‘What about Bassett?’
‘We could always look in on the way back . . .’
‘And Grace Baker? I don’t suppose that Cliff would have left me here unless he expected me to finish the job.’
The road turned from cobbles to tarmac: the noise the Humber made on it changed from a rumble to a hiss. There was a gentle drizzle falling, which reminded me of Cambridgeshire. Les’s left hand lifted from the steering wheel from time to time to activate the screen wipers. The car lights showed against the straight tree-lined road like narrow pencil beams. Into the silence he said, ‘We asked around a bit. I don’t think she’s in Paris. The American bird you wanted to see about her certainly isn’t. I don’t even think the Yanks have told her that you’re here. That leaves the American tank crews you told us about. You said she might have contacted them again.’
‘Did I?’
‘Someone did,’ the Major told us. ‘Anyway. They took a bit of a hammering from the Jerry apparently, and they’re back in a rest area . . . and that rest area is directly on our route to catch up with Monty’s finest, who’re probably racing across Germany at this very moment. At about two miles an hour.’
‘Oh, what a coincidence!’ I told him.
‘ ’tis rather. Lucky. Maybe you’re a lucky soldier, Charlie.’
‘I’m not a soldier at all.’
‘I rather think that you are now, old son.’
I believed him. Bastard. I couldn’t see that he had any reason to lie about it.
‘Does that mean that the charges the RAF might be alleging against me can’t be proceeded with?’
‘I hadn’t thought about that.’
‘What’s this garbage about stealing a Stirling? I’ve only been in two. One crashed and burned, and the other was flown by Cliff: rather well, as it turned out.’
‘It was something to do with a bunch of conchies from Tempsford who nicked their aeroplane and pushed off out of the war. Clever sods.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Friends of yours, apparently. Your old CO, Goldilocks . . .’
‘Goldie.’
‘Goldie, then . . . he thought it must have been something to do with you because no one would tell him where you’d gone. He reported you. Cliff thought that it was very funny until you were lifted. So did we, afterwards.’
‘I really appreciate your worrying about me, you and Les. Do you know that?’
‘Don’t mention it.’
‘Anyway, if you hadn’t left me in that Yankee loony bin for twenty-four hours I don’t suppose that I would have got to meet James Stewart.’
The Major smiled. ‘Is that so? Pansy, was he? Most of them are, you know.’
‘No; he flew bombers. Probably with the 8th Air Force: that’s their Bomber Command.’
Les said, ‘I’d always wanted to know how to tell Pansies from other men. Now I know.’
I felt too tired to tell them to fuck off.
Les drove through the night. I slept. At one time I awoke as the car lurched, and found my discs and pay-book in my hand. One of them must have given them to me.
Les muttered, ‘Sorry. Shell hole, I think.’
I asked him, ‘What month is this?’
‘February, March or April. Does it matter?’
‘No. Do you want me to drive?’
‘No. I’m fine. I’ve got some blue peters to keep me up to the mark. When we reach our next stop I’ll bomb for twelve hours. Go back to sleep.’
‘Where are we?’
‘Still in France, heading for Belgium and Holland. You’ll be safe when we get you over the border.’
It hadn’t occurred to me that I wasn’t. The Major groaned and moved in the back seat,
‘Belt up, you fellows. Let the only brain the outfit possesses get some kip.’
‘You heard him, Les. Get some sleep.’
We both laughed. It was companionable. I slept again soon after that.
Ten
I woke again in daylight when the car stopped moving. Les was stumbling around outside like a man in a dream. Major England was snoring in the back with a splinter-camouflaged cape pulled up to his neck. I think that it was German. We were parked up against a brick wall, out of sight of the road, in a shell-shocked farm courtyard. The three-storeyed farmhouse which formed one end of an open square was burned out; its roof caved in. I extracted myself with difficulty: the running board was almost up against a wall. Les was piling pieces of wood and dead branches around the car, mumbling to himself. He noticed me – a bit late, I thought – and said, ‘Camouflage. We don’t want the jabos to spot us.’
‘What are they?’
‘Jagdbombers: fighter bombers. They can be a bit of a nuisance.’
‘They won’t attack us, Les. There’s a fucking great white star on Kate’s roof. You could see it for miles.’
‘Not our jabos: theirs. Welcome to the real war, Charlie.’
Even the last sally had almost been beyond him. He was out on his feet.
I said, ‘Get in, and get your kip, Les. You’re beat. I’ll finish this. Where are we?’
‘Still in France. I had to make a couple of diversions in the night. Look . . .’ He pointed vaguely forward and upwards as he slumped back into the driving seat. The farmyard appeared to be set at the bottom of a small fortified mountain: a massive castle wall ran around it in both directions, climbing out of sight.
‘Windsor Castle,’ I told him. ‘I’ve seen pictures of it. You’ve taken us home again by mistake.’
Les yawned. He couldn’t keep his eyes open. He said, ‘Laon. About eighty mile north-east of gay Paree. Don’t go up there; we’re still in France, and I don’t know if the natives are all that friendly.’
‘Couldn’t be less friendly than the fucking Americans, could they?’
‘Wanna bet?’ Les yawned again, collapsed down behind the steering wheel, and pulled his beret down over his eyes. He was snoring before his hands had fallen back.
I finished hiding Kate as
