Johnny Under Ground

by Patricia Moyes

  “I’m not quite sure what you want,” said Barbara a little uncertainly.

  “Just tell us—what you want to tell us,” said Lofty. For a moment Emmy had a strange feeling of a shared knowledge between these two; almost of a conspiracy. Then it vanished, as Lofty said, “Let’s start with the date of birth, if you can remember it.”

  “Beau’s or mine?”

  “Beau’s, of course.”

  Emmy had taken up her notebook and, at a nod from Lofty, she began to write as Barbara spoke. “Beau was born on January 19th,” she said. “Let me see, it must have been in 1919. His father was a country clergyman, the Reverend Sidney Guest. A dear, gentle man. Beau was an only child. I believe his mother was very beautiful. Alas, I never met her. She became very ill when Beau was only a baby and had to go abroad for her health. So Beau was brought up by his father, who was perhaps the teeniest bit old-fashioned. He wanted Beau to train as an accountant or a lawyer or something conventional like that. He wasn’t keen on Beau joining the Air Force, but, of course, once the Battle of Britain started, the old man was tremendously proud of his son.

  “Beau joined the Air Force in 1938. You know all about his career with fighters. I met him in the spring of 1940, when I was playing a small part in Summer Song. We got married in August—at the height of the Battle.”

  “That’s good,” said Lofty. “We can work that up. I imagine you won’t want Vere mentioned at this stage.”

  Barbara gave him an unfriendly look. “By all means, you can say that Vere was Beau’s greatest friend in the squadron,” she said.

  “Make a note of that, Blandish,” said Lofty. “Right, Barbara. Go on.”

  “You know the rest,” said Barbara. “He shot down sixteen Huns, and won the D.F.C. three times, and then crashed on a routine patrol in 1942.”

  Lofty turned to Emmy. “Your first job,” he said, “is to get at Air Ministry records for more details of Beau’s operational career. Then talk to the people who served with him, Vere for a start. And I believe Sammy Smith knew him in the old days.”

  “Smith was at Falconfield,” said Barbara, “where Beau was stationed when he crashed.”

  “Was he? I never knew that.” Lofty sounded thoughtful. “He never mentioned it when we were all at Dymfield.”

  “Of course he didn’t,” said Barbara. “Smith was pretty uncouth, but at least he had the tact not to remind Beau of…”

  “Incidentally, why was Sammy himself grounded? Anybody know?”

  “Anno Domini, I suppose,” said Emmy. “He was in his late thirties, after all. That’s pretty old.”

  “You mean,” said Lofty, “that it was pretty old. It sounds pretty young from where I’m sitting at the moment.”

  “Oh, God,” said Barbara, and laughed. “Do you have to keep reminding us?”

  “‘Golden lads and girls must, as chimney sweepers, come to dust,’” said Lofty. “Except Beau Guest, of course.”

  Suddenly Barbara stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. “Lofty Parker,” she said, “if you continue to take that attitude the whole thing is off.”

  “Attitude?” Lofty was full of unconvincing innocence. “What attitude?”

  “You know very well what I mean.”

  “My dear Barbara, I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

  “You’re a bloody liar,” said Barbara. “You always were. Now listen to me. I’m paying you good money to do a job. You’ll do it the way I want it done or the deal is off. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly, Barbara. Perfectly.” Lofty grinned. “I thought you would have realized by now that your wildest whim is my command. If I was provocative just now, it was simply to establish where we all stood. It’s all right, little Blandish,” he added; and Emmy became uncomfortably aware that she must have been staring. “Don’t bother your pretty little head about what the grown-ups are saying. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

  “Honestly, Lofty,” Emmy began.

  “I take that back,” Lofty amended, not unkindly. “However old you may grow, your mental age will always be nineteen. That’s your charm.” Before Emmy could think of a suitable reply, he went on. “Right. We’ve got to the point where Beau ditches his Spitfire. We now come to a gripping and poignant chapter on his experiences in the hospital, which will have the lending libraries rolling in the aisles and not a dry eye in the house. Tell us about it, Barbara, dear.”

