The Road Between Us

by Nigel Farndale

  Sir Kenneth scratches an itch on the back of his hand as he ponders this. ‘Actually, Winnie has asked if we can paint some of the pilots at the RAF bases. Middle Wallop. Biggin Hill. Tangmere. Might you be interested in that?’

  Charles wonders whether he will be recognized on those bases. The young men he had gone through training with will be considered veterans by now, those who are still alive. Perhaps they will recognize him, perhaps they won’t. And perhaps it won’t matter either way because once he has got himself established on a base and chosen his moment he is going to ‘borrow’ a plane to get over to France – something small, something they won’t miss, like one of the Tiger Moths he did his training in. ‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘What did you have in mind?’

  ‘We’re not after caricatures. Studies, really. Pretty much what you did at Dunkirk.’ Clark impersonates Churchill’s voice. ‘ “Something inspiwational.” You might also pop into Fighter Command up at Stanmore. Give people a sense of what they do. I’ll draw up some bona fides for you to show at the checkpoint. Officially, at least, the purpose of the committee is propaganda. I can’t pretend otherwise. Exhibitions will be organized here to raise morale. We also want to hold some in America. Get them involved.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  Clark taps the opened copy of the Picture Post. ‘Do you want to know why I really started all this? Far too many of our best artists were killed in the last war. I’m hoping with this scheme that we can avoid the same thing happening with your generation.’

  ‘Well, I’ve always thought being killed was overrated.’

  Sir Kenneth guffaws and pats him on the back. ‘Excellent! Excellent! I can’t guarantee that you won’t find yourself in harm’s way. The whole idea is that you will be in the thick of it.’

  ‘I studied the war paintings of Nash and Spencer at the Slade.’

  ‘Yes, I see something of their style in your work, a certain gritty integrity. Did you work from photographs at Dunkirk?’

  ‘Sketches. Then I worked them up in watercolours. Then completed them in oil.’

  ‘We’ve already signed up Spencer, you’ll be pleased to hear. Henry Moore, John Piper, Graham Sutherland, too. You will be in distinguished company.’ He touches Charles’s forearm. ‘You have a talent you must use. Do a good job and you will be doing more for the war effort with your paintbrushes than you ever could with your rifle. Now, Maggie will make all the arrangements.’

  ‘Maggie?’

  ‘The girl on reception. She’ll sort you out with a uniform. You’re a captain now. That’s the honorary rank that goes with being an official war artist.’ He salutes.

  Charles grins and, with a click of his heels, salutes back.

  III

  WITH HIS FLY-SPATTERED GOGGLES ATTACHED TO A BROWN-leather motorcycle helmet, Charles looks more like the RAF pilot he used to be than the honorary army captain he is now, or at least he assumes he does, based on the reaction he is getting from pedestrians as he rides through the tree-lined suburb of Stanmore, north-west London, on his sidecar motorcycle. He acknowledges their waves with a half-salute of his leather gauntlet but, as he nears the entrance to RAF Bentley Priory, he realizes they are pointing, not waving. He follows their gaze and sees a ceiling of grey aluminium. Are the planes German? Their high altitude would suggest they are on their way north. Certainly the bystanders don’t seem unduly concerned.

  And he isn’t too concerned either. Not since his court martial has he felt so positive about his future. The more he has thought about being a war artist, the more the idea has appealed to him. Not only does it represent an opportunity to redeem himself and get involved in the war properly, it might also offer him a chance to find Anselm.

  The entrance to Fighter Command, when he reaches it five minutes later, is camouflaged under green netting. It hasn’t changed much since he came here back in 1938, during his training. The only signs that this might now be the place from which the RAF runs its entire south coast operation are straggling coils of razor wire around the perimeter, the barrel of an ack-ack gun poking out from a semicircular pile of sandbags and an Alsatian dog tethered to a long chain outside the guardhouse.

  The sleeveless leather jerkin Charles is wearing adds to the illusion that he is an RAF pilot who belongs here and, were it not for the wooden contraption sticking out of his sidecar, he wonders whether the sentry on duty might have raised the barrier and let him through unchallenged. As it is, Charles follows an emphatic signal to close down his throttle and switch off his engine. Once he has removed his gauntlets and reached into his pocket for his ID papers, he brushes dust from his jacket. His fingertips feel tender and tingling from the vibration of the motorbike, a not unpleasant sensation.

