Piece of Cake (79 page)

His head was down and his body was bent like a question mark, with his arms hugging his ribs, and the sobs were coming almost faster than his lungs could deliver them. His face had collapsed into the ugliness of misery. Tears did not improve its appearance. Kellaway carefully put his pipe on the bedside table. In all his time in the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Air Force he had seen plenty of men cry. He had never found the sight anything but repugnant. Just when a chap most needed help and sympathy, God made him look like a baboon. “Come on, Fanny, you can't blame yourself,” he said. “It wasn't your fault. These things happen in war. Always have, always will. It's the luck of the draw.” Kellaway didn't hurry, didn't put any great stress on the words. He'd been through it before so often. You had to say something, you had to make reassuring noises, but the poor blighter never really took any of it in at first. “Anyway,” Kellaway said, “it could have been worse, couldn't it? By all reports it was all over pretty quickly. I mean, look at it this way: he went the way he'd have wanted to go. Slam-bang-wallop, over and out. Right?”

Barton raised his contorted, shiny face and said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Flip. Poor old Flip.”

“Oh, balls! Bloody Moran went and bought it. So what?”

“Well, exactly. You mustn't blame—”

“Shut up about Moran! Who cares? I mean, who gives a tiny damn? Look at that, uncle!”

The adjutant looked at Barton's Irvine jacket. A short, brown furrow ran across the left side, just below the armpit. “Bullet streak,” he said. Barton had stopped crying. His breathing was getting under control. “Did you just notice this?” Kellaway asked. “When you took it off?” Barton got up and walked to a corner of
the room. “Came as a bit of a shock, I expect,” Kellaway said. “I mean, you don't need a lot of imagination, do you?” Barton bent down and picked up the torn piece of
Picture Post
. “Same thing happened to me once,” Kellaway said, “only it was the helmet that suffered … Still, a miss is as good as a mile, isn't it?”

“Don't talk such fucking rubbish.”

“You're absolutely right,” Kellaway said. “A miss like this one is in a class of its own.” He tossed the jacket to Barton. “In fact it's worth a drink. Want a drink?”

“D'you know what Flash Gordon did, uncle?” Barton found a towel and scrubbed his face. “Flash went off on his own and charged straight through a whole gang of Jerry bombers. Head-on. In one end, out the other. Scared them shitless.”

“Goodness me. Sounds very effective.”

“Yes. Trouble is, he disobeyed orders. He should've stayed with Fitz, not gone blasting off on his own. What if Fitz got jumped? Flash is a maniac He's crazy.”

“Well, the specialist is coming to look at him in the morning. By the way, Daddy Dalgleish is very keen to have a word with you.”

“Piss on him. Ask CH3 to sort it out. Say I'm writing letters to next-of-kin.”

“Are you?”

“No fear. I'm off on the spree. It's time we had a squadron thrash. Go and round up the blokes, uncle. Tell 'em I'll buy the first round.”

The adjutant gave him a long and thoughtful look. “Now? I mean, you're feeling okay again?”

“Why the hell shouldn't I?” Barton asked cheerfully. “It wasn't my fault he bought it, was it? Come on, get cracking, adj. You're like frozen treacle.”

CH3 was drinking in the mess when he was called to the phone. “Popsy,” Flash said, and for once he was right. The caller was Jacky Bellamy.

“I want a chance to apologize,” she said. “And I also need your advice.”

“I see.” He looked at all the names and numbers scribbled on the wall. “Look, are you sure this is such a good idea?”

“No, I'm not. And look, you don't have to meet me if you don't want to.”

“It's been a long time.”

“About three months.”

“A lot can happen in three months.”

“Stop dodging. This is a pay phone and I'm out of change. Say yes or no.”

Pause. “No.”

“You bastard.”

“Hey, hey! You didn't talk like that three months ago.”

“I've changed. I've turned hard and cold and ruthless and …”

“Is that right? Sounds much more interesting. Okay, where do we meet?”

“Outside the main gate in ten minutes?”

She had a car. They drove a mile or so to a quiet lane, and walked down a long avenue of beech trees. It was dusk, and the air was as warm as milk.

“First off,” she said, “you were right and I was wrong.”

“About what?”

