The Forgotten War

by David Fiddimore

  ‘Purely personal, old son. I wondered when you were coming up to town – we could have a couple of drinks or something.’

  ‘Your or somethings land people in police cells.’

  ‘Nothing like that, old son,’ he said hastily. ‘Anyway, you’re not the type.’

  ‘I might as well be; the luck I’m having with the girls up here.’

  ‘That was part of the reason I phoned. The girls were asking after you as well, and asked me to tell you that you could bunk with them if you wanted to stay for a couple of days: they’ll put you up on the sofa. Dolly goes all misty-eyed whenever your name is spoken. I think that they miss you. What about it, old man?’

  ‘I’ll ask Miller if I can get a forty-eight.’

  ‘Who’s Miller?’

  ‘She’s a WREN in mufti. She’s a junior ranker who works for me, but I still seem to need to get her permission for anything I do. It’s all arse about face out here, but I expect that you already knew that.’

  ‘OK. Toddle off and get your forty-eight; then phone me back. Bring some of your clothing coupons, and some money, up with you. We’ll pick you out some decent gear.’

  ‘I already have some.’

  ‘No. What you have is some dreary Old Farmer Giles outfit. I asked someone. It’s time we had you looking like the man about town; maybe your strike rate with the fillies will even improve.’

  ‘Strike rate?’

  ‘American term. Originally from baseball, but now they apply it to killing things, apparently.’

  ‘I don’t want to kill things.’

  ‘Then leave your bloody snake behind when you come, there’s a good fellow.’

  How come he knew so much about me?

  ‘What number can I call you back on?’

  ‘Just pick up your telephone,’ he said confidently, ‘and it will be mine at the other end.’

  It was, as well. I still don’t know how he did that.

  Miller granted me a forty-eight for the weekend, and said that it would do me good. Miller could be a patronizing little git. She asked me where I would be staying, and noted that down on a card which she filed in a box on her desk.

  It was my turn to pivot at the door. ‘We’re on next week. You might want to warn someone that they’re in for a late night.’

  I only did it to wind her up. If I was so picky about security I should have kept my mouth shut. Hers went into that screwed-up little shape that you can find on the seashore – it’s called a Mermaid’s Purse.

  ‘You can’t know that already. It’s not the way things are done.’

  I used a word she was fond of, and enjoyed using it.

  ‘They are now – apparently.’ Mrs Miller was not amused, and the set of her jaw said it. I felt that I had won that round on points, and rather enjoyed it. I rather thought I’d try it again. ‘I’m going to take over from Elizabeth for half an hour. Just to keep my hand in.’ I got the Mermaid’s Purse again, and a quick response.

  ‘You don’t have to do that, Charlie.’ Charlie, even although the door was still open and Jane was probably earwigging somewhere: Miller must have been ruffled. I gave her a cheeky grin.

  ‘I know, luv. But I want to.’

  I thought that I’d won the set, but I wouldn’t have put money on myself for the match.

  Elizabeth didn’t trust me to function on my own. She sat in the corner, sipping her tea, crossing and recrossing her legs to distract me. It did. Eventually I turned my back on her, and once I did she chuckled. So did I. She went out and came back with a cup of char for me. The signal was intermittent, repeated say every ten minutes or so, and drifted. I compensated for the drift by flying with my left hand on the tuner all the time, and searching in towards the signal every time it faded. It was something that the old guys had taught me, and I’d used it over Germany in 1944. Elizabeth watched me closely. Then she nodded: she liked it. The string of letters and numbers was meaningless to me, but of course it was meant to be. I listened to four sequences before I handed back to her.

  ‘Liz. What are we listening for?’

  She leafed through the flimsies that I had copied my record onto. ‘You did four signals, and they were all identical?’

  ‘As far as I can make out.’

  ‘What we’re listening for is a single difference – one letter or one number.’

  ‘What does that tell us?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody’s told us. Mrs Miller thinks that the single aberration is a trigger message of some kind. An initiator. Something that signals the start of a sequence of operational orders that have already been put in place. She thinks that maybe the intelligence people in London try to match the odd signal with something that other sources have told them about – military manoeuvres in the Soviet Bloc, for instance.’

