‘I missed that … what?’
So that George was able to lip read Harry turned from looking at a woman who’d caught his eye. ‘One day,’ he repeated.
‘Don’t shout.’
‘Are you peckish? I am … missed breakfast. Hotel across the road. Give me your bag. How’s the leg?’
‘Better without the iron. I can do a hundred in twenty-five.’
Harry ordered two cheese sandwiches, a lemonade and a half of bitter. He tried but failed not to ogle the barmaid’s cleavage. The way she stroked the Cock O’ the North pump made him ache.
‘Me hand’s still shaking,’ she said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Yuh nar … from the bomb last neet. A thought the war had started. I blame them Hitler Youth. They marched through the toon pushing their bicycles bold as brass, singing and whistling and ringing their bells … every one of them a one man band … lovely legs … they were wearing short trousers, you see.’
‘Lederhosen.’
‘Is that what they’re called? I never knew that. Mind you, I don’t think they’d suit my Albert. They’d suit you. I have this thing about legs … they turn me on, if you know what I mean? They were all good looking lads … bit like yourself, if you don’t mind my saying … by, aren’t you the thirsty one, you’ve drank that quick … and I’ve not poured the lemonade yet … have another, on the house.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘You can buy me one, next time you’re in … when you’re on your own. You’re a flyer, aren’t you?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I’m perspicacious … have I said it right? That’s what my friend calls me … Miss Perspicacious … he’s at the bar.’
Harry looked round.
‘No, silly, he’s a lawyer.’
Harry picked a table which would give him a good view of Miss Perspicacious pulling pints of Cock o’ the North.
‘Harry, do look at me when you are talking,’ said George. ‘I need clues from your lips to help me understand what you are saying. I don’t think you want me here … I’m in the way. The barmaid is blowing me kisses. This is embarrassing.’
‘They are for me … you are too young to be attractive to women.’
‘At school one of the chaps has this book … it says things I don’t believe … what men do to women, you know, to have babies … what’s it like?’
‘What is what like?’
‘Fucking, if you’ve done it you should know. I don’t want to do it, but the older boys say I will when I’m old enough to wear long trousers. What’s it like? You have done it, I suppose?’
‘Would you like me to take you up?’
‘In your plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘Rather … when?’
‘Now.’
6
Bert stood to attention, head back, nose in the air, hairy nostrils flared. ‘The Americans will be here in thirty seconds, sar.’
‘Bert,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘please do not say “sar” … do please try to forget that you were once an RSM. The Hall’s drive is not a parade ground.’
‘Begging your ladyship’s pardon, it’s the Americans.’
‘How are they to blame?’
‘They make me think of the Great War, milady.’
‘Freud,’ said Sir Charles, ‘association … Beelzebub …Mike.’
As protocol demanded, Sir Charles and Lady Elizabeth positioned themselves just far enough away from the servants to show they belonged to a different group. For their part the servants acknowledged the arrival of their employers by standing that bit more upright.
Both groups were tense. Sir Charles was, to all intents and purposes, receiving a diplomatic mission. The fact that it was unofficial and a wee bit cloak and dagger made him uneasy. He kept reminding himself of HMG’s aims; what it hoped to achieve from this gathering of five powerful, rich, influential Americans. No formal meetings would take place. There was to be no agenda, no secretaries to take minutes. Views on the developing situation in Germany would be discussed ad hoc over five course meals and sundry other pleasant ways of passing the time. To preserve anonymity each guest would sign the visitors’ book using a nom de guerre.
As an experienced diplomat he well knew how surroundings could be used to exert influence. In the game of twisting arms, The Hall was a major player. A shoot had been organised. If one of his guests went home with a pair of antlers to hang on a wall, so much the better. But, where was Professor Striker? Losing a guest was bad form.
