Simon Called Peter by Robert Keable

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"Gaudy, sir? Meanin' 'ighly painted? No, not as I knows on. They're more
like what happened, I reckon, than them brass crosses we have in our
churches."

They ran into Eu for lunch, and drew up in the market-square. Peter
went round to the girls' car, greeted Julie, and was introduced. He
led them to an old inn in the square, and they sat down to luncheon
in very good humour. The other girls were ordinary enough, and Julie
rather subdued for her. Afterwards they spent an hour in the church and
a picture-postcard shop, and it was there that Julie whispered: "Go on
in your own car. At Dieppe, go to the Hotel Trois Poissons and wait for
me. I found out yesterday that a woman I know is a doctor in Dieppe, and
she lives there. I'll get leave easily to call. Then I can see you. If
we travel together these girls'll talk; they're just the sort."

Peter nodded understanding, and they drifted apart. He went out to see if
the cars were ready and returned to call the nurses, and in a few minutes
they were off again.

The road now ran through forests nearly all the way, except where
villages had cleared a space around them, as was plain to see. They
crossed little streams, and finally came downhill through the forest into
the river valley that leads to Dieppe. It was still early, and Peter
stopped the cars to suggest that they might have a look at the castle of
Arques-le-Bataille. The grand old pile kept them nearly an hour, and they
wandered about the ruins to their hearts' content. Julie would climb a
buttress of the ancient keep when their guide had gone on with the
others, and Peter went up after her. She was as lissom as a boy and
seemingly as strong, swinging up by roots of ivy and the branches of a
near tree, in no wise impeded by her short skirts. From the top one had,
indeed, a glorious view. The weather had cleared somewhat, and one could
see every bit of the old castle below, the village at its feet, and the
forest across the little stream out of which the Duke of Mayenne's
infantry had debouched that day of battle from which the village took
its name.

"They had some of the first guns in the castle, which was held for Henry
of Navarre," explained Peter, "and they did great execution. I suppose
they fired one stone shot in about every five minutes, and killed a man
about every half-hour. The enemy were more frightened than hurt, I should
think. Anyway, Henry won."

"Wasn't he the King who thought Paris worth more than a Mass?" she
demanded.

"Yes," said Peter, watching her brown eyes as she stared out over the
plain.

"I wonder what he thinks now," she said.

He laughed. "You're likely to wonder," he said.

"Funny old days," said Julie. "I suppose there were girls in this castle
watching the fight. I expect they cared more for the one man each
half-hour the cannon hit than for either Paris or the Mass. That's the
way of women, Peter, and a damned silly way it is! Come on, let's go.
I'll get down first, if you please."

On the short road remaining Peter asked his chauffeur if he knew the
Trois Poissons, and, finding that he did, had the direction pointed out.
They ran through the town to the hospital, and Peter handed his cars
over. "I'll sleep in town," he said. "What time ought we to start in the
morning?" He was told, and walked away. Julie had disappeared.

He found the Trois Poissons without difficulty, and made his way to the
sitting-room, a queer room opening from the pavement direct on the one
side, and from the hall of the hotel on the other. It had a table down
the middle, a weird selection of chairs, and a piano. A small woman was
sitting in a chair reading the _Tatler_ and smoking. An empty glass
stood beside her.

She looked up as he came in, and he noticed R.A.M.C. badges.
"Good-evening," he said cheerily.

"Good-evening, padre," she replied, plainly willing to talk. "Where have
you sprung from?"

"Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of Red Cross cars," he said, "and I feel
like a sun-downer. Won't you have another with me?"

"Sure thing," she said, and he ordered a couple from the French maid who
came in answer to his ring. "Do you live here?" he asked.

"For my sins I do," she said. "I doctor Waac's, and I don't think much of
it. A finer, heartier lot of women I never saw. Epsom salts is all they
want. A child could do it."

Peter laughed. "Well, I don't see why you should grumble," he said.

"Don't you? Where's the practice? This business out here is the best
chance for doctors in a lifetime, and I have to strip strapping girls
hopelessly and endlessly."

"You do, do you?" said a voice in the doorway, and there stood Julie.
"Well, at any rate you oughtn't to talk about it like that to my
gentleman friends, especially padres. How do you do, my dear?"

"Julie, by all that's holy! Where have you sprung from?"

She glanced from one to the other. "From Abbeville via Eu in a convoy of
Red Cross cars, I dare bet," she said.

"Julie, you're beyond me. If you weren't so strong I'd smack you, but as
it is, give me another kiss. _And_ introduce us. There may as well be
propriety somewhere."