“Everything. Tactics, gunnery, back-armor, all the stuff you said was wrong with the Hurricane. And all I can say in defense is that I went along with the majority vote. Experts always disagree, and there comes a point when … Oh, forget it. I'm making excuses.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I was somewhat wrong too. Turns out there's nothing much wrong with the Hurricane. It needed sorting out, that's all.”

“So here we both are. Older and wiser.”

They stopped to watch a pair of squirrels dash along some branches and vanish.

“Anyway, what does it matter?” he said. “It's all over and done with.”

“It mattered to me. I hate getting anything wrong. I believe in taking pains and double-checking everything twice. I
hate
being caught out.”

He gave an amused grunt. “So did I, once. Don't worry, you'll grow out of it.”

“Stop trying to sound paternal. I'm two years older than you.”

“Are you really?” He cocked his head and studied her face. “Prove it. Say something maternal.”

“Have you got a clean handkerchief?” she asked.

He laughed. “That's very good,” he said. The more he thought about it, the more he laughed; until she began laughing too. He said: “You just wrote the story of my life.”

“Gee whiz. I must have been inspired, or something.”

He looked away. They walked on. Old beech leaves crunched sweetly underfoot. He said, “Flip Moran bought it this afternoon.”

“Dead?” She reached up to a low-hanging branch and broke off a leaf. “Dumb question … Well, I'm sorry. I really liked Flip.”

“Yes, he had his points.”

“That's not much of an epitaph. He was worth more than that.”

CH3 shrugged. “Chaps are always getting the chop. It's not something to get worked up about.” They reached the end of the avenue, and turned. “You said you wanted to ask my advice. What about?”

“Oh, nothing special. Statistics. RAF claims. My boss in the States wants me to check out the figures … Look, why did you do that, just now?”

“What?”

“You know what. One moment you're actually treating me like a human being, the next moment you're a hundred miles away, telling me Flip Moran has bought it.”

He said nothing.

“I've been kissed before, you know,” she said. “Even a withered old bag like me gets kissed from time to time.”

“Come to that,” he said, “you could have kissed me.”

“Too late now. Anyway, it's not something to get worked up about, is it?”

They walked in silence to the car.

The
Spreadeagle
had been an important coaching inn, and it was spacious. The ceiling of the public bar, for instance, was fourteen feet high. To get Flash Gordon's feet on the ceiling was quite a job.

All the bar tables had been dragged into the middle of the room and stacked in a pyramid. This in itself was not easy, because the pub was crowded with locals and Spitfire pilots and a sprinkling of soldiers, and some of them had been reluctant to give up their
tables. But the landlord supported the feet-on-the-ceiling idea. When Barton had walked in and said, “Thirteen pints, please,” the landlord had said, “You must be Hornet squadron,” and it turned out his nephew was Mother Cox's armorer.

CH3 found a man who could play the piano and he bought him a drink. Singing began. There was a slightly dangerous darts match, Hurricanes versus Spits, with a lot of insults about marksmanship. Zab and Haddy took no part in any of it. They had been ordered to come and now they stood by the fireplace and sneered into their beer.
“Jag tycker om det!”
Fitzgerald shouted at them from a safe distance, and when they scowled, others shouted it too. Fitzgerald was feeling guilty about not going home to Mary, but orders were orders, weren't they? So now he shouted twice as loudly, to make the guilt worthwhile.

They all shouted, they all barged about, pinched each other's hats, threw beermats, sang, bawled catchphrases from radio shows. Skull watched Macfarlane and Brooke stagger and howl with laughter at a joke that Cattermole had told, and he said to CH3: “It's amazing how very drunk they can get so very quickly, isn't it?”

“They're not really drunk. It's a sort of post-combat autointoxication, I guess.”

“In celebration of life? Affirmation of survival?”

“Christ, no. Nothing so high-falutin'. They've been wound up as tight as a fiddle-string all day, so now they make whoopee. These guys could get smashed out of their minds on soda-water.”

“Not that one, apparently.” Skull was looking at Steele-Stebbing, who had just left the piano, having failed to join in the singing because he didn't know the words, and was now reading a brewer's calendar.

The landlord, pulling pints as he talked, said to Barton: “Tell you what. I wouldn't mind some sort of memento or souvenir. You know: something to hang on the wall. You got a squadron plaque, or a photograph or something?”

