Free Men at Arms by Evelyn Waugh

memories, his modest bank balance, his blue patrols, his boredom in the gym or any of the small symptoms of age which distinguished, him from his youthful fellows, there was this recurring need for repose and solitude. Apthorpe went off to play golf with one of the regulars. It was holiday enough for Guy to change at his leisure, wear the same clothes all the afternoon, to smoke a cigar after luncheon, walk down the High Street to collect his weekly papers – the
Spectator
, the
New Statesman
, the
Tablet
– from the local newsagent, to read them drowsily over his own fire; in his own room.. He was thus employed when, long after nightfall, Apthorpe returned from golf. He wore flannel trousers and a tweed coat much patched and bound with leather. There, was a fatuous and glassy squint in his eyes. Apthorpe was tight.
    ‘Hallo. Have you had dinner?’
    ‘No. I don’t intend to. It’s a sound rule of health not to have dinner.’
    ‘Never, Apthorpe?’
    ‘Now, old man, I never said that. Of course not
never
. Sometimes. Give the juices a rest. You have to be your own doctor in the bush. First rule of health, keep your feet dry; second, rest the juices. D’you know what the third is?’
    ‘No.
    ‘Nor do I. Just stick to two rules – and you’ll be all right. You know you don’t look well to me, Crouchback. I’ve been worrying about you. You know Sanders?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I’ve been playing golf with him.’
    ‘Good game?’
    ‘Terrible. High wind, poor visibility. Played nine holes and knocked off. Sanders has a brother in Kasanga. I suppose you think that’s near Makarikari.
    ‘Isn’t it?’
    ‘Just about twelve hundred miles, that’s how near it is. You know, old man, for a chap who’s knocked about as much as you have, you don’t know much, do you? Twelve hundred bloody miles of bush and you call that near.’ Apthorpe sat down and stared at Guy sadly. ‘Not that it really matters,’ he said. ‘Why worry? Why go to Makarikari? Why not stay in Kasanga?’
    ‘Why not indeed?’
    ‘Because Kasanga’s a perfectly awful hole, that’s why. Still if you like the place, stay there by all means. Only don’t ask me to join you, that’s all, old, man. Of course you’d have Sanders’ brother. If he’s anything like Sanders he plays pretty rotten golf, but I’ve no doubt you’d be jolly glad of his company in Kasanga. It’s a perfectly awful hole. Don’t know what you see in the place.’
    ‘Why don’t you go to bed?’
    ‘Lonely,’ said Apthorpe. ‘That’s why. It’s always the same, wherever you are, Makarikari, Kasanga, anywhere. You have a good time drinking with the chaps in the club, you feel fine, and then at the end of it all you go back alone to bed. I need a woman.’
    ‘Well, you won’t find one in barracks.’
    ‘For company, you understand. I can do without the other thing. Not, mind you, that I haven’t done myself well in my time. And I will do again I hope. But I can take it or leave it. I’m above sex. You have to be, in the bush, or it gets a grip on you. But I can’t do without company.’
    ‘I can.’
    ‘You mean you want me to go? All right, old man, I’m not as thick-skinned as you might think. I know when I’m not wanted. I’m sorry I inflicted myself on you for so long, very sorry.’
    ‘We’ll meet again tomorrow.’
    But Apthorpe did not move. He sat goggling sadly. It was like watching the ball at roulette running slower and slower, trickling over the numbers. What would turn up next: Women? Africa? Health? Golf? It clicked into boots.
    ‘I was wearing rubber soles today,’ he said. ‘I regret it now. Spoiled my drive. No grip.’
    ‘Don’t you think you’d better get to bed?’
    It was half an hour before Apthorpe rose from the chair. When he did so, he sat heavily on the floor and continued the conversation, without apparently noticing his change of position. At last he said with a new lucidity: ‘Look here, old man, I’ve enjoyed this talk