For her part Lady Elizabeth feared for her life. All this talk of war and the Irish bombers blowing up the Assembly Rooms made her anxious. She worried that the servants were not up to scratch. She fretted about the Webley under Bert’s coat tails. Ridiculous! What if the thing went off? As soon as the Americans were settled in their rooms she planned to visit CB. He needed a hand to hold.
For the servants, the Americans were a lucky dip. In the coming days these unknown quantities might treat a lowly lad or lass like a human being or like muck. They might complain about everything done to make them comfortable, or they might praise. They might borrow money off you or tip lavishly. When you were at the bottom of the pile you just never knew. You kept your fingers crossed and hoped for the best.
Lady Elizabeth cupped an ear. ‘Can you hear music, Charles?’
Sir Charles shook his head. His focus was on the approaching cavalcade … the Rolls in front, the phaeton behind. He saw that three of his guests, brave souls, had opted for the phaeton. He hoped they were not regretting their decision. The springs on the old coach did seem to be rather lacking in bounce.
Did this mean that three of his guests were romantics? We’ll support England at any cost – and the other a hard headed pragmatist? Would that life was so simple. Did the togetherness of the three in the phaeton auger bonding? He doubted that as well. All these men had large egos. They were team players only up to a point. Oh dear, the romantics did seem to be on the receiving end of a fair bit of jolting. The ‘brilliant’ idea of offering one’s guest’s transport from a bygone era was not without its drawbacks.
‘Can you hear singing, Bert?’ said Lady Elizabeth.
The butler waggled his pinnas – he was one of those gifted people who could do that – and, after a moment’s reflection explained, ‘It’s the Hitler Youth, milady.’
‘Singing?’
‘They are comrades in arms, milady … perhaps they are hauling on ropes, putting up their tents … altogether, one, two, three, that sort of thing.’
‘Like sailors singing a shanty?’
‘Yes, milady. I have it on good authority that when they cycled through the village they were at it like a Welsh male voice choir.’
‘Song birds should be kept in cages, Bert, don’t you think?’
‘I do, milady, but Mr Chamberlain will have to make a strong cage if he’s to keep those birds locked up; that is my opinion, milady.’
‘Here they come,’ said Sir Charles, ‘best foot forward, my dear.’
The aeroplane was too low. A chimney sweep’s brush sticking out of one of The Hall’s chimneys would have scratched its undercarriage. Lady Elizabeth knew a Puss-Moth when she saw one. Why was everyone lying on the ground? If Harry was flying it one had no need to worry. He was a wonderful pilot.
When the horses reared up Bert ran forward to steady them.
7
In the aeroplane George put the finishing touches to a parachute he’d made from his pocket handkerchief and a bulldog clip.
‘What shall I write?’
Harry felt at home flying an aeroplane. He might still be a virgin, but he bloody well did know how to fly.
‘What about … home in time for dinner. Love Harry and George … hang on, I’m turning. If I was doing this in a Spitfire your ey
es would be popping out of your head.’
‘Like yours were at that barmaid?’
‘Don’t be cheeky.’
8
‘It’s Harry,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘in his Puss-Moth. I’d know it anywhere. I do believe he’s turning to come back. He’s going to give us an encore. That’s just like him; generous to a fault. He’s just the most brilliant pilot, don’t you think? Someone’s waving … it’s George … George is in the aeroplane.’
Lady Elizabeth clapped. This was as exciting as the time she’d won first prize at the Hexham gymkhana.
‘He’s coming around again,’ said Sir Charles.
‘He’s one helluva fly-boy,’ said one of the Americans.
‘Weinberger,’ said Sir Charles, ‘lovely to see you. You are looking well.’
‘Sea air and good food on the QM.’
‘Look,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘a parachute.’
‘Where?’ said Bert.
‘Bert, do not draw the Webley. It is not a Hitler parachute. I think it is a Harry parachute.’
‘Mancini, welcome,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Mancini, I said to myself, is this North-Humber-Land or the Wild West? Last time I took a ride in a horse drawn carriage I was ten years old and selling ice cream with my grandfather in good ‘ol Philly … nice to see you, Sir Charles … lovely place you got here, nobody told me you lived on an airfield.’