  The guard studies his papers then looks at the sidecar. ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘An easel,’ Charles replies. ‘I’ve come to paint the Ops Room.’

  ‘You’re a decorator?’

  ‘No, I am an official war artist.’ Charles enjoys the novelty of saying this. ‘I’ve come to do some preliminary studies. This is my easel.’ He points to the sidecar. ‘My paints and brushes are in that bag.’

  The look of confusion on the guard’s face does not change as he opens the bag and peers inside.

  For a moment the guard looks as if he is about to repeat his question then he shakes his head, disappears into the guardroom and reappears half a minute later with a clipboard. ‘Thank you, sir. I have you down on my list. The Operations Room is under that building on the end, beneath the barrage balloon. I think you’ll find they are busy down there at the moment. We had the siren go off twenty minutes ago.’

  Charles parks and checks his reflection in the motorbike’s mirror. When he raises his goggles up on to his leather helmet he can see the skin around his eyes is pink, in contrast to the tan of dust on the rest of his face. His brow and nose are beaded with sweat and, as he wipes them, he smears himself with oil.

  Once inside, he is directed towards a metal staircase that winds several flights down to about the depth of an Underground station. When he reaches the bottom he follows big yellow arrows along dimly lit passages lined with metal pipes. They smell of oil and fresh paint. The walls have large numbers written on them in red, counting down from eighteen to one. Upon reaching ‘1’ he finds himself in front of a heavy iron door marked ‘Control Room’.

  He knocks and enters. A guard puts a tick on a clipboard and nods towards some metal stairs. Charles has to go up this time, one flight. At the top he finds himself on a vast, circular gallery above Fighter Command’s Operations Room. From here he watches in silence for a few minutes before taking out a sketchpad. In the gloom below he can see the white faces of the WAAF as they chart a raid on an enormous map of southern England, plying their long-handled magnetic plotting rods as deftly as croupiers. On the wall behind them are identification charts showing dozens of silhouettes of Heinkels, Messerschmitts, Junkers, Stukas and Dorniers. Alongside these are blackboards with names of airfields and numbers chalked on them and, along the base of this wall, a display panel which has glowing red bulbs showing the squadrons that are currently engaged or out of action. They all appear to be lit. Another electric panel is flashing the words ‘Enemy Sighted’.

  Charles hears the approach of shoes on the metal gantry and feels a vibration underneath his own feet. Then he hears a voice he thinks he recognizes. It is more like a bark. ‘I don’t care how you do it, just bloody well do it.’ It belongs to an officer and, when Charles registers the gold braid on his cap as he appears around a corner, he realizes he is a senior one, a group captain. His face is flushed. By his side is a junior officer who wears a wounded expression.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ The group captain is now standing in front of Charles. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  Charles feels the heat drain from his cheeks as he realizes that the group captain was one of three judges presiding at his court martial two years ago. ‘I’m an official war arti
st,’ he says, ‘come to paint the Ops Room.’

  The group captain slaps the metal handrail. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘I’ve got clearance from Sir Kenneth Clark at the National Gallery.’

  ‘You could have clearance from God for all I care; I’m not having you standing around my bloody Ops Room gawping at my bloody staff. I know the sort of picture you would paint. Fuck off.’

  The junior officer hangs back while the senior marches on. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘He hasn’t slept for three days. Try Biggin Hill. It’s more scenic anyway.’

  As Charles rides away he stills the shaking in his arms by gripping the handlebars tightly. The group captain’s hatred of him had been shocking, and he tries to justify it to himself as a consequence of the strain of being braced for invasion for a year – everyone he meets these days seems to be jumpy.

  At the entrance to Biggin Hill he is confronted by rows of white bell tents. The hangars are better camouflaged, covered in netting and branches that blend with the thick hedgerows. Beyond them is the shimmering gold of a wheat field. Charles pulls on the elasticized armband he has been given. On it are written the words ‘Official War Artist’. He had forgotten to wear it earlier at Stanmore, and now regrets his negligence.