  Barbara sat down on the sofa. Twisting a fragile white handkerchief in her fingers, she said, “It happened on a Friday afternoon. I was out shopping, so they got no reply when they telephoned me. It was six o’clock before the call came through. They simply told me that Beau had had an accident and asked me to go to the hospital as quickly as I could…”

  “Mrs. Guest? Do sit down. I’m Dr. Innes. Now, I don’t want to distress you, but I’m afraid your husband has had rather a nasty accident. A very nasty accident indeed.”

  “He’s not…?”

  “No, no. He’s alive, and he’s going to be perfectly all right. Just get that into your head.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Not just at the moment, I’m afraid. What I really wanted to ask you was whether you have a good photograph of him?”

  “Photograph?”

  “Yes. Two, if possible. Full face and profile.”

  “But what on earth do you…?”

  “Just to help us.”

  “My God—you mean—he’s got no face left…?”

  “Now, now, Mrs. Guest. Nurse, would you…? Thank you. Now, Mrs. Guest, you must be brave and sensible. I told you, your husband has been extremely lucky. His eyes are undamaged, and so are his teeth and bones. It’s just a question of contours—always useful to have a photograph to work on…”

  “When can I see him?”

  “We’ll let you know. Within a few days, you may be sure…”

  “Falconfield 34? Mrs. Guest? Ah, how are you? This is Dr. Innes. You can come along to see your husband tomorrow, half-past two, if that’s convenient for you. Yes, yes, we got the photographs. Thank you very much. Oh, yes, he’s conscious and extremely cheerful, but you must be prepared for a little bit of a shock… The main thing is not to upset him, just be very gentle and sympathetic and calm. Above all, don’t let him see that you’re upset by his appearance in any way…”

  “Oh, God, Vere. Give me another drink. It was hell. It was indescribable. Have you heard people say that eyes are expressive? Well, it’s bloody well not true. D’you know what’s expressive? It’s the way the skin sort of wrinkles and straightens out around the eyes. Have you ever seen two eyes just gazing at you out of nothing, out of a lot of bandages, because there’s no face left around them? Laughing eyes, sad eyes—bloody balls. Yes, that’s exact. Two staring brown-and-white balls, like marbles. And what’s going to happen when the bandages come off? Have you seen them, Vere? Have you seen those poor creatures in that hospital? Have you tried to keep the horror out of your face as you spoke to them? Don’t try to cheer me up. Beau’s going to be like that. I know he is. I had to take them a photograph. Oh, God, I wish he were dead. I wish he were dead…”

  “…got to the hospital as fast as I could,” said Barbara. “Poor Beau. He looked like an Egyptian mummy, all done up in bandages with only his eyes showing. I had to take along photographs so that they could rebuild his face. He was wonderfully brave. He was so cheerful that I was, too. Of course, I had perfect faith in the doctors, and you know what a superb job they did on him. Of course, it took time. It was eighteen months before the last operation was over and I was able to take him away to convalesce.”

  “That’s all good strong stuff, Barbara,” said Lofty. He was scribbling as he spoke. “On we go. Where did you take him?”

  Barbara hesitated. “We couldn’t go to Beau’s father,” she said. “He—it would have upset him too much. As a matter of fact, Vere was very kind and lent us one of the cottages on this very estate. It was winter. The weather was horrible
, I remember, but nothing mattered except that Beau was back with me and was getting better every day. It was like a second honeymoon…”

  “Must you have that phonograph blaring all the time, Barbara?”

  “I don’t have to. I just try to keep myself sane, that’s all.”

  “You mean, my company drives you insane?”

  “Oh, Beau, don’t be idiotic.”

  “I only asked you a question.”

  “Well—if you want me to be honest—it’s not much fun for me, is it? Stuck down here in this one-horse hole.”

  “Poor darling Barbara…”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

  “I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t. I’m just so angry with myself for crashing, and giving you such a hell of a time. Never mind, darling. As soon as I’m fit we’ll spend a week in town. We’ll go dancing at Hatchetts.”