“No, nothing of that sort, I'm afraid.” The landlord was disappointed. Barton looked around for inspiration. “You could always have our footprints,” he said. “Like they do in Hollywood.”

“That takes cement. I've got no cement, have I?”

Barton was looking at the pub ceiling. “Got any soot?” he asked.

“What? You'll never get up there,” the landlord said.

“Bet you a pint we will.” Barton emptied his glass.

“Hornet boys can get up anywhere,” the adjutant said.

They stacked the pub tables in a three-tiered pyramid. Barton climbed to the top with half a bucket of soot that the landlord had meant for his rhubarb. CH3 handed up a chair. “Right!” Barton shouted. “Now this is a very hazardous mission, bloody dangerous in fact, because as you can see it will take you very close to your operational ceiling.” He pointed upward.

The crowd howled and groaned. “Piss-poor joke!” Cattermole roared. Cushions and beermats flew. Barton drank his beer.

“And because it's so extremely bloody dangerous,” he declared, “I have decided to call for a volunteer. Where's Flash?”

Gordon was manhandled up the pyramid. He struck a dramatic pose and cried: “There was a young lady named Buckingham—”

Barton shoved him into the chair. Using an old paint brush he slathered soot onto the soles of his shoes. Gordon swung himself around until his shoulders were resting on the seat of the chair and he pressed his feet on the ceiling, to warm applause. “Now sing a song,” Barton ordered. Gordon, still upside down, sang a verse of
Stormy Weather
. “Enough!” Barton said. Gordon slid off the chair head-first and rolled down the pyramid into the arms of the crowd, spilling much beer. “Mother Cox!” Barton shouted.

Cox was followed by CH3. He made his mark and sang
Trees
, and then took over the bucket and ordered Barton up. Barton sang
Run, Rabbit
. CH3 gave him back the bucket and went down as Patterson came up. One by one the pilots stamped their sooty footprints and sang their upside-down songs until only two were left: Renouf and Steele-Stebbing. As Nim Renouf clambered up, grinning with anticipation, CH3 found Steele-Stebbing at the back of the crowd. “You're next,” he said.

“I'm afraid I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“That's not possible. Nobody can be bad at it. The worse you are, the better they like it. Got a song ready?”

“I honestly can't think of anything.” He drank some beer to hide his embarrassment.

CH3 dragged down the glass, and slopped beer. “Are you trying to tell me you've never sung a song in all your long and miserable life?”

Steele-Stebbing, mopping his wrists with his handkerchief,
showed a tiny flash of anger. “There's no need to make such a fuss,” he said. “If it makes you any happier I'll sing
The Red Flag.”

“Attaboy.” CH3 drank his beer. “Now get up there and knock 'em dead.”

But when Steele-Stebbing found himself up there with his feet on the ceiling he couldn't think of the words of
The Red Flag,
so he sang
The Eton Boating Song
instead.

To his amazement they all joined in. Hardly anybody knew the words, but they la-la-ed lustily. Then they demanded an encore so he had to sing it again. He could see their mouths opening wide and closing, and their bodies swaying in time with the easy, infectious rhythm, everyone upside down. When they released him he was scarlet in the face, and his heart was walloping furiously. They cheered him as he stumbled down the stacked tables. His back was slapped and his hair was ruffled by cheerful strangers as he made his way to the bar.

“Well done,” the landlord said. “I always liked that tune. Very catchy.” Steele-Stebbing nodded. He discovered that he was grinning. It felt very odd.

Barton was still sitting on the top of the pyramid. His hands and face were more black than white. He was thinking:
It's simple, really. Not Flash. Not Pip. Not Moggy. Not Fitz, because Mary's about to produce
. “Hey, Mother!” he shouted. Cox climbed up and sat beside him. “How would you like to take over ‘B' flight?” he asked.

Cox stared at him. He gestured theatrically, and sang: “I'd walk a million miles for one of those smiles …” Barton grabbed a handful of soot and smeared it over Cox's face. Together they sang
Mammy
. The crowd joined in. Kellaway, Skull and the landlord joined in. Even Steele-Stebbing joined in. In a corner, Cattermole was fighting a Canadian Spitfire pilot who had tried to sabotage the pyramid, but nobody paid any attention to that.