by David Beaty
‘How could you?’ she demanded as they changed in their bedroom. ‘‘They’ll think you’re mad. Stark, staring, raving mad!’
‘Perhaps I am,’ he thought, slipping into the dinner jacket Belinda had insisted that he wear. ‘ I think all the older contingent should wear formal,’ she had said. It somehow set them in a class apart.
In a class apart they remained. Beside the Truscotts and himself, the older contingent consisted of Woodhouse, the general manager and his wife, who made only a brief and dazed appearance, rather put out by the stack of giftwrapped parcels on the hall table since they had arrived empty-handed. Paul himself felt dazed. People he’d never seen before arrived in cars and on motorbikes, shouting and laughing. A floodlight painted the outside of Elmtrees a phosphorescent yellow. Inside, the blare of the disco made the walls shiver.
Madge and Archie and he sat in dining chairs at the edge of the floor, watching the youngsters gyrate in the half-darkness under the multi-coloured staining of the lights. Madge was upholstered in purple and pink stripes, and Archie and he looked like a couple of old waiters.
Paul had danced the first dance with Belinda. It was not his sort of dancing, but he had kept his end up. Determined to continue the good work, he took Polly onto the floor. Then a waltz was laid on, as Second Officer Jones put it, ‘for the golden oldies’. He danced with Madge, Archie took Chloe. He saw Belinda dancing with Griffiths. Even though they danced decorously enough, and the Engineer had clearly switched his affections to Chloe, the sight of the red hands on Belinda’s bare back made the hackles rise on the back of his neck.
She disappeared for about half an hour after that and the next time he saw her she was clinking glasses at the buffet with a thin dark-haired man of about thirty. He had a clever-looking face and wore horn-rimmed glasses.
A few minutes later she brought him over.
‘Paul, I’ve someone here who’s dying to meet you. This is Mr Slade. He’s a psychologist doing some workload experiments at Heathrow Airport.’
‘How d’you do?’ Paul stretched out his hand reluctantly, not just because it was painful but because he sensed some new complication had suddenly entered his already complicated life.
‘You’ve hurt your hand, sir.’ The young man had a rich, emollient voice and a pleasant smile. Paul could have done without the ‘sir’. It immediately put him in the senior citizen category. ‘ Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Nothing serious at all.’
Paul smiled back. It pleased him that he was half a head taller than Slade, though the younger man appeared to feel in no way diminished.
‘He was fishing something out of a bonfire,’ Belinda said and laughed.
‘It must have been very valuable,’ Slade said.
‘That’s the whole point,’ Belinda said. ‘It was quite worthless. Of sentimental value only.’
Stephen Slade raised his black brows in an exaggerated way. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘Very psychological, isn’t it, Stephen?’ Belinda laughed for the third time.
Abruptly Paul changed the subject. ‘So you’re doing something on workload, Mr Slade?’
‘Please call me Stephen. Yes, workload on the flight deck and fatigue generally. That’s the idea. For my sins. And for my Ph.D.’
Paul looked at the psychologist coldly. ‘And what do these experiments involve?’
‘Well, you know, sir … the sort of mistakes pilots make when they’re overtired and overstressed.’
‘Which is most of the time.’
The psychologist took Paul’s remark as a joke. ‘So they should be paid more.’
‘Exactly,’ Paul said stonily. ‘And who’s paying for this research?’
‘Oh. Atlanta Airways. They’re very safety conscious.’
‘And money conscious.’
‘Doesn’t everybody have to be these days?’
‘What have you discovered?’
‘Well, of course it’s very early days. Haven’t really started. But most fatal accidents are caused by silly mistakes … cutting corners, selecting the wrong lever, conformity pressures, becoming disorganised. My hypothesis is that we have a pattern of doing things which is not necessarily the right pattern. We learn the right pattern, but in moments of stress we go back to the wrong one. Fatigue in terms of hours on duty doesn’t really come into it much.’
‘The company will be pleased to hear that. Who and when are you testing?’
