“I didn’t marry you for excitement, darling.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, but it’s the best you’ll get.” She spoke lightly. “I’m too tired to argue.”
Half a mile later, he said, “Listen: if I don’t create highpowered, high-falutin, highly polished bullshit, the kind that has Members of Parliament wetting themselves with joy...”
“Please no. Awful thought.”
“Well, it’s not because I’ve got my brain switched off and my thumb up my bum. I’ve got plenty to say that you’ll never hear. The Official Secrets Act sees to that.”
“I know, Silko. I’ve signed it too.”
He was so surprised that his foot gave the accelerator a small stab. “You have? Why?”
She snuggled down in her seat. “If I told you, I’d be breaking the Act. Slow down, darling, before you get arrested.”
3
There was a lot to learn. The Vulcan looked sleek and simple on the outside, but the cockpit was dense with dials, gauges, buttons, switches. There were 56 items of equipment for navigation, signalling and lighting, from the accelerometer to the second pilot’s knee-pad lamp. There were 37 separate controls for the engines and fuel system, starting with the bomb-bay tanks control panel and ending with the throttle control levers (re-light press switch in handles). All this equipment fed vital, or at least valuable, information and assistance to the pilot and co-pilot. They also had to manoeuvre the aeroplane. 38 flying controls and instruments made that possible. Some were familiar: rudder pedals, auto-pilot, air speed indicator. Some were not: artificial feel failure, yaw damper, machmeter. Instruments and equipment overflowed onto side panels. Yet more items filled the elbow space between the pilots. The Vulcan’s cockpit was small and intensely crowded. By contrast the Lanc had been as simple as a country bus.
Silk was quick learner. All those years flying all those types for Air America had kept his brain sharp.
As they were walking out to the bomber, his instructor said, “You know what makes her tick, but do you trust her?”
For one mad moment, Silk thought he meant Zoë. But Silk had never mentioned Zoë. “Trust her?” he said.
“Some people have a problem. The nose pokes out so far in front of the aeroplane, we can’t even see the wingtips, let alone the tailplane, which of course doesn’t exist. We have to take everything on faith.”
“I’ve got faith. The Ascension into Heaven was good enough for the Almighty, so it’s good enough for me.”
“That’s blind faith. Do you always trust the instruments? Don’t you get a flicker of doubt sometimes? You’re out in front, driving, all alone. Maybe the rest of the Vulcan isn’t following.”
“It wouldn’t dare. No, I haven’t got a problem that way. I’m beginning to worry about you, though.”
The instructor laughed. “Oh, I trust her. Some kites are just heaps of hardware, but...” They reached the bomber and strolled around it. He touched the tailfin. He patted a jet pipe, and rapped its end-cap with his knuckles. “Purpose?” he said.
“Keep the dust out.”
“And the rain. The Vulcan is packed full of electrics. Wet weather is bad for her vitals. You get all sorts of nasty little short circuits.”
Silk looked at the huge sweep of the wings. Close to the fuselage they were thick enough to swallow the engines. At their extremes they tapered to thin, finely curved tips. You could play tennis on top of a Vulcan. Doubles tennis. “You’re quite fond of her, aren’t you?”
The instructor saw a thin streak of birdshit and picked it off. “More than fond. Flying the Vulcan is the greatest privilege imaginable. It makes sex look like gardening.”
Silk had done a lot of gardening at weekends. Zoë was always busy: writing, phoning, meeting VIPs whose names he’d never heard of. Silk didn’t want to think about sex. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said to the instructor, “but isn’t it odd that Air Ministry should recruit an elderly gent to fly such a beautiful beast? Why me?”
“You’ve been flying everything for twenty years. You haven’t crashed and burned. I suppose they trust you.”
“Big mistake,” Silk said. “I never paid my last mess bill, in 1944. It was a whopper, too.”