They sorted themselves out and sat down. "What do you think of my rig?"
demanded Dr. Melville (as Julie had introduced her).

"Toppin'," said Julie critically. "But what in the world is it? Chiefly
Waac, with three pukka stars and an R.A.M.C. badge. Teanie, how dare you
do it?"

"I dare do all that doth become a woman," she answered complacently. "And
it doth, doth it not? Skirt's a trifle short, perhaps," she added,
sticking out a leg and examining the effect critically, "but upper's
eminently satisfactory."

Julie leaned over and prodded her. "No corsets?" she inquired innocently.

"Julie, you're positively indecent. You must have tamed your padre
completely. You're not married by any chance?" she added suddenly.

Julie screamed with laughter. "Oh, Teanie, you'll be the death of me,"
she said at last. "Solomon, are we married? I don't think so, Teanie.
There's never no telling these days, but I can't recollect it."

"Well, it strikes me you ought to be if you're jogging round the country
together," said the other, her eyes twinkling. "But if you're not, take
warning, padre. A girl that talks about corsets in public isn't
respectable, especially as she doesn't wear them herself, except in the
evening, for the sake of other things. Or she used not to. But perhaps
you know?"

Peter tried to look comfortable, but he was completely out of his depth.
He finished his drink with a happy inspiration, and ordered another. That
down, he began to feel more capable of entering into the spirit of these
two. They were the sort he wanted to know, both of them, women about as
different from those he had met as they could possibly be.

Another man dropped in after a while, so the talk became general. The
atmosphere was very free and easy, bantering, careless, jolly, and Peter
expanded in it. Julie led them all. She was never at a loss, and
apparently had no care in the world.

The two girls and Peter went together to dinner and sat at the same
table. They talked a good deal together, and Peter gathered they had come
to know each other at a hospital in England. They were full of
reminiscences.

"Do you remember ducking Pockett?" Teanie asked Julie.

"Lor', I should think I do! Tell Peter. He won't be horrified unless you
go into details. If I cough, Solomon, you're to change the subject. Carry
on, Teanie."

"Well, Pockett was a nurse of about the last limit. She was fearfully
snobby, which nobody of that name ought to be, and she ruled her pros.
with a rod of iron. I expect that was good for them, and I say nothing
as to that, but she was a beast to the boys. We had some poor chaps in
who were damnably knocked about, and one could do a lot for them in
roundabout ways. Regulations are made to be broken in some cases, I
think. But she was a holy terror. Sooner than call her, the boys would
endure anything, but some of us knew, and once she caught Julie here..."

"It wasn't--it was you, Teanie."

"Oh, well, one of us, anyway, in her ward when she was on night duty,
sitting with a poor chap who pegged out a few days after. It soothed him
to sit and hold her hand. Well, anyway, she was furious and reported it.
There was a bit of a row--had to be, I suppose, as it was against
regulations--but thank God the P.M.O. knew his job, so there was only a
strafe with the tongue in the cheek. However, we swore revenge, and we
had it--eh, Julie?"

"We did. Go on. It was you who thought of it."

"Well, we filled a bath with tepid water and then went to her room one
night. She was asleep, and never heard us. We had a towel round her head
in two twinks, and carried her by the legs and arms to the bathroom.
Julie had her legs, and held 'em well up, so that down went her head
under water. She couldn't yell then. When we let her up, I douched her
with cold water, and then we bolted. We saw to it that there wasn't a
towel in the bathroom, and we locked her bedroom door. Oh, lor', poor
soul, but it was funny! She met an orderly in the corridor, and he nearly
had a fit, and I don't wonder, for her wet nightie clung to her figure
like a skin. She had to try half a dozen rooms before she got anyone to
help her, and then, when she got back, we'd ragged her room to blazes.
She never said a word, and left soon after. Ever hear of her again,
Julie?"

"No," said she, looking more innocent than ever, Peter thought; "but I
expect she's made good somewhere. She must have had something in her or
she'd have kicked up a row."

Miss Melville was laughing silently. "You innocent babe unborn," she
said; "never shall I forget how you held...."

"Come on, Captain Graham," said Julie, getting up; "you've got to see me
home, and I want a nice walk by the sea-front."

They went out together, and stood at the hotel door in the little street.
There was a bit of a moon, with clouds scurrying by, and when it shone
the road was damp and glistening in the moonlight. "What a heavenly
night!" said Julie. "Come on with us along the sea-front, Teanie--do!"

