The Forgotten War

by David Fiddimore

  Herman sat on a high chair at the rear of the bridge and smoked a cigar. He still had rum in the glass that he had brought with him. ‘How old you think the Polly is, Charlie boy?’

  I had been keen on ships when I was at school, so I reckoned in her raked stern, her high bridge that stretched from beam to beam, straight narrow funnel and vertical bow, took a chance and said, ‘1920. Maybe 1921. Clyde-built.’

  ‘Very good. Very, very good. 1919, actually. She was a dirty ship until 1942, and then your government paid for the conversion to diesel engines. That was done in New York Yards.’

  ‘Were you with her then?’ Ships are like beautiful paintings: no one owns a ship – you’re just with them for a time. If you’re lucky, that is.

  ‘No, we came together a year ago. I saw her in Lowe’s Yard in Ipswich; laid up. Love at first sight, you say. Bought her with a loan against reparations the Nazis owe me. I already paid it off.’

  ‘What will she do?’

  ‘Fifteen knots, eighteen. A nice steady lady.’

  ‘Who was Polly?’

  ‘You ask too many questions, Charlie.’

  ‘You’ve already told me that. The rest of the world agrees with you.’

  ‘Polly was a widow I knew at the time.’

  ‘Nice steady lady?’ I asked with a grin.

  ‘You take your chances, Englishman.’

  ‘I know. I can’t seem to help it.’ I couldn’t see Grace’s face because she had her back turned to us, but I knew that she was grinning. ‘Would you mind if I had a poke round, while Grace works?’

  ‘’S long as you don’ poke round my Victoria it’s OK.’ And he laughed that huge laugh again. I had heard anti-aircraft guns which sounded like that in the war.

  ‘You need a guide?’

  ‘No. I can find my own way around.’

  The Polly B was a five-thousand-tonner, or thereabouts. She was sleek but deep, and not too broad-beamed amidships: a good deep-sea ship. I knew what the Dutchman meant: love at first sight – some girls are hard to resist, and Polly B fell into that category. Despite her age she was in prime condition: even her engine-room brasses gleamed. Her forward hatches were off. Maybe they were the pile of hatch boards on the quayside. The forward hold was clean enough to eat a meal in. They’d obviously started to load the cargo: piles of mattresses strapped together in bundles of ten – most of them second-hand – but none stowed properly yet, a couple of tractors, four demobbed jeeps, a couple of trailers and some agricultural equipment. By the time I wandered back half an hour later I fancied signing her articles myself.

  Romantic tosh, of course.

  Most of the crew were ashore, but I met a small round man who introduced himself as Galliano and bowed. He was the cook, and wouldn’t let me away from his spotless galley until I had sampled his coffee. It was terrific. This guy Herman had it made. He was still on the bridge when I returned. Grace had disappeared.

  ‘She’s a terrific ship, skipper, and your cookie makes terrific coffee.’

  He grinned. ‘I think so. She’s my third ship. I scrapped the last one, and the first was torpedoed under me in ’43.’

  ‘U-boat?’

  ‘Nah. By a British MTB. She was a German coaster. I had a spruce cargo from Norway, so she floated herself ashore even with her back broken. She was still there the last time I passed.’

  ‘I thought that Grace said you were Dutch?’

  ‘I am. What you worried about? I sail anyone’s ship for them.’

  Yeah, I thought. Why not? Then claim reparation. We would have called him a Flash Harry type a few years later. The new post-war world was full of them.

  Herman walked me to the rail. Grace was down on the quay talking animatedly with the dock worker we’d met before. She looked excited rather than argumentative. The skipper said, ‘She knows her business with charts, your friend.’

  ‘She’s always been good with maps,’ I told him. ‘She’s flown all over the world. Solo most of the time.’

  ‘Ah. That was it – I felt something wild about her. I only need three more charts for where we’re going; she wrote them down.’ He had a small piece of crumpled paper in his hand. ‘I’ll get the chandler to deliver them.’

  ‘I saw your cargo. Where will you take those old things?’

  After a pause he said, ‘Italy. There’s a lot of war damage in Italy. They’ll buy anything there.’