‘Macdonald, welcome.’
‘Back in the carriage … ‘
‘It’s a phaeton,’ said Lady Elizabeth.
Sir Charles introduced his wife.
‘Pleased to meet you, Lady Elizabeth … back there in the phaeton there was a moment when I was pleased I’d taken out life insurance. If those horses had bolted who knows what might have happened … think of the headlines, Sir Charles: “American banker killed in runaway phaeton”. That would have blown our cover. I’m relieved to be out of the phaeton and have my “feet on” the ground.’
‘He’s a fool, that pilot,’ said the American who’d travelled in the Rolls.
‘Pleased to meet you, O’Neil,’ said Sir Charles.
‘May I take your golf bag, sir?’ said Bert.
‘No, you may not. You know the idiot flying the airplane?’
‘My nephew is the pilot,’ said Sir Charles.
‘You can tell him from me, I don’t mind him killing himself but I ain’t in no suicide pact with him.’
‘You can tell him yourself,’ said Lady Elizabeth, ‘he’s stopping at The Hall. Where’s the parachute? I think this is exciting. Bert, retrieve the parachute.’
‘Don’t you have dogs to do that?’ said O’Neil.
‘Dogs don’t do parachutes, dogs do pheasants … and do be a sensible American and give Bert your golf bag. That’s what Bert is for. Look, it’s coming down near the river, how absolutely thrilling. It has to be darling Harry … it’s his very own Puss-Moth, you know. Don’t you think he’s just the most brilliant pilot?’
‘It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack,’ said Sir Charles. ‘It could be anywhere.’
‘My God, he’s coming back to have another go at us,’ said O’Neil.
‘Bert,’ said Sir Charles, ‘never mind the parachute, back to the horses.’
9
Jack was awestruck by the low flying plane. It made him forget the Hitler Youth. The noise of the thing, how it swooped down as if going to land, then, at the last minute, how it clawed its way back up into the sky was thrilling. A boy in the aeroplane had waved to him; he’d waved back.
10
‘Will they get our message?’ said George.
‘They will if they find the parachute. Did you see the Nazis?’
‘No.’
‘If you want to be a fighter pilot you’ve to miss nothing … have eyes in the back of your head … in your arse as well. Let’s see how tight this kite will turn … hang on. I’m going to give those Nazis the fright of their lives.’
Harry, tight lipped and with a look of determination that would have surprised his uncle, dived the Puss-Moth down onto the Hitler Youth’s campsite. ‘Look at them run … rabbits … dagga, dagga, dagga,’ he shouted as he fired imaginary guns.
‘Harry?’
‘What?’
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
11
Sir Charles picked up the Visitors’ Book and took it to his study. As agreed each guest had used a nom de guerre. He smiled as he read, ‘Charles Earl Grey’, ‘Mickey Mouse’, ‘Gelato’ and ‘Count Rushmore’. He rang Freddy.
‘Are you free to punt the pill?’
‘Give me time to check the weather. Shoot.’
‘I have the nom de guerre of each of my American guests.’ He reeled off the fictitious names.
‘Mount Rushmore?’
‘No, Count Rushmore, as in Dracula.’
‘I wonder what the pun will tell Professor Freud about the American who picked the name.’
‘Freddy, what is espionage coming to when we employ, what do you call them?’
‘Psychoanalysts. Now he’s living in London, the Professor is keen to help HMG. Information, from whoppers to tit-bits that we pass on to him about people we are interested in, he uses to interpret their deepest motives … the aim, to find the bad apple in the barrel. He wants to psychoanalyse the PM. For the life of me I can’t see Neville lying on a couch blabbing for two hours about his sex life. Dashed un-British telling a chap about your dreams and other things.’
‘We had no secrets at Eton … remember those pictures we got hold of from Paris?’
