Violet is a middle-aged gentleman who came to
us from some Labour unit and refuses to leave. He has an enormous head,
a walrus moustache, a hairy nose, and feet which flap as they walk. His
_metier_ is to keep the place tidy and the incinerator fires burning. He
prowls about at night, accompanied by a large ginger tom-cat, harpooning
loose scraps of paper. Any dust he meets he deals with on the
blotting-paper principle, by rolling in it and absorbing it. When his
clothes are so stiff with dirt that they will stand up without any
inside assistance from Violet, they are sawn off him and consigned to
the incinerator and he is given a new suit. Whenever his back hair has
grown so long that it is liable to impede his movements, a _posse_ of
grooms is despatched to his lair to rope, throw and shear him with
horse-clippers. Last time they did it they swear they lost the
instrument twice and that two bats and an owl flew out of his tresses.
He is allowed out only at night, because the German prisoners laugh at
him, which is bad for his _moral_ and good for theirs. He lives, he and
his cat, deep in the chateau woods in a tiny semi-subterranean cabin he
has constructed of odds and ends of tin and tar-paper. He was supposed
to have been demobilised ages ago, but we cannot get him off the
premises.
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