  No. He wasn’t telling the truth, but whatever that was it was his business, not mine.

  Smuggler, I reckoned. But he gave me a couple of tins of tobacco and a bottle of rum before I left, so who was I to knock it?

  I could have excused myself that evening, walked down the road and phoned Piers, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. I just didn’t. Grace disappeared after she dropped me off, and I spent the evening reading, and the night alone. The water had leaked out of the cracked vase and the flowers had died. Eyeless in Gaza was just a bloody miserable bunch of words. I threw it aside without finishing it, promised myself the original Milton, and started in on Mr Gatsby. He was like an old friend, and I liked him immediately.

  23. I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby

  I made myself useful by giving Matesy a hand in the garden: he was weeding, and we reran the earlier scene.

  ‘What are these, Matesy?’

  ‘Early cabbages.’

  ‘The knack is keeping the slugs off them now, and the butterflies later on,’ I told him.

  ‘How did you know that? Are you good at this lark?’

  ‘Fair. I have a pretty good teacher.’

  Matesy laughed at me. There was a heavy dew, and the ground steamed moodily in the sun.

  When I had half a bucket of slugs for the compost heap we washed our hands under an outside tap and stopped for a smoke. The principle of the smoke break is the British Army’s greatest contribution to the industrialized society. The tobacco that Herman had given me was that old Sweet Chestnut. I hadn’t been able to get it for a year. I savoured its marvellous nut-laden smoke, more convinced than ever that God is a pipe smoker. We were still sitting there when Grace sauntered out.

  I started with, ‘Hello. Where did you get to?’

  ‘Had to see a man about a dog.’

  ‘The man was a giant redhead, I take it, and his throbbing dog was probably as big as my arm?’

  ‘You’re just plain jealous. Anyway, it didn’t work out. Victoria chased me off the ship with one of the cook’s knives. The cook stood there laughing.’

  ‘His name is Galliano,’ I told her. ‘You can’t win them all, Grace.’

  ‘I can have a bloody good try. I told Herman that she’d better be off the ship before I—’ She stopped in mid-sentence: most un-Grace-like.

  ‘Before you what, Grace?’

  ‘Oh . . . before I see him again, I suppose,’ she told me evasively.

  I suppose, my arse! Grace didn’t tell that many lies, but when she did you saw them coming on like a 157 bus. But it was always as well not to challenge her, because she would only get stroppy and make your life a misery.

  ‘So what about you? How long are you going to stay for this time?’ she asked, her voice laden with sarcasm for some reason. She had this terrific ability to completely sod something up and then blame you for it. I’ve met other women who can do that.

  ‘Maybe later today or tomorrow. I’m waiting for news of an old friend.’ I gave her the look, and for once it was Grace who dropped her gaze first. That was interesting.

  Grace flapped around me a bit, but there’s no one more irritating than someone who’s not that hard to get playing at it – if you see what I mean? So I got my things together and pushed off. Before I left I found Matesy in the kitchen and gave him a quid for the kid: two ten-bob notes.

  ‘I meant to get him something, but I don’t have time,’ I explained.

  ‘That could be more than he’s ever had in his hand before – they were never well off.’

  ‘You’ll help him wi
th it then?’

  ‘ ’Course I will. Thanks.’

  ‘You don’t have to say it’s from me.’

  ‘Yes, I do. He needs to know who his friends are. That’s more important than the money when it comes down to it.’

  He was already sounding like a father. Or rather, how I supposed a father should sound.

  I had decided not to phone Piers from the usual box, and that was a good call because not long after I had turned away from it I met Harry walking in the opposite direction. He still looked glad to see me, so I guess that Grace hadn’t grassed me up yet.

  ‘Off again?’ he asked. ‘You cover more miles than a lace-underwear salesman. Where you going?’ He produced a tuppenny bag of aniseed balls, offered me one, and tossed one up in the air to catch in his mouth. It hit his teeth as he lunged for it.

