In it I made a pretty young woman (it was my niece Clarice, who regularly worked with me) disappear into thin air.

  Backstage visitors usually arrive with compliments, but their real purpose, I often find, is to try to elicit my secrets from me. All magicians are bound by a professional code of honour not to give anything away. In fact, the trick that had so impressed the young lieutenant looked complicated on the stage, because of the apparatus that was needed, but its secret was simple. Sometimes the most impressive illusions are based on tricks or procedures that are so elementary that the audience would not believe what had in reality taken place.

  But that is the case. So it had been that evening at the Lyric Theatre. My guard was up, and in spite of the young officer’s pleasant demeanour, and his increasingly determined efforts to have the method explained to him, I stood my ground.

  Finally, Lieutenant Bartlett said to me, ‘Do I have your assurance that you are using a practical or scientific method, and that you are not going in for that sorcery business?’ Of course, I had no hesitation in confirming that was so. ‘Then I think there is small doubt you shall be hearing from us soon.’

  What he meant, as it turned out, was that the following week I received an official letter from the Admiralty offering me a short-term commission, in order, in their words, ‘to aid the war effort.’

  At a subsequent interview with senior naval officers I was again questioned closely about my secret method, but to honour the magicians’ code all I could say was to repeat my assurance that it was, in their word, scientific.

  The more they interrogated me, the less I felt confident in the science involved in some strategically positioned lights and a pane of glass.

  ‘So you are going to a shore-based naval unit,’ Bert said thoughtfully. ‘That can mean only one of two things. Balloons or aeroplanes. Both are being operated by the Royal Naval Air Service. I still don’t understand why you need your cloak, though.’

  I said, ‘I brought it with me because it is so much a part of my act that I would feel naked without it. But I do see what you mean about the inappropriateness. As for balloons, or whatever, I imagine I’ll discover what’s going on as soon as I am there. What about you?’

  ‘Me? I have nothing to do with balloons.’

  ‘I meant the finding out. I should be interested to know more about you.’

  ‘Oh, much the same,’ he said, and I realized it was his turn to feel discomfited, although I could not see why.

  ‘Are you a magician too?’

  ‘No, not at all. Well, maybe some people would like me to be, but I’m much more humble.’ He was bracing himself with his cane, because the train was at last moving more quickly and the van was rocking from side to side. ‘I think I might be described as a meddler, which is what some of my accusers call me. That about sums me up. I can’t seem to stop myself from pointing things out to people who are going about something the wrong way. The trouble is that no one listens! And it’s even more irritating when they carry on, then they get everything wrong just as I warned them, and afterwards they turn round and blame me for not warning them more forcefully. So the next time I change my tack, try other arguments, but in the end the same thing happens. I try to keep calm, I try always to appeal to their reason. But I go on, because what they call meddling is what I call the declaration of ideas. I am a believer in the human mind and ideas are my profession. I suppose that belief is why I have ended up on this train with you, Lieutenant Tommy Trent, Lord of Magic, Mystery, whatever you said you called yourself. It’s my reward for being a busybody and a meddler, and no doubt deserved.’

  ‘Deserved reward?’ I said. ‘You make it sound like a punishment.’

  ‘I speak ironically, of course. You know, Tom, back in the days when this blessed war broke out, I wrote a series of little articles for a newspaper. I am known for having Opinions, and I had several of those about this war. Afterwards those articles came out in a book. When I get steamed up about something, writing about it is my only way of releasing the energy. I saw this war coming, saw it years ago.

  ‘Now, I have a horror of war, you understand, but I’m not completely opposed to this one, either. I have nothing against the German people, but they have allowed twin evils to arise. They are ruled by Prussian imperialism, and their economy is dominated by Krupp, the maker of armaments. Krupp and the Kaiser stand side by side. It has become an inhuman system. We must raise a sword against it, a sword raised for peace. I don’t want to destroy Germany, just do enough to change the so-called minds who are running the place at the moment. When the war is won what we must aim to do is re-draw the map of Europe, form some kind of league of all nations, one where ordinary people have a say.’

  I was staring at him in excitement and recognition.

  ‘That was The War That Will End War,’ I said.

  Bert grunted his agreement.

  ‘I read that!’ I went on. ‘I have a copy of the book at home. It made cracking good sense to me.’

  ‘I’m no longer so sure about it, now I’ve seen some of wha
t’s really going on—’

  ‘But you couldn’t have written that book. It was by H. G. Wells!’

  Captain Wells nodded again. I stood up in astonishment, then sat down again suddenly, because the carriage was rocking. I gripped the edge of my seat.

