I said, ‘Mr McKechnie,’ as his name came back to me. ‘Simmer, wasn’t it?’
‘Well done, Charlie, you have a memory for names. You should have been a policeman.’
‘I thought that you were a policeman. Kilduff is looking for you.’
‘He’ll never find me. This is too obvious a place to look. The best place to hide a doctor is in a hospital.’
‘The last time I met you you weren’t quite a doctor.’
‘Am now. Out of the shitehouse and into the shite.’
‘What happened?’
‘When I saw that you and your people could fuck the system, I decided to blow. I left the Lieutenant an anatomically accurate description of what he could do with my job, and just came out where they needed a doctor most – they don’t care where I come from here, as long as I can cut. They like my style. They call me the Cutter. There’s a cutter in every unit. The last one here was minced by a mortar round the week before I turned up.’
‘I’m still looking for that girl.’
‘Miss Emily, or your Grace what’s her name?’
‘Grace. I leapfrogged over Emily. Your Captain Grayling saw Grace more recently than Emily did.’
‘That’s good, because Miss Emily was here, then she got a few days’ leave. I think that she’s gone back over to England.’
‘Did she know that I was looking for her?’
‘ ’course not. Why would anyone tell her that, Charlie? You still a pretending Padre?’
Fuck them, I could manage without help. I reached across the table with my glass of beer. He met me halfway. I said, ‘Cheerio. I won’t tell on you either.’ We clinked.
‘Cheers, Charlie . . . and I note that. You going liberal? Growing up on me?’
‘That’s what Dad said this morning.’
The devil of whom I had spoken was back in a chair alongside me, arguing the toss with the thin Sergeant. He twitched round when I tugged his sleeve.
‘This is my dad,’ I told McKechnie, and, ‘This is my friend Dr McKechnie, Dad. He helped me in Paris.’ OK: so that was stretching it a bit.
‘. . . he’s gonna give me a hand when I find Grace.’
I might have imagined it, but I sensed McKechnie’s fine brown face becoming a couple of shades paler.
Five minutes later a wet SBA banged in at the door and shouted, ‘Cutter here?’ across the echoing hall.
McKechnie snapped alert, and responded with a, ‘Yo. I’m here,’ and threw his hand up.
‘You got a bad arm up in Number Three, sir.’
He said, ‘OK, brother,’ and moved up and out.
I murmured, ‘Good luck,’ not meaning him to hear me, but he turned, and flashed me a brilliant smile before scampering out into the rain. I forgot to tell you; it had begun to rain. Eastern Holland should twin with Cambridgeshire: they have that in common. The roof of the Quonset was thin boards and tarred cloth. The noise of the rain was like being inside a side drum during a Gene Krupa solo. The SBA who’d come for the Cutter stepped over to the bar and had a quick one. It started as half a glass of something clear, but the barman stirred a spoonful of HP sauce, a spoonful of honey, and some salt into it.
The old man saw me watching. He said, ‘Bourbon. They can do a good dark rum as well: a touch heavier with the HP, brown sugar and a dash of bitters.’
I saw the SBA swallow it in a oner, and shudder, before making for the door. I got a glance of rain bouncing off puddles outside as he left.
I asked, ‘What is it?’
‘Medical-grade alcohol. Ethanol: good with tonic water, and lemon, or lime. They call it an E & T. Lemons are not too easy to get, but we had a couple of lorryloads of limes last week. God knows where from. Anyway, the babes love an E & T. They dance on the tables.’
‘Babes?’
‘Sorry, son. The women. Everyone talks American over here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re paying for the war now, didn’t anyone tell you?’
It must have been McKechnie’s use of the word shitehouse that did it. Not long after he left to go to work my lower bowel performed a serious ritual of summoning. The barman gave me directions, which were outside and on to the boardwalk, turn left, walk the length of the Quonset until I reached the canvas field latrine. He’d have an E & T on the bar for me to try when I returned. I didn’t walk; I ran. It was a large latrine: wind and water proof, if a trifle draughty. The usual thing – a long, narrow pit with a smooth pole along it lengthwise. You hung your jacksie over the pole and watched for splinters. In front of you was a heap of dirt, and an entrenching tool – so you could cover your spoil afterwards. There was an entrance at each end; for men and for women. They were labelled Cats and Dudes. I went for Dudes. The only thing was that they led to the same space. While I sat there balanced on the pole a woman SBA in fatigues came in, and squatted the woodwork about ten feet to my right. She smiled as she dropped her kecks, and opened a Forces newspaper.
She said, ‘Oh, hi, Father,’ when she noticed me, and turned back to it. She had a nice smile and a fine, white backside, but that was it for me. The romance was gone. The paper squares were cut from newspapers, just the same as in the UK . . . and the same bastard had got there before me, and stolen the cartoons. I slipped into role when I was covering my turds. As I sprinkled the earth on the rich faecal stench reaching up for me, I noticed the resemblance to a burial.
‘Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust
