‘What do you really know about Grace?’ I asked him.
‘I know she’s jumped ship. You knew that she was a civvy pilot for the Air Transport Auxiliary: a ferry pilot?’
‘Yes, of course I knew that. I’m her intimate. That’s how I got into this mess.’
‘Somehow the ATA Command found out that she was pregnant, and grounded her until after the happy event.’
‘She wouldn’t have liked that. I wonder who told them.’ I looked away: it had been me.
‘Understatement. She threw a bleeding Dodo: tried to skewer her boss with his own walking stick. OK: grab the wheel now – both hands – and be gentle with her . . .’
‘Like you are . . .?’
‘Feet on the pedals, please; no sarcasm. OK: you’ve got her.’ He held his hands up to show me that I was flying. ‘Watch your artificial horizon – that job, there.’ He rapped one of the dials. ‘Keep the floating white line horizontal, and along the line on the face of it. Then you’ll be flying level.’
‘What did she do afterwards?’
‘Took some old war-weary Spit without permission, and thrashed it down to Great Gransden, beating up three RAF airfields in the process, abandoned it there, and went home to Mummy and Daddy in a huff, leaving the ATA and the RAF to argue what the charges should be.’
‘Good for her. Interesting though: I never her saw her lose control.’
‘Look, fly the bloody thing straight can’t you? It can’t be all that difficult.’
‘Sorry. Good for Grace, though.’
‘That’s what I thought, until Sir Peter called his markers in.’
‘When did it all start to go wrong?’
‘Lady Baker says that Grace seemed to settle back home quite quickly. She thought that she’d decided to have the baby. Actually I think that Mummy and Daddy were quite chuffed at the idea. Then Grace went to London, and you’ve been told about that, and something happened because she pissed off with some American cavalrymen, and the near Continent got its first bona fide English tourist since the start of the war.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Obviously something to do with that bombed school, wasn’t it? Any other ideas?’
‘You know that Grace flew half a dozen trips to Germany with us, as rear gunner?’
Cliff said, ‘Christ!’ and grabbed the aircraft back from me. We immediately lost about fifty feet in a great lurch. Raffles shouted, ‘Oi!’ from the back, and Cliff shouted back, ‘Sorry!’
Then he asked me, ‘Does her old man know?’
‘Maybe. He won’t make a fuss about it as long as I’m around.’
‘How come?’
‘He was rogering her before the rest of us got there. I know, and now you know too. He won’t want to take a chance on that getting out. For all we know her baby could even be his.’
‘When was she due?’
‘About now. Maybe. I lost track of time a bit after the accident.’
‘It makes some sense to me now,’ Cliff told me. ‘One of the people she stayed with in London said that after that rocket nearly killed her she talked about putting it all right again, and told them she had pals in the American Red Cross in Paris who could do with a hand. They were the hints I mentioned earlier. Seven months pregnant, having recently helped you bomb Germany, she wanders into a bombed primary school in pieces, full of children also in pieces. Poor cow.’
‘You’re being glib, Cliff. She’s more complicated than that.’
‘Makes sense to me, too.’ That was James England. He could move stealthily when he chose: he had moved up to stand behind the seats we were in. ‘I can get you into Paris, Charlie, never fear.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How long now?’ England asked us.
I could see the South Coast swimming towards us ten thou beneath. Cliff said, ‘We’ll be on the ground in an hour.’
‘Good; I’ll take a snooze then. Fly smoothly.’
‘Jawohl Herr Major,’ I told him. If he noticed he didn’t show it. He said, ‘Jolly good. Carry on then.’
I thought that I ought to bottom it out with Cliff while I still had the chance.
‘So I’ll start at the Red Cross offices in Paris. That’s your idea?’
‘Can’t think of anything better, can you?’
‘How do I report back?’
‘Don’t. Find Grace; get her to come back with you.’
‘Why is that important?’
‘Winston says so.’
‘I don’t like Winston.’
‘That’s not important.’
‘Explain please.’
‘Charlie. Elections cost money to fight and the first one after this war’s not that far away. Winston has no money at all, and few friends. You produce Grace, and a grateful Baker Small Arms Company bankrolls his next election campaign. It’s the only chance he has of beating Clem Attlee for the top job.’
‘So I’m over here to get the next Conservative government elected?’
‘That’s the ticket. You’re quite sharp when you try.’
‘But I can’t stand the bastards.’
‘So what old chap? Take this; whilst no one’s looking.’
He pulled a bulky envelope from inside his beat-up flying jacket, and pushed it into my hands. I made sure it was stowed down in a pocket.
‘What’s that?’
‘Spending money. Some dollars and pounds: they’ll get you anywhere. There are loads of invasion francs and deutschmarks, but don’t depend on them, they’re forgeries. About three and a half grand in all. That should get you through.’
‘How do I get back?’
‘Initiative. Hallmark of the officer class.’
I probably sulked. Then I asked him about Major England, and Raffles.
‘Darby and Joan. He’s not really an Intelligence Officer; he’s some sort of food and drink wallah. Les looks after everything else.’
‘He told me about being a food expert. I didn’t quite see what he meant.’
‘His job is to be just behind the point of the Army’s advance all the time, make an assessment of what food and rations it needs. It sounds safe, and it is unless Jerry decides to come back at us with a counter-attack, as he has a few times already. Then he can find he’s the wrong side of the lines, or in the middle of the shooting war. He’s been wounded twice, and Raffles three times. They’re bloody inseparable.’
‘I suppose that