  ‘Just up-country. Perry Bar, near Birmingham. Someone told me about a big house-clearance; you never know what’s on offer.’ My gran had been in service there before the First World War: it had been the first place that popped into my head. Harry didn’t believe me – which was all right because I wasn’t telling the truth, was I?

  ‘Back next week? We could have that party then.’

  ‘Yeah. Why not? If I’ve made a decent profit I’ll have something to celebrate.’

  ‘OK – and us: you know about Matesy and Susannah, don’t you?’

  ‘Susannah?’

  ‘Gary’s mum.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I was pleased. They all look happy.’

  ‘They are: one of my success stories. We should celebrate for them, too.’

  Later I realized that there had been one of His little clues in there for me, but as usual I bloody missed it: the name’s everything. I walked away from Harry, feeling like a louse. Well, that’s what traitors are supposed to feel like, aren’t they?

  I walked to Kentish Town for the exercise, and phoned Piers from the public call box in the Tube station. The girl who answered the phone had never heard of him, of course.

  ‘I don’t care!’ I told her. ‘Just tell him Charlie’s gone back to the flat and will wait there until he hears from him.’ Then I put the receiver down on her.

  Both the girls were out, but the flat had signs that they were not that far away. There were dirty dishes in the sink, and clothes were spread around the main room in gay abandon, although maybe we’re not allowed to use the word that way any more. I enjoyed tidying them up, and identifying which belonged to whom, until I reached a man’s Aertex double act which I dropped in the waste bin under the kitchen sink. That was mean-minded, so I fished the items out again and tossed them into the bathroom laundry basket. That reminded me to bathe. I lay in a bath for an hour until the water cooled around me. The soap made it smell like the Windmill Girls were in there with me.

  Even Piers noticed when he sloped in. ‘Get yourself a decent cologne, old man. You smell very cheap. Mister Crabtree’s Sandalwood is probably about your mark; they’ve just started making it again.’

  ‘Have you noticed how often everyone uses the word “probably” these days?’

  ‘It’s probably because no one is sure of anything any more. How did you get on?’ Before I could answer he added, ‘Thanks for the Williamson thing, by the way. Very neat. Startling, but very professional. I’m no longer sure that I should let you go.’

  ‘What Williamson thing?’

  ‘Don’t be so coy, old boy: he phoned me this morning. You must have set it up.’

  ‘So he’s OK?’

  ‘Of course he is. If being in Geneva is all right: it’s where he called from.’

  ‘What’s he doing over there?’

  ‘Fund-raising, he says. Then he resigned from the Empire, and sent us his best wishes.’

  ‘Fund-raising for whom?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, but it’s got to be for your little band of malcontents, hasn’t it? I always wondered where their dough came from.’ The word ‘dough’ didn’t come easily to Piers. He must have been rattled.

  ‘Are you sure that it was him?’

  ‘Definitely. He called me all sorts of authentic names. I remember them well.’

  ‘And are you sure that he was in Geneva?’

  ‘Absolutely. The cunning old dear called from a public phone in the main railway station, then held the telephone away from him so that I could hear the station announcements. Swiss German and French are exceptionally ugly languages; the first time I heard spoken Swiss I was reminded of drunks vomiting in a lavatory.’

  ‘So that’s cleared that up. I wonder why he ran.’

  ‘They turned him, of course. Your old Commie can be a real clever clogs when he puts some effort into it: make sure that he doesn’t turn you too.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ I said, and sniffed.

  ‘Mmm . . .’ Piers made that steeple of his fingers and watched me over them. He obviously wasn’t as sure as I was, and I felt curiously vulnerable. ‘How did you manage to get him to call in, old man?’

  How could I say ‘Search me’? The bugger probably would have done.

  ‘I dropped a couple of hints to Grace,’ I said. ‘That was all. I didn’t expect a result that quickly.’

  ‘Bully for you, old man. Bra-vo.’ Others have said ‘Bravo’ to me in the past. It had always meant quite the other thing. Piers said it quietly, and for that reason it sounded very threatening. ‘Has your woman agreed to take that job with Bennet, by the way? He won’t keep it open for ever; loads of bods want to fly with him. God knows why – the man’s distinctly dangerous.’