Miss Melville smiled up at them. "I reckon you'd prefer to be alone," she
said.

Peter glanced at Julie, and then protested. "No," he said; "do come on,"
and Julie rewarded him with a smile.

So they set out together. On the front the wind was higher, lashing the
waves, and the moonlight shone fitfully on the distant cliffs, the
harbour mouth, and the sea. The two girls clung together, and as Peter
walked by Julie she took his arm. Conversation was difficult as they
battled their way along the promenade. There was hardly a soul about, and
Peter felt the night to fit his mood.

They went up once and down again, and at the Casino grounds Teanie
stopped them. "'Nough," she said; "I'm for home and bed. You two dears
can finish up without me."

"Oh, we must see you home," said Peter.

The doctor laughed. "Think I shall get stolen?" she demanded. "Someone
would have to get up pretty early for that. No, padre, I'm past the need
of being escorted, thanks. Good-night. Be good, Julie. We'll meet again
sometime, I hope. If not, keep smiling. Cheerio."

She waved her hand and was gone in the night. "If there was ever a
plucky, unselfish, rattling good woman, there she goes," said Julie.
"I've known her sit up night after night with wounded men when she was
working like a horse all day. I've known her to help a drunken Tommy
into a cab and get him home, and quiet his wife into the bargain. I saw
her once walk off out of the Monico with a boy of a subaltern, who didn't
know what he was doing, and take him to her own flat, and put him to bed,
and get him on to the leave-train in time in the morning. She'd give away
her last penny, and you wouldn't know she'd done it. And yet she's not
the sort of woman you'd choose to run a mother's meeting, would you,
Solomon?"

"Sure thing I wouldn't," said Peter, "not in my old parish, but I'm not
so sure I wouldn't in my new one."

"What's your new one?" asked Julie curiously.

"Oh, it hasn't a name," said Peter, "but it's pretty big. Something after
the style of John Wesley's parish, I reckon. And I'm gradually getting it
sized up."

"Where do I come in, Solomon?" demanded Julie.

They were passing by the big Calvary at the harbour gates, and there was
a light there. He stopped and turned so that the light fell on her. She
looked up at him, and so they stood a minute. He could hear the lash of
the waves, and the wind drumming in the rigging of the flagstaff near
them. Then, deliberately, he bent down, and kissed her on the lips. "I
don't know, Julie," he said, "but I believe you have the biggest part,
somehow."

CHAPTER III

All that it is necessary to know of Hilda's return letter to Peter ran as
follows:

"My Dear Boy,

"Your letter from Abbeville reached me the day before yesterday, and I
have thought about nothing else since. It is plain to me that it is no
use arguing with you and no good reproaching you, for once you get an
idea into your head nothing but bitter experience will drive it out. But,
Peter, you must see that so far as I am concerned you are asking me to
choose between you and your strange ideas and all that is familiar and
dear in my life. You can't honestly expect me to believe that my Church
and my parents and my teachers are all wrong, and that, to put it mildly,
the very strange people you appear to be meeting in France are all right.
My dear Peter, do try and look at it sensibly. The story you told me of
the death of Lieutenant Jenks was terrible--terrible; it brings the war
home in all its ghastly reality; but really, you know, it was his fault
and not yours, and still less the fault of the Church of England, that he
did not want you when he came to die. If a man lives without God, he can
hardly expect to find Him at the point of sudden death. What you say
about Christ, too, utterly bewilders me. Surely our Church's teachings in
the Catechism and the Prayer-Book is Christian teaching, isn't it?
Nothing is perfect on earth, and the Church is human, but our Church
is certainly the best I know of. It is liberal, active, moderate, and--I
don't like the word, but after all it is a good one--respectable. I don't
know much about these things, but surely you of all people don't want to
go shouting in the street like a Salvation Army Captain. I can't see that
that is more 'in touch with reality.' Peter, what do you mean? Are not
St. John's, and the Canon, and my people, and myself, real? Surely,
Peter, our love is real, isn't it? Oh, how can you doubt that?

"Darling boy, don't you think you are over-strained and over-worried? You
are in a strange country, among strange people, at a very peculiar time.
War always upsets everything and makes things abnormal. London, even,
isn't normal, but, as the Canon said the other day, a great many of the
things people do just now are due to reaction against strain and anxiety.
Can't you see this? Isn't there any clergyman you can go and talk to?
Your Presbyterian and other new friends and your visits to Roman Catholic
churches can't be any real help.