  “And be blown to bits in an air raid? Thank you very much.”

  “Now look, Barbara, you can’t have it both ways. Either you live safely in Whitchurch or you live dangerously at Hatchetts.”

  “Or you just live; you make something of your life. Have you heard from Air Ministry about your new posting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s ominous.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You didn’t mention it until I asked. That means it’s bad.”

  “I don’t think it’s particularly bad. I’m to be Chief Controller of the Operations Room at Dymfield—just a few miles from here.”

  “Chief Controller? You mean, commanding officer?”

  “Of course not. I’ve done my nut with the doctors, but they won’t let me fly. How could I be in command of an airfield?”

  “Christ almighty! Controller of an Operations Room! How low can you sink?”

  “It’ll be a very interesting job, Barbara. And what’s more, I’ll be working with Vere…”

  “Vere’s flying Typhoons.”

  “That’s right. And I’ll be backing him up with…”

  “Backing him up! That just about sums it up, doesn’t it? Hanging around on the edge of things, never in the center. I tell you, Beau, you’re finished! Finished! And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m not! I’m bloody well not!”

  “Barbara, darling, it’s not as bad as all that. Come and sit down. No, don’t have another drink.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? Why damn well shouldn’t I?”

  “Very well. Please yourself. You’re grown up, after all, despite appearances to the contrary.”

  “Are you trying to insult me, Beau Guest?”

  “No. I’m trying to make you see that you’re behaving in a rather childish way.”

  “Hark at grandfather! Twenty-five next birthday, and finished—finished…”

  “…like a second honeymoon,” said Barbara. “Then, when Beau was well enough, he took up his posting at Dymfield. We were both very thrilled about it. After all, it was a very important job. From there on, you know as much as I do.” Barbara smiled engagingly and bent forward to throw a fresh log on the fire. “Of course, Beau wasn’t very easy to live with in those days. He was absolutely heartbroken that the doctors wouldn’t allow him to fly again, and it took quite a time for him to adjust to a ground job…”

  “I’m sure,” said Lofty, “that you were a great help to him.”

  “I did my best,” replied Barbara, lowering her eyes modestly.

  Henry and Vere came back about five o’clock. They had walked for some twelve miles across rough country. Henry was exhausted, filthy, and disgruntled. Vere was fresh and hearty and in the best of spirits, and he carried two pigeons and a rabbit in his gamebag.

  They found Barbara, Emmy, and Lofty deep in discussion by the dying fire; Emmy and Lofty scribbling in their notebooks. The literary session broke up at once, however, with the return of the hunters. The guests dispersed to their bedrooms to wash and change, and Barbara exhorted everybody to assemble in the drawing room at six for a cocktail.

  As Henry washed, Emmy gave him a short description of what had taken place during the afternoon. “It was—well—nasty, Henry.”

  “Nothing like as nasty as walking twelve miles through mud,” he retorted through a mask of soapsuds.

  “I mean, I can’t explain. I wish I’d never started this…”

  Henry spluttered, swallowing a quantity of soap in the process. “My dear girl,” he said, finally, “didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I warn you?”

  “Yes,” said Emmy, “you did. Oh, maybe I’m imagining the whole thing, but I’ve got a feeling that there’s a lot going on that I don’t know anything about.”

  “Which makes you useful,” said Henry, wiping his face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Innocence is a rare quality and easily exploited.”

  “Oh, don’t be a pompous idiot.”

  “Very well. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  On the way downstairs Henry was surprised to be waylaid by Vere, who grabbed his arm and urged him to come into the study for a quiet drink. Henry, who imagined that Vere would have had more than enough of his company during the afternoon, was considerably intrigued. He followed his host into the snug, book-lined room. After a lot of preliminary snorting and throat-clearing, Vere at last got to the point. “Been talking to Barbara, old man,” he said.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “I dare say you’ve been talking to Blandish—your wife, that is. You’ll have heard the latest.”

