Dolly said, ‘OK. Sorry about that. Shoot . . .’ I’d actually shot her last boss when he went crazy, but it wasn’t the time to go into that. I told her about the riot, and the policeman’s daughter who had steered us away from being blown up in a bus. I was right. Dolly was interested despite herself.
‘Did you get her address?’
‘Only the street, sorry.’ I gave it to her.
‘Thank you, Charlie. That sounds quite interesting. It would be nice to put one over on the Pongoes for a change; they think they own the bloody island.’ When Dolly was in work mode she rarely used proper nouns herself. ‘It was nice of you to think of me.’ I often thought about her, because we’d counted one another’s freckles a few times, but it wasn’t the time to remind her of that either.
She asked, ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Do you still have the Major’s phone number down in Bosham?’
‘Yes, it’s in my book as an alternative one for you.’
‘Could you give them a ring, and let the boys know I’m OK? So far so good.’
‘Of course.’ It was the real reason for my call, of course, and Dolly didn’t mind. ‘You haven’t finished your trip out yet?’
‘No, I’m in Cyprus. And I’m here for two days. It’s warm and the beer is very, very good. I might even get to paddle in the sea.’
‘Please take care, and call me any time you want. Let me know as soon as you’re back.’
‘Does that mean we’re reconciled, then?’
‘We were never anything else, stupid. You’re my favourite little man, even when I hate you.’
‘Really?’
‘Truly. You always have been; didn’t you know?’
That was a bit of a yorker: I didn’t know quite how to respond, so I asked, ‘Didn’t you get married?’
‘No, not quite. I went out with some of my girlfriends the night before, and got rather sloshed. I’m afraid I was still asleep when I was supposed to be getting hitched.’
I laughed, and then apologized for laughing.
‘Wasn’t that a bit of an irresponsible thing to do?’
‘No, Charlie. It was exactly the right thing to do, as things turned out. Mother hasn’t spoken to me since, but Daddy thinks it is all rather amusing.’
‘Dads usually come up trumps.’
‘Yours too?’
‘He’s never let me down; even when he should have. What happened to your fellah?’
‘At the moment he’s driving a car in the Monte Carlo rally, and doing rather well. I saw him on the Pathé News at the flicks last night. His co-driver is a Guardsman, and someone told me they’re in love. I don’t expect I’ll see him again.’ I’d heard those rumours about the Guards as well.
‘I miss you, Dolly. I always forget that I’m going to, and then I always do.’
‘And that is exactly the right place to end this chat, Charlie. Don’t worry: it’s only seven months, and it will flash by.’
‘Bye to you too!’ We were both giggling a bit when I put the receiver back. At least I knew how long my posting was now. But how the hell did Dolly know that?
I once remarked that these bastards were so far up each other’s arses that only their feet were showing. How did Dolly know that? She knew it because David Watson knew it. And how did David Watson know it? He knew it because he was waiting in Hut 7 for me when I sauntered in the next morning. His old prewar KDs looked threadbare, and the soft-peaked cap on his desk was the type I’d seen pictures of Lawrence of Arabia wearing. I pulled myself quickly into a semblance of the shape assumed by a junior RAF officer.
He was in a mellow mood as usual, so he didn’t notice. ‘Come in, Charlie, pull up a pew. You’ve met M’smith.’
I had; but I didn’t know where he fitted in.
‘Good morning, sir.’
He almost nodded when I said sir; as if he’d been waiting for it. Hut 7 was more or less square – just the one room. Charts on the walls, old-fashioned blackout curtains drawn, and an old 1154/1155 radio set up on a table in one corner. We were playing the Aussies in the Test at Adelaide soon, so perhaps that’s what it was for: you always got great reception on the old Lancaster radio sets.
Watson sat behind a desk. M’smith at another working on some charts. He looked back at me over his shoulder, and grinned. He looked as if he knew what he was doing. Bloody nav.
I asked Watson, ‘When did you get in, sir?’
‘A week or so ago.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Same as before. Same as you were doing at that dreadful place on the South Coast . . . where was it again?’
‘Dungeness, sir.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So . . . I’m going to be flying about, or sitting on my backside in a place like this, listening to the Reds all over again? I didn’t even know they were out here.’
‘Not exactly, Charlie – but for your information the Reds are everywhere.’
I had learned to distrust his not exactlys.
‘Tell me, then, sir. Tell me the worst.’
‘Do you know what I wrote in your B107 the last time we served together, Charlie?’ Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to like it, was I? So I didn’t reply. Watson shoved on.
