The Field of the Cloth of Gold (8 page)

Isabella, naturally, was outraged.

‘What a sight!’ she said. ‘It’s a monstrosity!’

‘Well, isn’t it just what you envisaged?’ I said. ‘A vast sea of tents billowing in the breeze, with flags flying and pennants fluttering aloft?’

‘Those tents don’t billow,’ she retorted. ‘They’re much too stiff.’

It was the evening of the same day, and we were all gathered beneath Hartopp’s awning. Despite his lavish hospitality, the meeting had the sombre undercurrent of a secret conclave. The chief subject of debate was the incursion in the south-east, but Isabella was now voicing wider concerns.

‘What the field needs is variety,’ she continued. ‘We don’t want row upon row of identical tents: we want marquees, douars, sh
ā
miy
ā
nas, kibitkas, cabanas, tupiks and pandals; we want pavilions with crenellated decorations and swagged contours; and above all we want gorgeous colours: turquoise, vermilion, indigo, magenta and saffron.’

‘Sounds more like a fairground,’ remarked Brigant. ‘What’s wrong with green or brown?’

‘Far too bland,’ said Isabella.

‘You forgot to mention bell tents,’ I said. ‘They’re quite nice.’

Isabella was about to reply when she was interrupted by the strident blast of a trumpet.

‘That’s the third time today,’ said Hollis, after it had fallen silent. ‘They must be signalling dawn, noon and dusk.’

‘Confounded cheek!’ snapped Isabella. ‘What gives them the right to disturb the peace?’

‘Don’t know,’ I said, ‘but we might have to get used to it.’

‘We could go and ask them to pipe down a little,’ suggested Hartopp. ‘The problem is, they seem rather unsociable.’

We all agreed about that.

Since the moment of their arrival, Julian’s people had made not the slightest effort to engage with the rest of us. Indeed, they barely acknowledged our existence. It was almost as if they were being deliberately stand-offish, and it soon began to affect how we saw them. Hartopp was a generous and good-natured person, yet even he was reluctant to go and make their acquaintance.

As a matter of fact there’d been no sign of Julian himself so far, but I assumed he planned to return in the near future. His confederates, meanwhile, showed increasing disregard for their neighbours. Over the next few days they established a highly disruptive routine. Each morning at dawn they announced their presence with a loud trumpet blast, followed by a roll-call, an exercise drill and a general inspection, all before breakfast and plainly without a thought for anyone who might happen to be asleep. An afternoon parade was conducted in the same inconsiderate manner: there was absolutely no respite. Our idyll of tranquillity was rapidly fading into a distant memory. The newcomers had set themselves apart, and in consequence an unseen barrier gradually arose between the south-east and the remainder of the field. The possibility of approaching them, if only to try and improve relations, appeared ever more remote.

After a week, however, they sent round a message saying they had a surplus of milk pudding. They said they were willing to share it with the rest of us if we came into their camp at noon.

All they asked was that we brought our own spoons and dishes.

7

The messenger’s name was Eamont.
He was of lowly status and had no influence or authority. He’d only been appointed messenger recently on account of his handwriting, which wasn’t faultless, but which was fairly easy to read. The post gave him certain privileges, and he considered himself lucky, but he had no influence or authority. None whatsoever. He told me all this as we stood waiting outside the cookhouse. Actually he’d told me several times before, but obviously he’d forgotten. I was now on my fourth visit to the encampment, and I’d turned up early to enquire if I might have a few words with Aldebaran on a delicate subject. Eamont said he would see what he could do, but he couldn’t promise anything (he had no influence or authority).

‘By the way,’ he added, ‘it’s not a cookhouse: it’s a field kitchen.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘No need to apologize,’ he said. ‘Just setting you straight, that’s all. We’re very particular about these details.’

‘Right.’

The sharp blast of a trumpet signalled noon. I thanked Eamont, then went inside to collect my daily ration. The cooks greeted me with a nod as I entered, and I found my spoon and dish already set out at my usual table. I was getting quite used to the high standard of service in the field kitchen, but I had a feeling it wouldn’t last much longer: the surplus of milk pudding must surely have been reduced by now. Moreover, the cooks were unlikely to repeat their mistake, so today might be my last chance to speak to Aldebaran.

A quarter of an hour passed and he failed to make an appearance. I finished my pudding, then the cooks cleared away my dish and spoon, returning them a few minutes later, sparkling clean. This confirmed that I was definitely on my final visit to the field kitchen. I waited a little longer. Other diners came and went, but Aldebaran was not among them. I’d just begun to give up hope of seeing him when abruptly the flap parted and he came sweeping in. When he saw me sitting at my table he came straight over.

‘Everything alright?’ he asked. ‘Pudding sweet enough?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘Very nice.’

He gave me a searching look. ‘Was there something else?’

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘it’s about the trumpet.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘There are some people in the field who find it rather loud.’

‘Which people?’

‘Isabella, for example. One or two others as well, but especially Isabella.’

‘The woman with the crimson tent.’

‘Yes.’

Throughout the conversation, Aldebaran had been standing over me. Now he sat down in the seat opposite mine. I noticed he was frowning deeply.

‘We were wondering,’ I said, ‘if the trumpet could be somehow muted.’

He considered the request for several moments.

‘That would appease her, would it?’ he said at last.

‘It might help,’ I replied.

There was another pause, and I could tell that Aldebaran had something further to ask me.

The question, when it came, was direct. ‘I presume she intends to continue swimming in the river?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘What she does is her affair.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Aldebaran. ‘All the same, it would help if we knew for certain.’

‘Would it?’

‘From our point of view it’s fairly important.’