  ‘Then you are . . .?’ I said.

  ‘Please – go on calling me Bert,’ said the great man. ‘Safer that way all round, I think. Do you suppose we’ll be stopping soon? I could make short work of a nice cup of tea.’

  4

  All day the train slowly crossed northern France. We glimpsed the farmland, flat scenery, peasants working by hand, distant church spires. The only trees we saw were tall poplars. Bert and I had much to talk about, but we took it in turns to rise to the window to see what was out there. It was never much.

  The train stopped twice during the day and these halts were greeted with quiet relief by us, and by loud cheers sounding from the body of the train. Hot food was on offer both times and Bert and I mucked in with the troops, rather enjoying the good-natured scrum to try to get the first cup of tea, the biggest bowl of soup, the meatiest serving. In spite of the unrelieved crowding on the train everyone managed to remain in a good mood. There was pushing and shoving to get to the latrines, or to try for a second helping, but it was always comradely in a way I found heartening.

  The lance-corporal was waiting for us both times as we clambered down, endlessly civil to us and always keen to provide some little extra, should we want it. Hot water appeared miraculously at the first stop, with shaving cream, soap and clean towels. Bert and I felt spoiled by having the spacious compartment to ourselves, with all our basic needs adequately met. Knowing what the cramped conditions were like elsewhere I was reluctant to ask for anything more.

  Meanwhile, I was overawed by my illustrious travelling companion and greatly enjoyed the conversation that took us through most of the journey.

  Our second halt, towards the end of the afternoon, was at a small country station, anonymous, unremarkable. As we stepped down from the carriage, the lance-corporal greeting us as usual, we were both aware of a thundering rumble, dimly but continuously heard in the distance.

  Bert, looking serious, said, ‘Not far to go now.’

  My heart sank. ‘We’ll be there tonight, I suppose,’ I said.

  ‘There’s one small mercy. At least it is not raining now and seems not to have been for some time. The mud won’t be any worse than it already was. You’ll soon learn everything there is to know about mud. So will these boys, alas.’

  They were already swarming across the wooden platform towards a mess tent. Steam arose around it and on the cool air we could sense the comforting smell of fried bacon. We wandered over, took our places at the end of the shorter of the two queues, and waited our turn.

  The distant thunder of artillery continued, but now we were further away from the train I could hear the sound of birds. In a field next to the mess tent two farming men were speaking slowly in French.

  Taking our baguettes with great greasy slices of bacon bulging out of the middle we walked back to the train and resumed our private compartment.

  It was becoming increasingly difficult to think of my companion as ‘Bert’, now I knew his true identity. I tackled him about this as my confidence grew – he told me he had been flummoxed when we exchanged names. He said everyone in his family, and close friends, knew him as Bertie, but that didn’t feel appropriate as we were so close to the front. I said I’d be happy to address him as ‘HG’, which was how he was known to the public. He said he would answer to that, and seemed amused.

  No matter what we called each other, to be spending the day in the exclusive company of one of the great visionary thinkers of our time was a privilege beyond estimation. HG himself was a modest man, always seeming to self-deprecate, but at the same time he was sure of his opinions. Every now and again he would start ranting in an entertaining way against what he saw as the forces of dullness, or those who were in power, or those who under-rated the questing spirit of ordinary people. His periwinkle-blue eyes would glitter with dedication, or amusement, or rancour, and he waved his hands expressively, making him impossible to ignore. He was brimming with ideas and opinions and had ingenious answers or suggestions for almost any problem I suggested.

  Then he would suddenly stop, apologize to me for dominating the conversation and ask me some disarming questions about myself.

  He was one of the few people I have ever met with whom I was happy to discuss the principles and techniques of magic. The old habit of protecting secrets still had me in its grip, but I saw no harm in teaching him some simple methods. I showed him how to palm a playing card, or how to force one on someone, or how to make a cigarette double itself or disappear. All this evoked an almost childish delight in HG. For a few minutes we played around with some of my props, to the evident interest of le chef de train, who sat silently in his corner with his flags, fingering his moustache and watching us with grave eyes.

  But magic was my bread and butter and was no novelty to me. I found HG’s conversation more engaging and challenging.

  He asked me, for instance, if I knew what ‘telpherage’ was. I said no, and asked for more details. Instead of telling me he asked me another question: had I ever worked in a department store? No, I said again.