Later, the instructor put him in the left-hand seat, the captain’s position, while he took the second pilot’s place. At twelve thousand feet they found a sheet of cirrus cloud, thin as lace curtains. “You’ve shown me you can fly fast and high,” the instructor said. “Piece of cake, in a Vulcan. Now show me you know how to fly slow. Assume the cloud is ground level. Perform a little display for the crowd.”
Silk flew wide circles, letting the speed decay to 180 knots. “Too fast,” the instructor said. Silk eased the throttles a hint more. “Trust me,” the instructor said. “She’s a lady. She won’t stall.” Silk banked. He was two hundred feet above the cirrus. The Vulcan seemed to be hanging in the sky, yet it flew beautifully. Cautiously, he reversed the bank. The Vulcan swung comfortably from one wingtip to the other. He turned through a slow half-circle and came back. “I could open the bomb-bay doors,” he suggested. “The crowd would like that.”
“You’re the captain.”
Silk did it. The Vulcan revealed what she was made of.
When they landed, the instructor said, “That went okay. But don’t try anything flashy. Every aeroplane has its limits. A couple of years ago someone displayed a Vulcan at low level, flew too fast, exceeded the ‘g’ limits, and the entire starboard wing disintegrated, bang. Ass over tit, straight into the deck. God knows what anyone found to bury.”
“Sandbags, probably.” Silk looked at the bomber. “Doesn’t seem possible,” he said.
“That’s what they thought, right up to the bang. After that it was too late to think.”
* * *
The course lasted ten weeks. Silk studied every aspect of the Vulcan: airframe limitations, engine controls, fuel economy, emergency procedures, ejection seat, oxygen system, ditching drill, airbrakes, and a hundred others. He worked hard on everything except the ditching drill. He feared the sea. If 120 tons of Vulcan stopped flying over the ocean, it would make an almighty splash, as if God had dropped anchor. There would be no paddling away in a life raft. Silk was convinced of this. Ditching drill was irrelevant.
He spent many sweaty hours in the flight simulator, where every part of the Vulcan was fallible. Single engine failed on take-off. Double engines failed. The take-off was aborted, or he got airborne only to hit severe buffeting. He had to land crosswind. Or with only one undercarriage leg down. Or in thick rain with no windscreen wipers. He had engine flame-outs and relighting at altitude. Instruments failed. Cabin pressure failed. Heating failed. He enjoyed it all. Air America had had cock-ups, but nothing like this.
4
Silk completed the course, qualified, got his posting, packed his bags and drove to the cottage. A man with a shaggy grey beard was painting the window frames. A fat spaniel sprawled on the grass and watched. “It’s not for sale,” the man said. “We just bought it.”
“Damn.” Silk felt cheated: he hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to the old place. “I... uh...” He didn’t know how to define himself. “Used to live here,” he said.
The man stopped painting. “Are you the husband? Good. I found something in the attic you can take away.” He went inside. Silk squatted on his haunches and stroked the spaniel. It growled and tried to bite, but it was too fat and slow. “Well, sod you, then, you miserable bitch,” he said. The man came out with a leather suitcase. “Locked,” he said. “No key.”
Silk took it. “I suppose all our stuff is now at the manor?”
“Manor? Don’t know anything about a manor. Forwarding address I got given is Rich something. Goodrich? Goodrich House...” He squinted at Silk. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“Don’t bother. It’s not far away.” He heaved the suitcase into the car and left fast. He was low on petrol, he didn’t have a map, but someo
ne must be able to tell him how to find the bloody silly house.
He drove around this part of Lincolnshire for forty minutes until he was grim with failure and sick of repeating the same question to people whose eyes immediately went as blank as old pennies. The needle on his fuel gauge was tapping empty. And then, finally, he met a policeman on a bicycle who said he knew for certain there was no Goodrich House in the county. On the other hand there was a Richards Court, big house, just bought by a lady MP, not far off.
“I may have to walk,” Silk said. “I’m running on fumes.”
The policeman mounted his bike and led the way to a petrol station, which was shut, but he got the owner to leave his TV and unlock his pumps.