  “You mean, that the book is to be more of a biography of Beau Guest than a…?”

  “Exactly.” Vere handed Henry a whisky. “Soda? Say when. Yes, that’s just what I mean. My dear old blood-hound, this has got to be stopped.”

  “It sounded a pretty good idea to me,” said Henry, “a good commercial proposition. Better than the life story of an Operations Room.”

  Vere looked acutely unhappy, and breathed deeply, alternately sucking and blowing at his mustache. At length he said, “Poor old Beau’s dead, isn’t he? Committed suicide like so many others. Why can’t Barbara leave it at that?”

  “Emmy thinks,” said Henry, “that your wife may feel she wants to create a sort of memorial to her first husband.”

  “Then she’d be better spending the money on a tombstone.”

  “But there’s no tomb, is there?” said Henry, “no grave, no corpse, no coffin. Just missing, presumed dead.”

  Vere looked suspiciously at Henry. “What do you know about it?”

  “Just what Emmy has told me.”

  “Look, my dear old investigator, it’s difficult to explain, but take my word for it, this must be stopped.” Vere laid a hand on Henry’s arm. “Your wife has some influence with Parker, I believe, and if Parker backed out, Barbara would drop the whole idea. Will you speak to Blandish about it?”

  As a matter of fact, Henry had been fully intending to use his influence to get the project set aside; but as he followed Vere down to the drawing room, he was aware of a tingling sensation—half-physical and half-mental—which characterized the faculty which he called his “nose.” Things he had heard, things he had been told were beginning to add up to something in Henry’s mind. Nothing definite. Just an impression of things not being what they seemed. Suddenly he felt a great reluctance to let the matter drop until he had probed it thoroughly. He did not speak to Emmy after all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE FOLLOWING DAY Lofty Parker started off by putting his foot into things, fair and square, with Vere. Hosts and house guests had all assembled in the morning room for a real English breakfast. Covered silver dishes stood on the hotplate, revealing in turn fried and scrambled eggs and bacon, mushrooms, kidney and sausages. Clusters of boiled eggs huddled under a huge tea cosy for warmth. The toast, butter and marmalade seemed purely incidental.

  At first, conversation was general. It was another glorious day and Vere proposed a walk in the park, pointing out that the sun would have dried out the wors
t of the mud, so the going should be tolerable. Henry and Emmy agreed to the proposal with enthusiasm.

  It was then that Lofty said, “My dear Vere, we aren’t here to frivol about the woodlands enjoying ourselves, you know. We’ve got work to do.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about that, old scout,” said Vere, a shade uneasily. “You worked yesterday, after all.”

  “We roughed out a sort of ground plan yesterday. Today we start on the detail work.”

  “What do you mean by detail work?”

  “I mean you, Vere,” said Lofty.

  Vere stopped dead in mid-mouthful. Then he spluttered as he swallowed a piece of bacon the wrong way and began to choke. Lofty, who was sitting next to him, began to slap his back in a bored manner, and Barbara giggled. When Vere recovered his breath, he glared around the table and said, “I’ve made no secret from the beginning that I disapprove of the whole enterprise.”

  “You didn’t raise any objections at the reunion,” Lofty pointed out.

  Vere ignored this. “I shall certainly take no part in it.”

  “But, dear old soul,” said Lofty, “you and Beau were practically inseparable at Dymfield.”

  “Rubbish.”

  “What’s more,” said Lofty, “you must have been one of the last people to see Beau alive.”

  “That’s quite untrue.” Vere sounded really upset. “I didn’t see him at all the evening he—he died. You know that as well as I do. I waited in the Mess until five. I then went off to my billet and got into my flying outfit. When I came out to the hangar, Beau had already taken the kite up without my permission.”

  Lofty shook his head sadly. “It won’t do, old man. You’ll have to come clean. Everybody knows that you’d agreed to keep out of the way so that Beau could go up. After all, what does it matter if you tell the truth now? They can’t court-martial you.”