‘Well, I’m hoping to test pilots after Checks in the simulator. They should be tired then.’
‘How do you know all these things?’
The remark was intended ironically, but Belinda took it literally. ‘Because he can see right into people, Paul!’
Paul affected to smile, ‘ Can you?’
The psychologist laughed good-humouredly. ‘Not yet.’
Belinda said, ‘ He’s told me such interesting things about what pilots do. I said to him, ‘‘ Stephen, I’m glad you didn’t tell me all this while I was still flying’’.’
‘Is your wife here?’
‘He’s not married, Paul. He’s renting that cottage next to Griffiths.’
‘Are you also going flying?’
‘Oh yes!’ Slade began a long spiel on aviation psychology, interspersed with such remarks as ‘Skinner, 1972’ or ‘Baring, 1981’, quoting experiments intended to show support for his theories, reeling off statistics which Paul was not sufficiently interested to follow.
Belinda excused herself and fled back to the dance floor. Archie came up, pink-faced and puffy, his grey eyes bloodshot, listened for a while and then protested in a slurred voice, ‘My dear chapsh, do close the hangar doors.’
‘Archie, the simulator king. He’s the chap you should really contact,’ Paul said.
But Archie refused to be drawn, preferring to praise Paul for the excellence of the wine and to eye the dance floor for a possible partner.
‘Marvellous party, old chap! Marvellous!’
Not long afterwards, Madge came over and collected Archie to drive him home. Belinda glided across, ‘to rescue you, Stephen, from my husband and his flying shop’, and took the psychologist onto the dance floor.
Paul watched them for a while, then went into the kitchen and helped himself to a chicken canapé and a glass of wine. After another hour, during which there was no evidence that the party was running down, he went upstairs to their room, undressed, showered and got into bed.
He was woken by Belinda getting in beside him. It was very dark. He had no idea what time it was, but there was now a blissful silence over Elmtrees.
‘What happened to you?’ She sounded cross.
‘Oh, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves without me. So I thought I’d just toddle off to bed.’
‘Didn’t you enjoy the party?’
‘Of course I did. It was a lovely party. A terrific party. I just felt a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘People were very generous. There’s a huge pile of presents in the hall.’
‘That’ll give you something to do.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Opening them.’
There was a long silence. Belinda kept very still. Then she said, ‘Isn’t Stephen clever?’
He said nothing.
‘He’s asked us to come over to his place with the Truscotts next Thursday.’
Paul still said nothing.
‘He’s got all sorts of games to play, he says.’
‘Good.’ Paul bit his lip hard to block the word God!
‘And so sweet and modest with it all.’ She paused. ‘He’s the son of Sir Michael Slade, you know.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘You’ve surely heard of him, Paul. The stores millionaire … the one who owns that chain of men’s shops.’ She turned over so that her back was to him. Then she said sleepily, ‘Do you inherit Sirs?’
Chapter Sixteen
Sir Michael Slade, whether or not he could bestow his title
on his son, had certainly bestowed on him a comfortable end of terrace house, next to the one where Griffiths had his basement flat.
The house was carpeted in pale thick oatmeal, and like an art galley. The walls were hung in hessian. There were pieces of significant sculpture around and cubist pictures that to Paul’s way of thinking held the eye in acute discomfort.
The Truscotts had already arrived and were ensconced on a wide orange sofa drinking pink gins, not the first either if the brightness of Archie’s eyes was anything to go by. Ever the gentleman, he sprang to his feet as Slade showed them in.
Slade himself seemed to be exaggerating his boyishness. He was wearing tight blue jeans and an open-necked shirt. He matched Belinda, freshly youthful in a full-skirted dress of heavy cotton.
‘How very pretty you look, my dear,’ Madge said, smiling Belinda, on her best behaviour, went over and kissed them both.
‘Am I the only one to be left out?’ Slade asked, head on one side, watching her.
Smiling, Belinda asked, ‘May I, Paul?’ and without waiting for his reply went over and kissed their host demurely on the cheek.