  ‘So that’s not a Jedburgh?’

  ‘No: nothing like. Shall I tip you the wink the next time I’m monitoring one?’

  9. Savoy Blues

  Piers was unimpressed by my clothing.

  ‘Told you. Bloody Farmer Giles from Much Wankum or somewhere mudfully rural. You look bloody horrible.’

  He and Dolly were squeezed into one of the small berths in the Printer’s Devil. Dolly was wearing a pretty summer dress, and looked ravishing – or ravishable. Take your choice: the men with hopeful faces grouped around her end of the bar can’t have been there by coincidence. I could make out a light dusting of powder on her shoulders. I wondered if she was dressed for one of Stephen’s dates later in the evening. It was just after 1830. I had signed away from Benhall at lunchtime; nobody seemed to care. Would anyone notice if I failed to return? Failure to return was in danger of becoming another of my specialities.

  I had dressed in a pair of twills and the tweed jacket over an open-necked checked shirt. I had thought that I looked quite the thing until I met them. Piers wore a lightweight pale blue suit and soft shoes. In his left lapel I noticed an enamelled badge in the shape of a tiny blue flower: a forget-me-not. An improbably slim belly dancer had been printed on his silk tie. As he moved the silk shimmered, and the girl danced. I asked him, ‘What did you pay for what you’re wearing?’

  ‘About a hundred pounds – why?’

  ‘You could have bought a house for that before the war.’

  ‘It’s not before the war now, Charlie, it’s before the next war. Far East somewhere, if you wanted me to guess.’ Piers sounded exasperated. ‘Don’t worry: I promise that we’re all going to die far better dressed the third time around.’

  I grinned on cue. I’d missed Dolly and Den. I’d even missed Piers. It wasn’t as if there had been a clean cut-off between wartime and peacetime for me: I don’t know why. It was as if peacetime was coming back bit by bit, and from time to time I noticed that. Somewhere deep in the back of my mind a grinning dwarf was once again reminding me This is peacetime and It’s good, isn’t it?

  ‘So, good drive, old son?’ Piers asked me.

  ‘Terrific. I’ll enter for Le Mans next year at this rate. I’ll need some more petrol to get me back.’

  ‘Dolly’ll fix that up, won’t you, Doll?’

  Dolly looked down at the table and nodded. Her lips twitched. Then she looked up, and speared me with her eyes and her smile. Wallop. I knew immediately that she had dressed for me; there would be no other date this evening. I decided to try something. I leaned across the table, and lightly and briefly touched her hand. The important thing was that it was deliberate and in plain sight. ‘You look wonderful; it’s impossible to look at you and not want to go to bed.’

  ‘Before supper?’ Piers asked. ‘Curb thyself. Get thee behind me, Satan.’

  ‘Isn’t that exactly how you get into trouble, Piers?’

  ‘I’ll pass over that catty piece of wit. We’ll eat together at a little place in Wardour Street; it’s convenient for a club that I’ll go on to. Then you two can go off and do . . . well, whatever folk like you do.’

  ‘Thank you, Piers,’ I told him. ‘It’s very
good to see you again. I never imagined that I would ever think so.’

  ‘I hope that you like Chinese food.’

  ‘Don’t they eat dogs?’

  ‘Only boxers. Revenge for the Rebellion, I expect.’

  I didn’t know what he was talking about then, and if you don’t then you can always look it up.

  Dolly said, ‘It’s lovely to see you too, Charlie – and to hear you sparring with Piers. But finish your drink and let’s get moving. I’m starving.’

  It was the first Chinese food I had ever tasted. Piers ate quickly and expertly with chopsticks. Dolly copied him, but clumsily, and dribbled food on the tablecloth now and again. I stuck to a fork and spoon. I ate pork pieces fried in batter and smothered with a sweet sauce that had a swift sour aftertaste. Something I said made Dolly start to giggle, and then to choke on her wine. It was that sort of an affair.

  Afterwards the three of us walked in Soho Square I agreed to see Piers for some serious tailoring the next day. He seemed to think that my wardrobe needed managing. For some reason I was uneasy at the prospect. Maybe I was frightened I’d arrive back in Cheltenham kitted out like a Monty.