‘Chaps one went to school with are different … tell me which nom de guerre belongs to which guest.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What?’
‘When they were signing I was distracted. Bert saw to the business … sorry to have let the side down. When you shoot me I don’t want a blindfold.’
‘Don’t be silly, one doesn’t shoot chaps one went to school with … if, however, you wish to shoot yourself, Ha! Ha! Well, that’s a different matter. Reminds me of a story Dot told me. You’ll remember she volunteered for a spot of auxiliary nursing in seventeen … first day wearing the white starch, matron told her to clean the men’s false teeth … full of enthusiasm she put them en masse in a bedpan … redistribution was a nightmare. Instead of a bedpan full of disenfranchised false teeth I have a list of nom de guerre doing what nom de guerre are supposed to do … protect their owners’ identities.’
‘What about “Mickey Mouse”?’
‘Find out which of your guests is a fan of Walt Disney.’
‘“Gelato” has to be Mancini.’
‘Agreed.’
‘O’Neil looks a bit like, Count Dracula. I’d link him to “Count Rushmore”.’
‘I’ve been told I look like Bing Crosby, but, I don’t sing and I’m head of MI5.’
‘Point taken.’
‘It’s an extra problem for Professor Freud.’
‘Is he getting paid?’
‘As much as a Permanent Secretary.’
‘There’s money in psychoanalyses?’
‘Yes, not my idea to employ the fellow … out of my hands. Why use ‘Charles Earl Grey’ as a nom de guerre?’
‘Ask Freud.’
‘What do you think he might say?’
‘Look for an American who drinks Earl Grey tea?’
‘Earl Grey, he’s the Lord responsible for giving the plebs the vote, 1832 Reform Bill and all that stuff. What makes it interesting, Charlie, is the reforming earl was from your neck of the woods.’
‘He’s my cousin three times removed. In the centre of Newcastle we have a monument to him … it looks a bit like Nelson’s column.’
‘I know you have, I have a photograph of it in fron
t of me.’
‘Freddy, do cut to the quick.’
‘At Eton you were always better at Algebra than me so it is with a certain smug pleasure that I now occupy the “knowing” ground. The local police are linking Professor Striker to the shooting incident in Gateshead. Where she is now, dead or alive, no one knows. The interesting development is the unconscious male found on stairs close to where the Professor was last seen alive.’
‘A drunk?’
‘No, though he was “stoned”, not with alcohol, but in the Biblical sense of “stoned to death”. A lump of brick lathered with part of his skull was found close by. At the moment he’s unconscious in a local hospital. He’s an Irishman by the name of DeVelera. He was armed with a Webley. Its serial number shows it to be the weapon we signed out to Byker-Harrison. We have a file on him. He’s an active member of the IRA. The local police have put in a lot of leg work. It would seem that our unconscious Irishman met someone off the Nord.’
‘Who?’
‘To find the answer to that question they are checking the Nord’s passenger list. DeVelera is employed by Newcastle City Council as a rat catcher. He’s also caretaker of Grey’s Monument.’
‘It is open to the public. Inside its column is a spiral staircase. At the top you come out onto a narrow platform. It lets you walk round the plinth upon which the statue of the great man stands. I’ve been up myself. It offers splendid views of the city.’
‘A good place for an IRA man to view possible targets?’
‘Yes. What about the man this fellow probably picked up off the Nord? I think we may assume he was IRA. Do we know where he is or who he is?’
‘No, and like Professor Striker he’s disappeared.’
‘A mystery man and a missing American Professor.’
‘Only she’s not just any old American Professor, she’s the eyes and ears of the President of the United States of America.’
‘I know, Freddy, I know. What a toxic cargo the Nord has brought to Tyneside … the Hitler Youth and, more than likely, Irish Republican fanatics. And Byker-Harrison’s gun in the hands of an IRA man.’
‘We are fighting on three fronts, Charlie: the Hitler Youth, the IRA and the Americans.’
Spies on Bikes Page 9