Though the Truscotts were not her favourite friends, Belinda looked determined to enjoy herself. Perhaps she found it easier because all three men so obviously admired her. She pirouetted around, studying a picture, picking up an ornament, smoothing her manicured hands down the flanks of a nameless piece of sculpture, aware that their eyes were on her.
She helped Slade hand round the plates of savoury biscuits, nuts and crisps, and when the conversation languished, which it did several times, she stepped in with little anecdotes of her stewardessing days. Finally, it was she who reminded Slade that he’d promised her they’d play his games.
‘Games,’ Archie smiled jovially, polishing off his third gin. ‘I like games. Love them, old boy!’ He rubbed his hands. ‘What sort did you have in mind?’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Paul said, guessing what was coming, ‘that he means Postman’s Knock.’
‘Pity.’ Archie sighed and they all laughed.
Belinda said, ‘Stephen’s games are great fun. Sort of psychological.’
‘I feared they might be.’ Paul tried not to sound stuffy or irritated. For well-meaning and cultivated as Slade undoubtedly was, Paul found him bloody irritating. A know-all young man, green and unblooded and still wet behind the ears. A young man upon whose every word Belinda now appeared to hang. Momentarily his hand ached to slap her. He chided himself for being a jealous old man.
‘Oh come Paul, old chap! Don’t be a spoilsport. They sound very interesting.’
‘I hoped you’d say that, Archie.’ Slade looked boyishly gratified. ‘I’m really trying to interest the airline powers-that-be in them.’
‘I’m not a power, dear Stephen. A humble toiler in the vineyard.’
‘You’re being modest, Archie. I call you a power. Training Officer on the simulator. Certainly you’re a power!’
Madge looked pleased. Her baggy brown eyes regarded Slade approvingly.
‘Archie always did undervalue himself, Stephen,’ she said huskily.
‘And furthermore,’ Slade went on, not directly answering her, but still addressing himself to Archie, ‘you carry quite a lot of weight with the younger pilots.’
‘Do I, old boy?’
‘Certainly! And if you were to use that weight to persuade them to take my simple little tests before and after going into your simulator, you would be making quite a contribution to the advancement of science.’
He said the last few words with self-deprecating pompous humour and they all laughed.
‘But seriously,’ he went on, when the laughter had died away and their glasses had been recharged, ‘I would be grateful for your cooperation, Archie, and the tests really are simplicity itself.’
It was the cue for the tests to be brought out. Slade had them handy in the top drawer of his desk.
They were as simple as he had said they were. Just white cards upon which were printed the names of colours – red, green, yellow, blue – randomly, in columns. The only significant thing about them was that the words were printed in a different coloured ink from their meaning.
‘All I want you to do is read out the colour of the ink. Not the word itself.’ Slade said eagerly. ‘And I’ll be timing you.’ He pulled out the second drawer of his desk and brought out a stopwatch. ‘Of course when tired or under stress, the performance deteriorates.’
Archie insisted on being first. ‘ I can’t say I’m tired, Stephen old boy. But you’ll have to make an allowance for your generous hand with the gin.’
‘I will, Archie. I promise.’
He handed Archie a card. ‘Don’t look! No peeping till I raise my hand.’
‘I won’t, old boy. Scout’s honour.’
‘One, two, three …’ Slade raised his hand, and snapped the button of the stopwatch. ‘Go!’
‘Yellow, green, blue, yellow, blue, red, green …’ Archie solemnly intoned the hundred words, twenty-five of each colour, till he reached the end of the card. Then he looked expectantly at Slade, bloodshot grey eyes nervously blinking.
‘Very good, Archie! Splendid! Twenty-nine seconds. No mistakes. No stumbling.’
‘Mastermind!’ Madge said, and beamed.
‘Now you, Paul.’ Belinda patted his arm as if he were her racehorse.
Even as he took the card from Slade, an inner voice warned him not to. There he sat, holding the card, blank side towards him, like an old dog waiting for the young circus master to crack his whip.