“You’re a prince,” Silk said. The policeman aimed a finger at Silk’s medal ribbons. “You did your bit, too,” he said.
* * *
Richards Court sat in its own grounds, half a mile from the road, hidden by woodland, an early Victorian country house with a stable block and a dairy, plus a few smaller buildings which stood in the background, minding their manners.
The east side of the house was flanked by a broad terrace. A pair of peacocks was in residence. “Good evening,” Silk said. “You must be Abbot and Costello.” One bird slowly displayed its tail feathers. “I stand corrected. Rodgers and Hammerstein.”
French windows opened, and a man in black trousers and a dove-grey waistcoat appeared. “May I help you, sir?”
“That depends. Who are you?”
“I am Stevens, sir. The under-butler.”
“Well, I’m Silk, the under-husband. Is my wife here?”
“Her ladyship is in conference, sir. In the library.”
“In conference? Who with? Never mind. Tell her I’m here. Tell her I’ve brought Rumpty and Tumpty with me and we’d all like the pleasure of her company.”
“Rumpty and Tumpty.” Stevens didn’t even blink. “Very good, sir. Drinks are in the Music Room, if you would like to wait there.”
Silk was on his second Scotch-and-water when Zoë hurried in, kissed him, hugged him, and awoke long-forgotten tremors in his loins. “Darling, how gorgeous to see you, and looking so well, you should have telephoned, we’re frantically busy here, isn’t it a dreadful dump? But big.”
“I’ve been trying to find Something Court. I’ve driven all over –”
“Damn, damn. I meant to tell you. Frantically busy, you’ve no idea. The thing is, I knew a man called Richards, centuries ago, complete shit, I couldn’t live anywhere called Richards Court, so I changed it to The Grange... Anyway, you’re here. We’ll put you in the Red Room. Lovely views.”
“The only view I want is you, starkers.”
She kissed him again and backed away, towards the door. “Poor Rumpty and Tumpty... This thing I’m chairing will go on all night...”
“I can wait. Tell you what: I’ll stand behind you and look staunch. That’ll speed things up.”
Zoë shuddered, purely for effect. “Blow things up, more likely.”
“Really? What’s it all about?”
“Can’t say, Silko. Politics. You know.”
“All I know is I’ve been flying all week and driving all evening, and...” He heard the grate of bitterness in his voice and let that sentence die. “How about tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow’s hopeless. Hordes of people coming, absolute hordes.” She wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps Tuesday?”
“I’ll be flying. I’ve been posted to Kindrick. Remember? My last base, in ’44. Twenty miles away.”
“Kindrick, how nice for you. You’ll meet all your chums again.” She blew a kiss and was gone.
“All my fucking chums from fucking Kindrick are fucking dead,” Silk said. He opened the lid of a grand piano and ran his forefinger down the keys. “Not Freddy Redman. He’s in the Air Ministry, but that’s a living death, isn’t it?”
He left the piano and stood in the middle of the room, sipping his whisky and thinking about dead aircrew, something he had managed to avoid doing for ten, fifteen years. Then a tall, lithe young man came in and introduced himself as Charles Ferris, Zoë’s personal assistant. “I look after her appointments book,” he said. “She thought we might liaise.”
“I don’t want to bloody liaise. Liaise about what?”
“Mutually convenient dates,” Ferris said. Silk stared, frowning as if the light hurt his eyes. “Oh well,” Ferris said. “Not such a good idea, after all.”
“Here’s a much better idea,” Silk said. “Where’s the nearest pub?”
When he opened the Citroën’s door he saw the big leather suitcase on the back seat, and on impulse he dragged it out and flung it away. He got in and started the car and knew how childish he’d been, so he got out and carried the suitcase into the house and dumped it. Stevens, the under-butler, came in sight. “Not mine,” Silk said. “Tell her ladyship it was found in the attic. Bloody heavy. Don’t herniate yourself.” Then he went to the pub. They had ham sandwiches two inches thick and best bitter that washed away the sins of the world. When he got back to The Grange only Stevens was still up.
