And All That Jazz Episode 15
“This way, sir.”
Vincent followed the concierge’s voice, the footsteps that changed from taps on tile to muffled thuds suggesting a move to deep, plush carpet.
The air was heavy with cigar smoke and brandy.
They passed a clock and, judging by the clang of utensils, the kitchen, where the smell of roast lamb and gravy flooded over him.
Vincent had never attended a gentleman’s club before.
But then he was there to save a man from jail and to help Dora.
The corridor they’d walked through opened into a larger space.
Another clock ticked, something smaller this time, and there was a smell of leather and old books.
A library.
“Mr Underhill, sir?” the concierge spoke.
“Yes?” There was a rustle as if someone was folding a newspaper.
“This gentleman wishes to see you, sir.”
“Thank you, Donald.” There was a sucking sound and the smell of tobacco. “Do sit down, Mr . . .”
“Jakeman. Vincent Jakeman.” Vincent took a step forward, feeling for a seat with his cane.
“Just to your left,” Freddie instructed. “Then take a step forward and you’re there.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said. “Are you smoking Turkish?”
“Yes, that’s right. Would you care for one?”
“Yes, why not?”
“I’ll light it for you.”
“Thanks.” Vincent leaned forward and a cigarette was placed between his fingers.
“I used to dream of smoking these when we only had Woodbines and Black Cats,” he reminisced.
“Where were you?” Freddie asked.
Vincent loathed talking about the war, but this was for Dora.
“Mons, the Somme, Ypres,” he said. “And you?”
“Italy, Mesopotamia,” Freddie stated.
“You travelled.”
“Yes.” Freddie’s tone was sombre. “Was it gas? Your eyes, I mean.”
Vincent shook his head.
“Blown up at Ypres,” he revealed. “When I came round I had a dent here.”
He tapped the crown of his head.
“They said my sight might return but I’m still waiting,” he added.
“I’m sorry,” Freddie said.
“No need. I was lucky.”
He heard the creak of leather and Vincent imagined Freddie leaning forward in his seat.
“I managed to come through untouched somehow,” Freddie said. “Caught scraps of shrapnel, but only enough to put me out of action for a few days.
“Enough time to get treated at the nearest CCS, then back to the Front.”
Vincent didn’t remember the Casualty Clearing Station he was taken to when he was injured, though he must have passed through one.
“The only thing I remember between the blast and waking up at the field hospital was the stretcher bearers,” Vincent continued.
“They bickered among themselves, told jokes, and even sang a little when it was safe. I often wonder what happened to them.”
“Brave boys, stretcher bearers,” Freddie commented.
“Yes, they were.”
Another creak and Freddie’s voice moved further away.
“Well, Jakeman, you didn’t come here to talk about the war, did you?” Freddie prompted.
“No.” Vincent took a deep breath, wondering how to ask the question without the man bolting.
“I sought you out because I’m a friend of Dora and Lizzy,” he said.
“Oh, really?” Freddie was surprised.
“Yes. You’ve been friends since you were children, haven’t you?”
“Grew up together.”
“Like siblings, I suppose.”
“Something like that.”
That pause said so much. Was this whole thing about jealousy?
“Lizzy’s been going through it the last few weeks,” Vincent said. “A good friend of hers is in a spot of trouble.”
“Oh, yes?” Freddie shifted in his seat.
He tried to sound disinterested, but Vincent recognised a guilty conscience when he encountered one.
“Lizzy’s very distressed,” he went on, putting out the cigarette. “Why did you do it?”
“You’re asking me? You of all people?” Freddie huffed. “Look at what the war did to us all.”
For a moment, Vincent feared he’d shown his hand too soon.
“We were in the club,” Freddie continued, “and Lizzy was talking with that conchy, flirting with him, and it made me so angry.
“All those years fighting for King and country and Lizzy ignores me.
“One look from that conchy and she’s fluttering her lashes.” Freddie’s breath shuddered. “I’m not a fool.
“I know she’s never liked me in that way but, just at that moment, I was angry.
“I was the hero and all she wanted was that . . . coward.” He spat the last word as if it tasted bad.
Poor Freddie. He wanted to be rewarded for surviving, for his courage.
Instead, he had to watch the woman he cared for love another man.
“You know it’s wrong,” Vincent said quietly. “You must tell the truth.
“Tell the police you were playing a prank on an old friend that went too far.
“Get the boy released.”
There was the sound of someone wiping their nose.
“Yes. I shall,” he agreed.
“Thank you.” Vincent stood up. “It will make Lizzy very happy.”
He was about to go, but then he stopped.
“He was a stretcher bearer, too,” Vincent added.
“Who?” Freddie’s voice was faint now, defeated.
“Charlie. He didn’t fight, but he wasn’t a coward.”
“I didn’t know. Will you tell her I’m sorry?”
Vincent sighed.
“I think you must tell her yourself,” he said, leaving the smell of leather and tobacco behind him.
To be continued…