‘Go!’
‘Yellow, green, blue …’ The unfamiliar stress of it took him by surprise. He was astonished and discomfited by how difficult it was to resist the habit of reading the word instead of calling out the colour. The old dog was even older than he had supposed, too old to learn new tricks and at that thought his concentration seemed to break altogether ‘… yellow, red, no blue, no I mean green.’
He heard Archie laugh. He was doing badly. Once disorganised, it was hard to pick up the right rhythm again.
‘Green, red, blue, sorry yellow.’ He limped lamely to the end.
‘Not quite so good,’ Slade said diplomatically. ‘Four mistakes, five hesitations. And you took thirty-eight seconds.’
‘Better luck next time!’ Archie clapped him sportingly on the shoulder as if he’d just made a duck. ‘ We shall have to play this game again.’
‘I must say, Archie,’ Slade said as he went round topping up their glasses, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good result as yours. And though this may seem a very simple test, it does show a helluva lot about resisting disorganisation and decrease in performance.’ He raised his glass to Archie, ‘Congratulations!’
Archie looked overwhelmed, like someone who had thought never to hear that word again.
Madge was radiant.
‘You must tell us some more about these clever tests of yours, Stephen. Perhaps you would come to dinner? Let’s make it the five of us again.’
Everyone but Paul agreed enthusiastically.
‘How about the twenty-first? Is that all right?’
Before they left, it was all arranged. On the way home, Belinda said nothing. She frowned out of the window. Just as they turned in through the open gates of Elmtrees, she spoke for the first time.
‘Archie did so much better than you,’ she said indignantly, ‘yet it was Archie who had the crash.’
Chapter Seventeen
Harker ran into Archie in the training complex on his return from New York a week later. He was walking towards the canteen with a young pilot who had just finished doing Slade’s test.
‘Between you and me,’ Archie whispered, letting the young pilot walk ahead, ‘his score was worse than yours.’
‘Anyone equalled yours yet?’
‘No one, old boy.’
‘You’ll be in the Guinness Book of Records yet,’ Harker said, moving on.
Archie laughed happily, ca
lling after him, ‘See you tomorrow then, Paul.’
Christ, Harker thought, the twenty-first! He’d clean forgotten that dinner at the Truscotts! He’d had too much on his mind this trip. The flying had been smooth and easy so he’d had a lot of time to think. The thinking had been all uneasy and corrosive, full of self-doubts. That bloody simple test had stirred up his old fears. The fatal crystal in the saturated solution. Then there had been Belinda’s reaction to it. He sensed her drawing away from him, as if he were some rock in her life that was now beginning to disintegrate, as if his hands had lost their mythical power to get-you-there. As if his faculties, his memory, everything was failing. In his depression, he had even forgotten to buy Belinda a gift – a passport to peace.
Aloud now he called heartily, ‘ No, I hadn’t forgotten. Looking forward to it, Archie!’
He chided himself that it was such a dismal lie. After all, Slade had managed to cheer Archie more than anyone had done in years. And Belinda liked him, though whether that was a plus or a minus he wasn’t sure.
She was out shopping when he got home, but she returned soon after with her parcels.
‘I bought a new dress for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Oh, I know it’s only the Truscotts. But Madge always has something new. And Stephen has such discerning taste. It could be quite fun!’
Glad that his own lack of a present was overlooked, he praised the slinky white dress extravagantly and stifled his exclamation at its cost.
But Belinda was wrong about the party being fun. The night was against it, to begin with. They left for Thatched Cottage in a real autumn downpour. Belinda had bought some cream-coloured shoes to go with the dress, and she made such a fuss of possible mud splashes that he picked her up and carried her to the car.
‘There are ways and ways of carrying a girl,’ she told him as he drove through Maybury village, huddling under her fur coat. ‘And yours is the wrong one.’
It was the only time he would feel amused all evening, and he laughed, which didn’t help. As they drew up outside the Truscotts’ porch, Archie threw the door open and rushed out with an umbrella to cover Belinda.