  Hearing the tap of metal on metal he turns and sees a Spitfire close up for the first time since his abrupt departure from the RAF. An eighteen-inch gash in its wing is being repaired with a slice of metal cut from what looks like a petrol can and tacked into place with rivets. Incongruously there is a grey Fordson tractor next to it.

  ‘Can you direct me to the mess?’

  The engineer pushes his cap back on his head. ‘See that windsock?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s near there. An ugly block. You can’t miss it.’

  The mess is a prefabricated hut with taped windows. There is a blackboard outside it with the previous week’s losses chalked on it as if they were cricket scores: ‘RAF v Luftwaffe, 61 for 26 – close of play, 12 for 0.’ From somewhere inside he can hear a fragment of a Flanagan and Allen song drifting out of a wireless: ‘We’re gonna hang out the washing on the …’

  A group of pilots, no more than a dozen, are lolling in deckchairs outside the mess hut, enjoying the sunshine. Some are smoking, some reading the papers, others playing backgammon. One, wearing a cricket jersey piped with what look like school colours, is sleeping, using a parachute for a pillow. Their faces are smeared with oil and smoke. Clearly they haven’t been back long and are now trying to recharge before the next telephone call from Wing Command. With their sunglasses, rollneck sweaters and ‘Mae West’ life vests slung casually over their jackets, they look, to Charles, different from mere mortals, even from their fellow servicemen. They are like young gods, golden and invincible. Most seem too young to have fought in the Battle of Britain the previous summer.

  While some haven’t even taken off their fleece-lined flying jackets, despite the heat, one, he notices, is wearing a powder-blue RAF uniform that has been customized with scarlet lining. He is also wearing a blue cravat rather than the standard black RAF tie and, on the ground next to his stockinged feet, there is a plate with a half-eaten jam sandwich on it. This is attracting wasps. He doesn’t appear to notice them as he concentrates on riffling a deck of cards. Apart from two smears of oil, his skin is like ivory, his wavy hair is the colour of vanilla ice cream and, caught in a rhombus of sunlight, it resembles a halo.

  The squeaking wheels of a tea trolley make the young man look up. His movements are slow and languid. With his long eyelashes and clear skin, he looks about eighteen. ‘Pick one,’ he says when he sees Charles staring at him. He has the long vowels and easy confidence of a public-school boy.

  Charles strides up to him and selects a card.

  ‘Don’t show it to me. Just remember it and put it back in the pack.’

  This done, the young pilot shuffles the pack several times then holds up a seven of diamonds. ‘This it?’

  It isn’t. ‘Very good,’ Charles says. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Ah,’ the young man says. ‘Trade secret … You look lost.’

  ‘Not any more,’ he says, turning sideways to reveal his armband. ‘Been asked to come and paint you chaps.’

  ‘Hear that?’ the pilot says, turning to the others. ‘We’re going to be models.’

  ‘Can I just set up and get started?’

  ‘Be my guest. Make sure you get my good side. My name is Hardy, by the way.’

  ‘As in “Kiss me, Hardy”?’

  ‘No. Hardy is my first name. Pilot Officer Hardy Richmond.’

  As Charles sets up his easel and takes out some watercolours, the young pilot puts on his flying boots, picks up some flight charts and, after a moment’s thought, stuffs them down the side of the boots. Bathed as it now is in a patina of gold, his hair reminds Charles of Anselm’s. He must say this out loud because Hardy says: ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Can I paint you in front of a plane?’

  ‘OK, but if we’re scrambled you’ll have to leg it. We’re having a bit of a busy day for some reason. Been up twice already.’

  As they walk towards the planes, Charles says: ‘How long have you been a pilot?’

  ‘A year. Joined up straight from school.’

  Hardy’s Spitfire is the third along a row covered in grass and matting camouflage. He taps the tip of its wing, a perfect ellipse. ‘Beautiful, isn’t she? The most romantic plane ever built. She reads your mind. You only have to think of a move and she responds.’ He runs his hand over the aircraft’s skin. ‘It’s like having wings yourself.’

