‘Can they do that?’
‘Padre, they tell me that Ike wants are the most important words in Europe right now. Cheers.’
‘Cheerio,’ I told him. It was good beer: strong and with a bleak yeasty aftertaste.
The dance was an excuse-me. A tall Sergeant excused the guy in fatigues, and the nurse didn’t even open her eyes. I was beginning to think that I fancied a bit of a dance myself. Fatigues stuck an American cigarette in his gob, lit it expertly with a brass Zippo, and wandered over. His sleeves were half rolled: I saw he had an expensive wristwatch on his right wrist: probably German. His arm sported a new eagle tattoo. My old man always used to wear his watch on the wrong side. He sat down, and waved the waitress over.
‘Hello, Charlie.’
‘Hello, Dad. Where’s Uncle Tommy?’
‘Up at the clinic. Getting something for his warts.’
‘I didn’t know he had any.’
‘Before we came here he didn’t have. I’ve told him that they’re something else, but he won’t believe me.’
‘Are you still digging?’
‘Yes. You still flying?’ The look he gave the clothes I was wearing begged a reply.
‘No. I’m driving. I’m trying to find that girl Grace I knew. Do you remember her?’
‘What’s she doing over here? I thought that she was just a delivery pilot for the ATA.’
‘She was. It’s a long story, but she was pregnant, got caught in a bombing raid in London where a lot of children were killed, flipped over and ran away. Some people think that she’s out here somewhere, doing relief work. Maybe she’s even heading for Germany.’
‘Am I a grandfather then?’
‘I don’t think so. The child’s probably not mine. Probably an American she knew before we met her.’
‘Why do you want to find her?’
‘I’m not sure that I do, any more. But I promised her I’d find her after the war, and it must be on its last knockings now. The point is that the RAF wants her, and her parents want her: and Winnie, if I believe what people tell me. All I have to do is find her, and take her back.’
‘Her people rich?’
‘Filthy.’
‘You going to marry her so we can all live like nobs?’
‘Six months ago I would have liked that. Now I’m not so certain. I might love her, but that’s not always enough, is it? I’m not all that sure that she’s worth loving.’
My father was never what you’d call a smiler, but he cracked one now.
I asked him, ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing, Charlie. I was smiling because I suddenly realized that you’d grown up. It was pleasure.’
Some time during our conversation Oliver left us to dance with the nurse. Her shirt was open now, and flapping loose around her waist. Oliver was stroking her as they danced. Her hands met behind his neck. Her eyes were still closed. The Negro was playing ‘I Saw Stars’, which I remembered as a Les Allen number from before the war. The slow piano made it really smoochie. The Sergeant was now drinking at a noisy table which included MOs and SBAs with blood-stained coats. Above them the bare wood beams which supported the roof were strung with lines of small, tired-looking Allied flags. Some wag had managed to tie a triangular swastika pennant into them.
Dad asked me, ‘Cigarette?’ as he pulled another for himself.
‘Please.’
‘Camels. In my war men flew Camels, not smoked them.’
He always liked puns.
‘I seem to remember that some men smoked them too. Didn’t Sopwiths burn pretty easily?’
‘They all did, then. It was the dope on the canvas. I should have asked you about your burns. You’re obviously a lot better.’
‘Some American doctor spread something on my shoulders in a hospital in Paris. I hardly notice them now.’
‘. . . and we can’t keep him away from the bints,’ James England said, and flopped into the vacant chair. Les pulled one up to another side; cornering us. James held his hand out for a shake. I told Dad, ‘This is Major England: I’m travelling with him.’ I told James, ‘. . . and this is my father, Henry Bassett.’
‘Nothing to do with the liquorice allsorts?’ Les asked him, also doing the handshake ritual. His hand held on to my old man’s a fraction too long, and they were feeling where to place fingers and thumbs. ‘I’m Les Finnigan. Their PFD.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Poor effing driver; pardon my French.’
James had his book out. He said, ‘I’ll write that down. Have you noticed how we all excuse our bad language with Pardon my French? Anyone would think that the Froggies swore all of the time.’
Another round hit the table. I would have to be careful. That was the third this morning. Our policeman came back from his smooch, and dragged a chair up. I noticed that the music had stopped, and when I looked up the only two folk missing appeared to be the pianist and the dancing nurse.
James Oliver asked, ‘None of us found Albie, then?’
My father asked, ‘Is that the American tank commander you met in Bedford?’
‘Yes.’ That was me. ‘How the hell did you find out about that?’
‘He told me, about a week ago. We were drinking in a crowd, and got to exchanging folk we knew: you know how it is. Why is it that no one believes you when you tell them it’s a small bleeding world?’
‘Do you know where he is, Dad?’
‘Of course I do. He‘s sitting over there waving at you.’
It was the noisy table. There were about eight people around it, and you couldn’t see the tabletop for glasses. The dancing nurse was there now. Maybe she had been there all along. Albie was grinning at me; he had a new growth of beard, and waved a hand