‘Well, she’s swum every day since she’s been here,’ I said, ‘so I can’t imagine her changing her ways now.’

‘I see.’

We sat in silence for some minutes while Aldebaran pondered whatever was on his mind, then, all of a sudden, his mood brightened.

‘Do you think she’d care to come and inspect the camp?’ he enquired.

‘Again, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I really can’t answer for Isabella.’

‘It’s all very spick-and-span at present.’

‘I don’t doubt it, but I’m afraid you’ll have to ask her yourself.’

‘Very well,’ said Aldebaran, evidently resigned to the fact. ‘In the meantime, how about you?’

‘Inspect the camp?’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re an honoured guest: you’ve partaken of our milk pudding.’

‘Alright,’ I replied. ‘Thank you.’

‘Come on then. We can start now.’

As we rose from our seats, another thought occurred to him.

‘By the way,’ he said, ‘it’s not a trumpet: it’s a bugle.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize.’

‘No need to apologize,’ he remarked. ‘Just setting you straight, that’s all. We’re very particular about these details.’

‘Right.’

The two of us went outside and the guided tour began. Aldebaran strode briskly around the camp, explaining its various features as I tagged along behind. Obviously I’d seen many of the tents on previous occasions when I passed by, but now I was obliged to examine their every aspect. Their main characteristics were sturdiness and general utility, and they obviously served an important purpose. In appearance, however, they lacked any grace and charm: consequently, I was soon struggling to pay attention. We walked up and down the perfectly straight rows of tents, and it struck me that Hartopp would have found the tour much more interesting than I did. I was certain he’d have been intrigued by the strict geometric forms on display, not to mention the stout fabric employed. Unfortunately, Hartopp persisted in his refusal to enter the sprawling cantonment, despite my reassurances that the newcomers weren’t as bad as they’d first seemed. On several occasions I’d urged him to come and try the milk pudding, which I strongly recommended, but it was all in vain. Hartopp simply didn’t want to know. During the past few days Brigant and the others had shown similar intransigence, the result being that I was the only person on Aldebaran’s conducted tour.

Finally we emerged into the thoroughfare which separated the command tents from their smaller companions, and I remembered the nickname we’d coined on the day the camp was built.

‘We call this the “high street”,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ replied Aldebaran, ‘so do we.’

The inspection ended where it had begun, outside the field kitchen. We halted by the entrance: I’d left my spoon and dish on the table, planning to collect them before I departed. It was now approaching mid-afternoon. All along the ‘high street’ the pennants were fluttering in the breeze, and for a few moments I paused to admire the spectacle.

‘I see you’ve altered the design,’ I said at length.

Aldebaran followed my gaze, but offered no reply.

‘When Julian was here they were emblazoned with the letter J,’ I added. ‘Now they’re plain white.’

Still Aldebaran said nothing. Slightly puzzled by his silence, I glanced at him and saw that he was studying the nearest pennant intently, as though he’d only just noticed it. When at last he spoke, his tone was grave.

‘Nobody liked Julian,’ he said, ‘so we got rid of him.’

I was uncertain how to respond to this news. I’d only met Julian once and we hadn’t exactly taken to one another, yet he’d appeared to be a very capable individual and the idea that he’d been ‘got rid of’ was rather unsettling. Privately I wondered if they had the habit of summarily dispensing with people they didn’t like, but I decided it would be best not to pursue the matter further. Instead, I merely nodded as if it was an everyday occurrence, before thanking Aldebaran for the guided tour and heading homeward. It was only after I’d trudged across the field to my tent that I realized I’d forgotten my dish and spoon. By this time the entire encampment had started mustering for the afternoon parade, so I decided to postpone collecting them until a later date.

Next morning I listened attentively for the sound of the bugle, hoping it would be muted as I’d requested. It had been a dark night, and when dawn came the sun tried but failed to break through the gathering clouds. I waited for almost half an hour and heard nothing: the sky turned red, yet there was still no bugle call. I concluded, therefore, that my mission had been more successful than I’d dared hope. Aldebaran had evidently heeded my plea and cancelled the bugle altogether.

‘Hmm,’ I thought to myself. ‘Isabella will be delighted.’

A good while later she took her daily swim, and then came ashore to get dried and dressed. After a polite interlude, I expected to see Eamont approach her tent bearing an invitation to visit the camp. To my surprise, though, there was no sign of him, and I soon discovered the reason why. Around noon another train of baggage and supplies arrived at the far side of the river, accompanied by a host of men in buff-coloured tunics. There were also several women. Immediately the whole of the south-east became a hive of activity, with hordes of people coming and going in all directions: no doubt Eamont was too busy to run up and down with invitations for Isabella. Amongst the supplies I spotted a bulky item which had to be carried across the river by four men. I was unable to tell what it was because it was wrapped in a tarpaulin, and anyway the porters were quickly lost from view amid the milling throng.

The majority of the baggage consisted of tents. These were swiftly laid out and erected under the watchful eyes of a surveyor, a quartermaster and a clerk of works. I’d often noticed this trio of officials during my visits to the encampment, and I presumed they acted as deputies to Aldebaran. From what I observed, they were always highly efficient. Before the end of the day, a new row of tents was established and the camp’s perimeter extended.

In the early evening I went over to see Hen. He was the person least affected by the developments in the south-east, and I looked forward to a refreshing conversation with someone who didn’t constantly complain about the newcomers. On this point my wishes were met: Hen was apparently unconcerned about the enlargement of the camp. I was taken aback, however, by his response when I told him what had happened to Julian. I recounted what Aldebaran had said, and when I finished Hen raised his eyebrows.