  Charles stares at the machine and nods. He never got to fly one – the closest he came during his training was a Harvard – but he would have loved to have had the chance. Victory rolls. One of the Few. Perhaps … No, if he is going to borrow a plane it must be one that is not needed.

  There is a cartoon painted on the fuselage, Doc from Snow White. It triggers a memory of Anselm. He tries to remember why they had gone to see Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs together that day in Leicester Square. Afterwards, as they strode home singing ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’, Anselm had linked arms with him but, fearing this a risk too far, Charles had pulled his arm free. They had called each other Dopey and Grumpy after that.

  There are also three miniature swastikas on the fuselage, marking Hardy’s kills. On the tail fin is a parachute, ready to be grabbed. When the red, white, blue and yellow target marking on the side of the Spitfire reflects in the young man’s round sunglasses it gives Charles an idea. ‘Could you stand in front of the target,’ he says, ‘use it as a sort of frame?’

  He begins sketching, a series of circles and cubes. The yellow outer band of the target looks like another halo around the young man’s head. ‘I like the cravat,’ Charles says. ‘Is it silk?’

  ‘You have to wear them,’ Hardy says. ‘Because of the constant twisting left and right as you search for bandits. It chafes the neck … Some of the boys borrow their girlfriends’ stockings to keep them cosy at high altitudes.’

  Charles hesitates. ‘I bet those blue uniforms are an aphrodisiac.’

  ‘You bet right. But you can’t do so badly with the girls. Don’t they all want you to paint their portraits?’

  Charles laughs the question away, feeling strangely exhilarated by his own imposture, as if he is a spy operating behind enemy lines. Hardy has mistaken him for one of his own, a red-blooded ladies’ man. Wholesome. Normal. And he likes how it feels. How much easier his life would have been if he was one.

  The outline done, he begins experimenting with his watercolours, holding one brush between his teeth as he dips another in a jar of water. ‘Do you hate the Germans?’

  ‘The Luftwaffe pilots? No, not really. Sometimes. There’s a mutual respect, I suppose. I heard of one pilot in a duel with an ME 109 who ran out of ammunition at the same time as the Hun did. Our boy spread his hands philosophically. Jerry did the same and they
both banked away from each other, laughing.’

  ‘We have more in common with them than we do with the French, or even the Americans,’ Charles says, rolling the paintbrush to one corner of his mouth so that he can talk out of the other. ‘We’re Anglo-Saxons, after all. The Germanic tribes were here before the Normans. And we were on the same side in the Napoleonic wars … Well, I mean the Prussians were on our side, and we couldn’t have won at Waterloo without them.’ He holds up his brush in line with his thumb to judge the scale of his subject. ‘We enjoy the same things. Prefer beer to wine. Love the forests. Sausages. Brass bands. We have the same temperament. Phlegmatic. Even our royal family is German.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about them.’

  ‘I knew one once. Before the war. He was studying art in London.’

  Hardy flicks his hair like Anselm used to. ‘Can I have a look?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘They’re a funny lot, the Hun. When the rescue boats pick them out of the water they salute and stand to attention. And when they are taken prisoner, the first thing they ask for is boot polish … Do you have a girl?’

  Charles flattens the bow of his lips as he thinks. He then pictures Maggie at the National Gallery. Well, she had seemed friendly. He blinks his assent.

  ‘Does she have a friend?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Gone with the Wind is showing at the Plaza in Croydon. We could take them there. Do you fancy it?’

  Charles laughs, partly out of surprise, partly embarrassment. Hardy seems so guileless, so keen. ‘Why not? Is there a telephone I could use?’

  ‘We’re not supposed to use the one here. There’s one in the village. Leave a message for me at the mess if … What’s her name?’

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘If Maggie clears us for take-off.’

  When Charles arrives at the picture house at 6.30, still wearing his battledress, he buys four tickets. He is having to fight down his breathlessness, as if his deception might be exposed at any moment. Seeing an old and partly ripped Ministry of War Transport poster pasted to the cinema wall, he wanders over to it and starts reading. Its message, hastily written the previous summer, no longer seems relevant.