"Peter, dear, for my sake, do, _do_ try to see things like this. I _hate_
that bit in your letter about publicans and sinners. How can a clergyman
expect _them_ to help _him_? Surely you ought to avoid such people, not
seek their company. It is so like you to get hold of a text or two and
run it to death. It's not that I don't _trust_ you, but you are so easily
influenced, and you may equally easily go and do something that will
separate us and ruin your life. Peter, I hate to write like this, but I
can't help it...."

Peter let the sheets fall from his hands and stared out of the little
window. The gulls were screaming and fighting over some refuse in the
harbour, and he watched the beat of their wings, fascinated. If only he,
too, could catch the wind and be up and away like that!

He jumped up and paced up and down the floor restlessly, and he told
himself that Hilda was right and he was a cad and worse. Julie's kiss on
his lips burned there yet. That at any rate was wrong; by any standards
he had no right to behave so. How could he kiss her when he was pledged
to Hilda--Hilda to whom everyone had looked up, the capable, lady-like,
irreproachable Hilda, the Hilda to whom Park Lane and St. John's were
such admirable setting. And who was he, after all, to set aside all that
for which both those things stood?

And yet.... He sat down by the little table and groaned.

"What the dickens is the matter with you, padre?"

Peter started and looked round. In the doorway stood Pennell, regarding
him with amusement. "Here am I trying to read, and you pacing up and down
like a wild beast. What the devil's up?"

"The devil himself, that's what's up," said Peter savagely. "Look here,
Pen, come on down town and let's have a spree. I hate this place and this
infernal camp. It gets on my nerves. I must have a change. Will you come?
It's my do."

"I'm with you, old thing. I know what you feel like; I get like that
myself sometimes. It's a pleasure to see that you're so human. We'll go
down town and razzle-dazzle for once. I'm off duty till to-night. I ought
to sleep, I suppose, but I can't, so come away with you. I won't be a
second."

He disappeared. Peter stood for a moment, then slipped his tunic off and
put on another less distinctive of his office. He crossed to the desk,
unlocked it, and reached for a roll of notes, shoving them into his
pocket. Then he put on his cap, took a stick from the corner, and went
out into the passage. But there he remembered, and came quickly back.
He folded Hilda's letter and put it away in a drawer; then he went out
again. "Are you ready, Pennell?" he called.

The two of them left camp and set out across the docks. As they crossed a
bridge a one-horse cab came into the road from a side-street and turned
in their direction. "Come on," said Peter. "Anything is better than this
infernal walk over this _pave_ always. Let's hop in."

They stopped the man, who asked where to drive to.

"Let's go to the Bretagne first and get a drink," said Pennell.

"Right," said Peter--"any old thing. Hotel de la Bretagne," he called to
the driver.

They set off at some sort of a pace, and Pennell leaned back with a
laugh. "It's a funny old world, Graham," he said. "One does get fed-up at
times. Why sitting in a funeral show like this cab and having a drink in
a second-rate pub should be any amusement, I don't know. But it is.
You're infectious, my boy. I begin to feel like a rag myself. What shall
we do?"

"The great thing," said Peter judiciously, "is not to know what one is
going to do, but just to take anything that comes along. I remember at
the 'Varsity one never set out to rag anything definitely. You went out
and you saw a bobby and you took his hat, let us say. You cleared, and he
after you. Anything might happen then."

"I should think so," said Pennell.

"I remember once walking home with a couple of men, and one of them
suggested dousing all the street lamps in the road, which was a
residential one leading into town. There wasn't anything in it, but we
did it. One man put his back against a post, while the second went on to
the next post. Then the third man mounted the first man's back, shoved
out the light, jumped clear, and ran on past the next lamp-post to the
third. The first man jumped on No. 2's back and doused his lamp, and so
on. We did the street in a few minutes, and then a constable came into it
at the top. He probably thought he was drunk, then he spotted lights
going out, and like an ass he blew his whistle. We were round a corner in
no time, and then turned and ran back to see if we could offer
assistance!"

"Some gag!" chuckled Pennell; "but I hope you won't go on that sort
of racket to-night. It would be a little more serious if we were
caught.... Also, these blighted gendarmes would probably start firing,
or some other damned thing."

"They would," said Peter; "besides, that doesn't appeal to me now. I'm
getting too old, or else my tastes have become depraved."

The one-horse cab stopped with a jerk. "Hop out," said Peter. He settled
the score, and the two of them entered the hotel and passed through into
the private bar.

"What is it to be?" demanded Pennell.

"Cocktails to-day, old son," said Peter; "I want bucking up. What do you
say to martinis?"