  This immediately provoked an apparently irrelevant and emotional reminiscence of his life as a young man, when his mother had indented him to a drapery store in Southsea. A series of horrifying or amusing anecdotes followed: the cruelly long hours, the dreadful food, tedium beyond endurance, the company of dullards. I was soon reminded of a novel of his I had read a few years earlier: Kipps.

  ‘That’s the one!’ he cried, his voice chirping with excitement. ‘All of it was true!’

  More stories about crooked cashiers, inept apprentices and eccentric customers flowed out. Most of them were amusing to hear. The French farmland passed by at a snail’s pace, unseen by us, as the afternoon began to fail, the evening closed in and we lurched towards the war. Le chef lighted some lamps in the van.

  Eventually, HG returned to the subject of telpherage.

  ‘It’s a system they use in some of the big shops,’ he said. ‘When you come to pay for your roll of cotton or your lengths of yarn, the assistant puts your money and his chitty in a little metal container, hooks it up to an overhead ropeway, pulls a handle, and the thing rushes across the ceiling of the shop to the cashier’s desk. A few moments later it comes whizzing back with your change and a receipt, and that’s the end of the business.’

  I said that of course I had seen this happen dozens of times.

  ‘The little metal container is correctly called a telpher,’ HG said. ‘And the ropeway is called telpherage.’

  I waited for more but he looked away vacantly, perhaps remembering some incident from his days in a Southsea drapery establishment. Eventually I prompted him to continue.

  ‘Well, it’s all about mud, you see.’ He was concentrating again, and I realized that his constant harping on about mud meant it must be a favourite subject. ‘You’ve no idea how much mud there is in those front-line trenches until you experience it yourself. And it’s everywhere else, come to that. Worst in the trenches, but just everywhere! Some of it is above your knees, filthy, runny muck, stinking and sloshing everywhere you go. Until I visited the Ypres Salient I had no conception of how bad it was. And the worst of it is, mud can be a killer. Our troops have to carry most of their own ammunition as well as their packs, the rifle, a lot of other stuff. They wear this device called a Christmas Tree. That’s a belt which is supposed to allow them to carry everything, but it’s always full up, can’t get any more on it, so they carry other equipment in their arms. It was the ammunition that bothered me. It’s fiendishly heavy. It means that most of the soldiers who report for active duty are already half worn out before they start. Some of them have to walk more than a mile, carrying pounds and pounds of extra weight, and for most of the way
they have to wade through mud. If you fall face-down in the mud while hauling that lot, the chances are you won’t be able to struggle up in time. While I was in Ypres I was told that on average three British soldiers a week were dying in that sort of accident. Drowning in mud! It’s disgusting. We can’t have that.’

  HG had saved part of his bacon baguette from earlier, but now he broke off the end and chewed on it thoughtfully.

  ‘So, what happened next was when I was back in London. I was having dinner with Winston Churchill. He asked me—’

  ‘Did you say Churchill? The politician? First Lord of the Admiralty?’

  ‘Now you’re in the Navy he’s your commanding officer. That’s right – the First Lord. He’s not actually a close friend of mine. Far from it, I would say. I don’t want to give the wrong impression. He’s a politician and it behoves one to sup with a long spoon when you dine with politicians. Out for themselves, the whole lot of them. But they can be useful to someone like me, especially a keenly ambitious man like Mr Churchill. He’s still a Young Turk who doesn’t mind bending a few rules from time to time. He doesn’t think much of me – he was in fact one of the first people to call me a meddler. He put me in one of his newspaper articles, you know, back when I published a book about—’

  ‘You were telling me about the telpherage,’ I said.

  ‘Quite so. Winston Churchill happens to be the cousin of a young woman sculptor, a good and intimate friend of mine. You wouldn’t expect me to name her, I know. Well, I was having supper with her one evening and Mr Churchill turned up unexpectedly and joined us at the table. The subject came up of the troops having to carry ammunition to the front. Churchill knew all about that and shared some of my concerns. He told me he had spent some time in the trenches himself and knew at first hand the problem of the mud.

  ‘Sitting there with him I had an inspiration. I suddenly thought of telpherage – if you could put in a big telpherage system, with ropes strong enough to carry boxes of ammunition, perhaps even two or three soldiers as well, power it with the engine of a truck, everything would be a lot quicker, save a lot of blood and sweat and floundering in the mud, and the whole thing would put our lads in less danger. I was awake all night thinking about how to make it work. A few days later I put in my plans to the Admiralty, Churchill took a personal interest, a few strings were pulled with the Chiefs of Staff, and here I am. On my way to put my experience as a draper’s assistant to good use.’