  I was amazed at the variety of birdsong you could already hear in the centre of the capital. Dolly told me they were all coming back. ‘During the Big Blitz virtually all of the birds, except the sparrows, starlings and pigeons just upped and left. We should have awarded medals to those who stuck it out with us.’

  ‘A robin,’ Piers said. ‘On the twelfth of January 1944 I opened my bedroom curtain and knew that we’d won the war. I saw a robin perched on a spade in the garden: I hadn’t seen one for three years, you see. Sentimental load of old twats, aren’t we?’

  ‘Where did you get that forget-me-not badge?’ I asked him, ‘Does it mean anything?’

  ‘It’s used by the club I’m going to, and yes, it does mean something to me, but I’m not going to tell you, OK?’

  We left him there in Soho Square. I wanted to get a cab, but Dolly was in a strange mood, and wanted to ride on the top deck of a bus. She loosely held on to my hand for the whole journey, even when we walked the last hundred yards or so. The flat was empty, but even if it hadn’t been I don’t think that would have changed what happened next. We made love immediately.

  I met Piers at the Savoy for breakfast. Stodgy porridge, then kedgeree followed by devilled kidneys. His treat, he said. The government must have been paying him too much. I left feeling half a stone heavier. I had expected him to try to palm me off with some smarmy Saville Row tailor, but that wasn’t what he had in mind. We ended up visiting three small shops in the East End, and I chose a lightweight grey suit to take away, and a grey pinstripe that I was measured for. The prices were keen, and despite what Piers had said no one asked for coupons. They treated Piers as if he was an old friend.

  We returned to Jermyn Street for shirts. They were all the same colour, an island blue, and too expensive by half, but I was too embarrassed by Piers’s apparent expertise to resist. I insisted on choosing two ties for myself, both knitted – one in dark blue, and the other green. I looked at a silk kipper with the print of a bathing beauty, but decided that I hadn’t got what it took to carry it off.

  Back to the Savoy for lunch, where I was relieved of my parcels and bags by the cloakroom attendant. Grilled lamb chops, and grilled tomatoes. A bottle of claret appeared from somewhere. Piers addressed the waiters by their Christian names. He called one Hans.

  ‘Jerry submariner,’ he explained when I asked him. ‘Bloody good waiter. Your Jerry is an excellent bod once you’ve taught him his place.’

  The odd thing was that I felt uncomfortable both with having a Kraut as a waiter and with Piers being so patronizing about the bastard. It was like old friends getting off on the wrong foot. The last thing he said before we parted was, ‘Fancy a walk on the Heath tomorrow morning before you go back, old man? Get some fresh air.’

  Maybe it was the claret that made me say yes.

  You must never take them for granted, must you? Women, I mean. When I got back to the flat Dolly was dressing up to the nines for an evening out, but not with me. I probably treated her to the upside-down smile. She said, ‘Sorry, Charlie. I should have told you.’

  I shrugged. ‘No matter. I can find something to do – take in a flick, maybe. I knew a girl like you once. She had a lot of casual friends, too. I learned not to be jealous.’

  ‘Good. I don’t like jealous men: they panic me.’

  ‘I won’t ever panic you, Doll.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘How?’

  She whispered, ‘When you leave for good, you fool,’ and dashed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her so hard that the bottles inside rattled on their shelves. Now what had I done?

  When she came out her warpaint was on, and a brittle smile fixed in place. I might not have been jealous, but I could still envy the guy she was going out to see. He collected her at seven: a bespectacled middle-aged American in an army uniform. His ensemble looked tailored to me, even his topcoat. We shook hands. I said, ‘Charlie. RAF.’

  He had an engaging smile ‘Adlai. Prosecutor’s staff. War-crimes stuff.’

  By then Dolly was ready. She had several dead foxes draped over her shoulders, gave me a peck on the cheek, and said, ‘Don’t wait up.’

  I waited for Adlai to give me a peck on the cheek as well. He didn’t: you never can tell with Americans. I turned on their radio. Bing and Rosemary were singing ‘Don’t Fence Me In’. That was OK by me.

  Women. I’ve already said that you shouldn’t take them for granted. But there again, anyone can make a mistake. When I was in my twenties the women I chased were like London buses: you waited half your life for them, and then half a dozen came along at once. I have a theory about that, but I’m not going to tell you. I didn’t go to the cinema. I walked round to the pub we’d been at before, had a quiet couple of pints, and played two games of dominoes with the local parson. I didn’t win either of them because God was on his side.

  I had only been back a few minutes before Denys walked in and threw herself onto the leather sofa. She was dressed for going out, but hadn’t overdone it.

  ‘Strewth. They’ve reinvented afternoon tea-dances at the Guards, Charlie! My feet ache so much they’re glowing. If you turned the light out we could read by the light of them.’

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  ‘Not really, but if you make me a cuppa I’ll have your babies!’

  ‘Coming up,’ I told her. I think I was referring to the tea.

  I found a big old yellow tin of Coleman’s mustard powder in the kitchen cabinet: it must have been pre-war. I stirred some into a basin of hot water while I was waiting for the tea to draw, and took it through to her. She asked me, ‘What on earth’s that for?’

  ‘My mum’s recipe for curing aching feet. Stop moaning, take your stockings off, and try it.’

  I was back in the kitchen area when I heard her moan of pleasure.

  When I returned she was leaning back with her feet in the basin and her eyes closed. I drank the tea myself because she went to sleep. I woke her when the water had cooled half an hour later: not because I was a spoilsport, but because I was afraid that her feet would be dyed a wrinkled yellow. She yawned. ‘That was divine, Charlie. You’re quite a find.’

  ‘Even if I’m not too handy in bed?’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘You did. You told Piers. He told me.’

  ‘I never said that! Isn’t that funny? He must be jealous. Yer average in bed, if you must know. Most men are, just like most girls are; only men aren’t happy with being average, are they?’

  It was my turn to smile. ‘No; I don’t suppose we are.’

  Den yawned again. And then again. She said, ‘Thanks for the foot thing. Look – they’ve gone all white and wrinkly. I guess I’ll drop into a bath for a while.’

  I clicked the radio on. I had the choice between a brains trust on the red
evelopment of the German industries, or Billy Cotton. Guess who won? It was just my bad luck that the first full number I heard was ‘Somebody Stole My Gal’.

  We went to bed for the form of it. As it happened, Den didn’t want to, and neither did I, and I didn’t mind. What goes around comes around. And around. We were slow to go to sleep, and lay there naked, whispering like children in the dark. I can remember sharing a cigarette with her in the small hours, lying on our backs and listening to Anne Shelton sing ‘While the Music Plays on’ from the small bakelite bedside radio. Before we slept she asked me, ‘Do you think that we’ll ever get used to the lights being on outside?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I want to.’

  Den hugged me. ‘I’m glad that someone else feels that way too.’

  I packed my small bag and was away before Dolly returned. I had agreed to meet Piers at Kenwood House, an old mansion on the edge of Hampstead Heath. At the garage on Highgate Hill I presented a WD chit that Dolly had given me the day before, and had the Singer filled up with petrol, topped off with a couple of shots of Redex. There was a public car park that was still chained off, because the house and grounds hadn’t come back into use since the war. But Piers was there and he unfastened the chain and then locked it again behind me. He rode the running board down a twisted and slightly overgrown avenue of rhododendrons. I thought that they would have been a fine sight a month ago. We came upon the house suddenly, and I parked alongside a cream and red SS Jaguar coupe with cycle-type mudguards over the front wheels. Its headlights were as big as dinner plates, and were covered by mesh guards.

  ‘Is that yours?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes. Like it?’

  ‘Part of me thinks that it’s too flash. What can it do?’

  ‘Good. It’s meant to be a bit flash. I can get the ton and more out of her when I want to. Les Vieux gave it to me for my twenty-first.’

  We walked through a tunnel in the rhodies at the side of the enormous house and came out into the sunlight on a gravelled path. The back of the house was all windows and looked out on lawns descending to a large ornamental lake. The lake was locked in with weed, and the water looked dank. A swan’s corpse floated in it.