5
He slept late. By the time he reached the breakfast room, all the guests had eaten and moved on. He had a kipper and bacon and eggs and read a copy of The Times that had coffee stains on the Parliamentary News.
It was a mild, sunny morning. He went for a stroll around The Grange. The place was even bigger than he thought: he identified an ice-house, a laundry and a sprawling garage, once a coach-house. Under a Scots pine he found a cemetery for pets. He scraped the moss from a small tombstone. Tommy, a Good Pal, in flowery letters. Another stone was for Jessy, Gone But Not Forgotten. “Not true,” Silk said. “Jessy’s gone and forgotten and so are you.”
He looked around. It must take a platoon of servants to run The Grange. Obviously Zoë had more money than God. And she spent it hand over fist. Well, so what? He wasn’t being asked to do any work. Then why did the sight of this place depress him?
At the back of the house was a walled garden. Inside it, dirty smoke was boiling up. He found a doorway. An elderly man in overalls was poking the fire with a spade. As Silk got closer he saw that what the man was burning was the leather suitcase.
“I guess you’re the gardener,” Silk said.
“I’m Ted, sir.” He took off his cap.
“And that’s a suitcase.”
“Her ladyship’s orders, sir.”
Silk took Ted’s spade and chopped at the locks until the suitcase sprang open. It was full of clothing. On top was an RAF officer’s uniform, neatly folded. The smoke made Silk cough, but he used the edge of the spade to lift out a tunic. “Pilot,” he said. “See? Flight lieutenant.” The smoke swirled and went for his eyes, so he let the tunic fall. “Damn. Damn.”
“Someone you knew, sir?”
“Chap called Langham. Tony Langham. Good type.” He gave back the spade. “Rather a long time ago. Keep up the good work, Ted.”
Silk collected his things from the Red Room and drove to RAF Kindrick. Tony had been her first husband, she owned his clothes, she had a perfect right to destroy them, nobody should live in the past. Still, it was a hell of a way for Tony’s kit to end up. First he went down in flames, then his best uniform went up in flames. Silk put his foot to the floor and made the Citroën charge so hard that it left Tony in its slipstream. Speed cures all.
PART TWO
Bags of Swank
OKAY IF I STRANGLE YOUR WIFE?
1
The RAF Kindrick that Silk remembered from 1944 had been a windy prairie with a triangle of runways and a cluster of buildings and hangars whose camouflage paint was peeling like sunburn. Now the same wind blew; everything else was different. The new runways were twice as long and the whole station had grown until there were signposts at the road junctions. The corrugated black Nissen huts had disappeared. Today the buildings were brick, the windows glittered, the paintwork looked new. The grass was inch-perfect, as measured by the
RAF Service Policemen who patrolled the base with Alsatian dogs. In Silk’s day, the SPs had passed their time in the back of the guardroom, making toast on the coke stove. Then, there had been numerous gaps in the perimeter fence, short cuts to the pubs used by groundcrew and aircrew. Now the perimeter was wired tight like East Berlin.
Another difference was the station commander. Silk remembered Group Captain Rafferty, the big man who always stayed up late to say, “Damned good show.” Now Kindrick had two squadrons of Vulcans and a group captain named Pulvertaft.
He summoned the batch of newly arrived aircrew to his office and asked them to sit. Bugger me, Silk thought, he’s not much older than I am. Station commanders were supposed to be grey-haired types who tore you off a strip for beating up the control tower. If a kite hit a stuffed cloud, the station commander carried the wreath from the Air Ministry. This bloke was as fresh as aftershave.
“Let’s get Pulvertaft out of the way,” the group captain said. “An odd name, but I didn’t choose it. Not nearly as funny as, for instance, Mönchengladbach, a very amusing town in the Ruhr where the flak got my Lancaster in September 1944.” Pulvertaft wasn’t smiling. “I’ll do a deal with you. I won’t bore you with my memoirs if you won’t sneer at my name.”
Hullo Russia, Goodbye England Page 8