  ‘I’ll get an answer from Grace within the week,’ I assured him.

  ‘That might be a bit tight, old man.’

  ‘That’s up to you, Piers. Do you want her out of it before you strike, or not?’

  He held both hands up in mock surrender. ‘Whatever you say, old cock; only don’t take too long. My masters won’t withhold the whip for ever: one way or the other she’ll have to take the fence.’

  ‘Do them good to wait for once.’

  ‘Dare say you’re right, old man.’

  ‘I’d better be,’ I told him. ‘Otherwise I’ll get my arse kicked again, won’t I?’

  Piers didn’t deny it. He’d brought a suitcase with him: one of those nice battered leather ones covered in travel labels. It might have been a dozen times around the world.

  I asked him, ‘Where are you off to now?’

  ‘Back to the office, I suppose. The case is for you. I had one of the drones pick up all the clothes you ordered last month. I knew you’d forget.’

  ‘Thank you, Piers. What do I owe you?’

  ‘Not much – and forget it, anyway. I’ll set it against your first expenses claim.’

  ‘I didn’t know that I had any.’

  ‘Oodles, old son . . . oodles. Dolly will run one up for you; just sign it in the places she shows you, and don’t question any of the detail.’

  ‘That sounds a bit crooked, Piers . . .’

  ‘What was it you were telling me a little while ago? “We are the Nazis now” . . . I expect you’re right, old boy: they were pretty crooked too, weren’t they?’

  ‘I’ll get the suitcase back to you.’

  ‘Don’t bother, old chum. We found it on a bomb-site with a dead baby in it. Washed it – the case, that is – of course, but you can keep it if you like.’

  I’ll tell you something that made me feel stupid. I went to the station by way of a small shop in the West End and bought a bottle of their sandalwood cologne. It cost nearly a week’s pay – but it was only money.

  I slept on the train, was in Cheltenham by mid-afternoon and took a taxi to the funny farm. At least the sun had stopped shining. The driver refused payment once he knew our destination; he presented me with a small book of receipts to sign. I could get used to working for Piers if I didn’t have to pay for anything for the rest of my life.

  Ming met me at the guardroom. ‘I thought that you were on leave for a week, sir. Didn’t we
tell you not to come on duty when you’re not expected?’

  ‘Ming, I come and go as I please. It’s one of the rules.’

  ‘What rules would they be, sir?’

  ‘My rules. Either the RAF obeys them, or finds someone else to sit in their aeroplanes.’

  ‘I don’t think that you’d risk that, sir.’

  ‘And I don’t think that you’d risk me trying it on.’

  ‘I’ll sign you in. Nice to see you again, Mr Charlie.’

  ‘And you, Ming. What time are you off today?’

  ‘1815, sir.’

  ‘I’d appreciate a lift home, if it doesn’t take you out of your way.’

  His big face creased up like a great smiling sun. ‘My pleasure, sir. I’ll be able to claim the petrol.’ Were all these buggers at it?

  Miller was sitting at my desk. She scowled when I came in. ‘I thought that you were off for a week.’

  I threw my hands up in the air in disgust. ‘Why isn’t anyone pleased to see me?’

  ‘At least the Commander will be . . .’

  ‘I’m pleased about that.’

  ‘Because now that you’re back you’ll be flying on Friday,’ she added, frowning. She pushed the brown envelope across the desk to me. ‘He thought that he would have to do it himself, and he gets airsick these days.’

  Sometimes I remember the things I’m supposed to: I had made more than one purchase at the pong shop. I pushed the small wrapped box, containing a stone jar of perfumed cream, across the desk to her. I kept my hand on it. I said, ‘I bought this in Town. I hope that it doesn’t embarrass or compromise you. I hope that you like it. The salesgirl said that it would last for a year if you were careful.’

  One of her pauses, and then Miller put her hand over mine. ‘Thank you, Charlie.’ The good old Prince of Denmark again: A hit, a very palpable hit.

  I didn’t push it with her. I left her at my desk, and wandered off to see Old Farmer Watson. She’d been right. He was pleased to see me.