Another long pause; I began to worry about the money again. Her voice sounded different when she asked, ‘When?’ Lighter maybe, or interested . . . or had I imagined it?
‘I’m not quite sure, but very soon. With a bit of luck I’ll be up in London in a few days’ time . . . to start my embarkation leave. I’ll phone you as soon as I get in.’
This time I heard a smile in her voice, I’m sure of it, ‘OK, Mr Bassett, but you’d better not fail this time. Last chance.’
‘I won’t need another.’
We both replaced the receivers at the same time. My hand was shaking. That was interesting.
Lucy asked to see me an hour later. When I walked into her office she had the brown envelope for me. I hoped I could dispense with the ma’ams at this stage. I also hoped I smiled.
‘Arctic or Antarctic?’
‘Neither. I thought they’d send you back to RAF Padgate, to teach you how to dress and drill again – you really are a bit of a shambles – but the signal here says you’re off to RAF Abingdon, after a ten-day leave.’ She handed it to me. Then she sat back in her chair and smiled a cat’s smile. I wondered what nasty little time bombs she had written into my PR – my personal record. ‘We never really got to know each other, did we? That’s almost a pity; I thought you might be a bit of a challenge . . .’
I couldn’t avoid the ma’am this time.
‘I think I learned something from you, ma’am.’
She was looking down at that bloody file on her desk again. I had already been dismissed. Without looking up she asked, ‘What was that, Charlie?’ I liked the Charlie. It made what happened next even better.
‘What it would be like to have a really nice black mole, ma’am; halfway between my belly button and, well . . . you know. Now I can imagine what it would look like.’
She looked up quickly. Her face was suddenly bloodless, and her mouth dropped open. It was a nice little mouth, but I’d seen far more of her than that when I’d watched her getting off with Ivy. Including the mole. I gave a smart salute even although I was still in my ragbag of uniform bits, about-turned and marched out.
Her secret was safe with me. Until I needed it, that is. Gross insubordination, strike one: nice one, Charlie.
Chapter Five
Goodbye, goodbye, I wish you all a last goodbye
That was Benatzky, wasn’t it – the soldier’s song from White Horse Inn? I don’t know why, but it was the tune that popped into my head as I marched away from Lucy’s office. I whistled it under my breath. Rob must have been earwigging outside, because he fell in beside me, whistling a full octave lower. We gave the room a demonstration of sharp synchronized marching and whistling until we reached the far end: my original drill instructor would have been proud of me. He would have liked it less when we collapsed with laughter, and had to prop each other up. I guessed, with what Rob had learned about Lucy, he’d be on easy street from now on. I was out of there by the afternoon.
Corporal Baxter was loitering beside my car when I slipped out into the cold. He took off a glove and held out his hand for a shake, which startled me.
‘Good luck, sir.’
‘Thank you, Mr Baxter. Good luck to you too.’ A thought occurred to me – I’d never paid any attention to his flashes, and couldn’t see them under his greatcoat now. I asked, ‘Are you SP’ – service police – ‘or are you in the Regiment?’
‘The former, sir, for the next forty-eight hours. Then the latter. I just got my posting – I’ve being trying to get in for two years.’
‘Well done. So you’re not here to arrest me for anything?’
‘No sir; nothing like that.’ Then he grinned and added, ‘So you’d better go while the going’s good.’
We shook hands again, rather awkwardly this time. He was only out there to say goodbye to me, though we hadn’t exchanged over a dozen words since I’d arrived. People never fail to surprise me.
As I watched him dwindle in the car’s rear-view mirror when I drove away from the bloody place, it began to snow.
At Lympne, an hour and a half later, I called Wing Commander Watson. He didn’t sound all that sober: that was my kind of Watson again. I wanted to know what was at RAF Abingdon.
‘Cyprus is, old boy. Good luck.’ I wished people wouldn’t keep saying that to me.
‘Cyprus has come to Abingdon?’ Sir; remember the sir, Charlie. You’re back in blues.
‘It’s your lift to Cyprus. Transport Command. You can cadge a lift from the York Flight Specialist Unit there – they have those big polished shiny things: you like Yorks, don’t you?’
As it happened I had a love–hate relationship with Avro Yorks. Halton Air had a big red nasty one, and it was always going tech on us. I doubt that we ever made a decent operating profit on her.
‘Yes, sir; I’m familiar with the breed.’ It was depressing how quickly the sirs came back to you.
‘. . . not that you’re in a hurry any more. Your ten days’ leave just grew to seventeen.’
‘Why’s that, sir?’
‘It’s Christmas next week, you fool. It’s impolite to invade a country at Christmas time.’
It must have been my time of life, because it seemed that everyone was putting down the phone on me. I hoped that the word invade had been a proper