The other agreed, and they moved over to the bar. A monstrously fat woman
stood behind it, like some bloated spider, and a thin, weedy-looking girl
assisted her. A couple of men were already there. It was too early for
official drinks, but the Bretagne knew no law.

They ordered their drinks, and stood there while madame compounded them
and put in the cherries. Another man came in, and Peter recognised the
Australian Ferrars, whom he had met before. He introduced Pennell and
called for another martini.

"So you frequent this poison-shop, do you?" said Ferrars.

"Not much," laughed Peter, "but it's convenient."

"It is, and it's a good sign when a man like you wants a drink. I'd
sooner listen to your sermons any day than some chaps' I know."

"Subject barred here," said Pennell. "But here's the very best to you,
Graham, for all that."

"Same here," said Ferrars, and put down his empty glass.

The talk became general. There was nothing whatever in it--mild chaffing,
a yarn or two, a guarded description by Peter of his motor drive from
Abbeville, and then more drinks. And so on. The atmosphere was warm and
genial, but Peter wondered inwardly why he liked it, and he did not like
it so much that Pennell's "Well, what about it? Let's go on, Graham,
shall we?" found him unready. The two said a general good-bye, promised
madame to look in again, and sauntered out.

They crossed the square in front of Travalini's, lingered at the
flower-stalls, refused the girls' pressure to buy, and strolled on.
"I'm sick of Travalini's," said Pennell. "Don't let's go in there."

"So am I," said Peter. "Let's stroll down towards the sea."

They turned down a side-street, and stood for a few minutes looking into
a picture and book shop. At that moment quick footsteps sounded on the
pavement, and Pennell glanced round.

Two girls passed them, obviously sisters. They were not flashily dressed
exactly, but there was something in their furs and their high-heeled,
high-laced boots that told its own story. "By Jove, that's a pretty
girl!" exclaimed Pennell; "let's follow them."

Peter laughed; he was reckless, but not utterly so. "If you like," he
said. "I'm on for any rag. We'll take them for a drink, but I stop at
that, mind, Pen."

"Sure thing," said Pennell. "But come on; we'll miss them."

They set out after the girls, who, after one glance back, walked on as if
they did not know they were being followed. But they walked slowly, and
it was easy for the two men to catch them up.

Peter slackened a few paces behind. "Look here, Pen," he said, "what the
deuce are we going to do? They'll expect more than a drink, you know."

"Oh no, they won't, not so early as this. It's all in the way of business
to them, too. Let's pass them first," he suggested, "and then slacken
down and wait for them to speak."

Peter acquiesced, feeling rather more than an ass, but the drinks had
gone slightly to his head. They executed their share of the maneuver,
Pennell looking at the girls and smiling as he did so. But the two
quickened their pace and passed the officers without a word.

"If you ask me, this is damned silly," said Peter. "Let's chuck it."

"No, no; wait a bit," said Pennell excitedly. "You'll see what they'll
do. It's really an amusing study in human nature. Look! I told you so.
They live there."

The girls had crossed the street, and were entering a house. One of them
unlocked the door, and they both disappeared. "There," said Peter, "that
finishes it. We've lost them."

"Have we?" said his companion. "Come on over."

They crossed the street and walked up to the door. It was open and
perhaps a foot ajar. Pennell pushed it wide and walked in. "Come on," he
said again. Peter followed reluctantly, but curious. He was seeing a new
side of life, he thought grimly.

Before them a flight of stairs led straight up to a landing, but there
was no sign of the girls. "What's next?" demanded Peter. "We'll be fired
out in two twos if nothing worse happens. Suppose they're decent girls
after all; what would you say?"

"I'd ask if Mlle. Lucienne lived here," said Pennell, "and apologise
profusely when I found she didn't. But you can't make a mistake in this
street, Graham. I'm going up. It's the obvious thing, and probably what
they wanted. Coming?"

He set off to mount the stairs, and Peter, reassured, followed him, at a
few paces. When he reached the top, Pennell was already entering an open
door.

"How do you do, ma cherie?" said one of the girls, smiling, and holding
out a hand.

Peter looked round curiously. The room was fairly decently furnished in a
foreign middle-class fashion, half bedroom, half sitting-room. One of the
girls sat on the arm of a big chair, the other was greeting his friend.
She was the one he had fancied, but a quick glance attracted Peter
to the other and elder. He was in for it now, and he was determined to
play up. He crossed the floor, and smiled down at the girl on the arm of
the chair.

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