‘Of course.’
‘And now there’s you. Another officer. At least we outnumber the bastards now.’
‘Why do you call your bastard Raffles, instead of his real name?’
‘Who, Les? Because I want to, I suppose. You don’t care for that?’
So: Raffles. Raffles or Les.
‘Not very much.’
‘Commie? Cliff did hint that you might be a bit of a freethinker.’
‘No, sir. I’m not a Commie yet.’
‘Forget the sir when Les is not here. I’m James.’
‘OK, James. Who am I?’
‘If you don’t know that by now, Charlie Bassett, I’m not going to tell you. Cheers. ’nother?’ This time he moved for the bar himself.
‘Thank you. How do we pay for these? Is there a slate?’
‘Doesn’t work like that in the Corps. Need to know and all that. You don’t need to know where the stuff comes from, nor who pays for it, as long as we don’t. OK?’
‘Fine. What happens to the place when you’re away?’
‘If Willy’s not here then one of Les’s brothers keeps an eye on it – he’s dozens of them: there’s always one back on leave from somewhere, and they all look hideously alike. One’s even a Brylcreem boy, like you.’
‘Cliff told me that they were lending me to you as your driver. It was also a way of getting me over to Europe to do . . . something else.’
‘A little private enterprise I hazard?’
‘Something between that and public duty. It’s not my private enterprise, anyway.’
‘Anyway, young Charlie . . .’
‘Do you know that no one calls you young Charlie if you’re six feet tall?’
‘Point taken. Anyway, Charlie. Change of plan. You’re not really a good enough driver to get me out of the trouble I sometimes get myself into, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Take my word for it.’
‘OK. What next?’
‘So become my passenger. Fellow traveller. Help Raffles out when and where you can, and toddle off about your own nefarious bit of business when you have to. Sound OK?’
‘Yes, James. Yes it does. It beats bombing the hell out of the poor buggers. Do you want another?’
‘No. Lights out. I want to be on the road by 0530.’
‘That won’t be a problem.’
‘Nothing I tell you to do ever will be, old boy. You mustn’t worry.’
I didn’t like the word tell. No one ever does.
*
We were driven that morning by a WAAF driver with a big RAF Austin staff car: each of us had a half-empty kitbag in its boot. The pick-up was at Croydon airfield. Nobody told me, but I recognized it from a visit I had paid with my father before the war. We had watched the old silver Imperial Airways biplane airliners flying the England–France route. My mother had told me that she and the old man knew that the war was definitely on a month before they announced it, because from the top deck of a passing bus one Sunday they had spotted a dozen little brown and green aircraft partially under tarps near one of the boundary fences: it was the first time they’d seen a Spitfire. We passed a big corner pub named The Propeller on the way to the main gate – the last time I had seen it I was too young to drink there.
I sat in the front with the WAAF, and fell in love with her, watching the way her calf muscles tensed and relaxed each time she changed gear. It took more than an hour to get across London, and she was smiling by the time we got to our destination. Just before we slowed for the main gate and the guardhouse, I sensed Raffles and the Major settle down in their seats, and pull their collars up to obscure their faces. I copied them instinctively.
‘No telling who’s watching these days, Charlie,’ the Major told me, and, ‘No point Jerry knowing I’m coming over if he doesn’t need to.’
The girl drove us to a smallish blister hangar a long way from the main buildings. She seemed to know the form: I was glad somebody did. When we stepped out of the car and stretched, I walked around the car to the driver’s side, and bent down so that my head was level with hers. I said my thanks, and then asked, ‘Can I see you after I get back?’
She smiled, and after the significant pause, said, ‘I don’t see why not. My name’s Wayne. That’s Dolly Wayne. Section Officer. I’m at the Central Car Pool at Whitehall.’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘And you are?’
‘Sorry.’ I offered her my hand to shake through the opened car window. ‘Charlie Bassett. Pilot Officer, but I used to be a Sergeant.’
She gave my fingers a little squeeze before she let them go.
‘So did I. Happy landings, Charlie Bassett.’
After she drove away Raffles stretched again, and said, ‘You don’t waste much time, do you, sir?’
‘I don’t have much time to waste, Private. What about you?’
‘Married man, sir. Three nippers – the last was born at Christmas.’
‘What are they?’
‘All human beings, as far as I know, sir.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yeah, sorry. Sometimes I can’t resist it.’
‘I know what you mean: once I couldn’t stand officers either.’
‘What did you do, sir, if you don’t mind my asking, that was so bad that they punished you by making you be an officer?’
‘I lived. I survived. I made it. This is the RAF’s revenge.’
‘Ah. There you go, sir. They wouldn’t like that, would they?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘And my kids are all boys. Three elevenths of my own football team. Thank you for asking.’
We were standing on the tarmac with our kitbags at our feet. England was staring out across the airfield at England, if you see what I mean; distracted. I don’t think he was even aware of us.
‘What next?’ I asked Raffles.
‘You stay here, and take care of the Major for me, sir. Make
