‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Come back at three to make that call. OK? . . . and take M’smith with you. He works all the time: I can’t stand the sight of the beggar already.’
Before we’d got through the door he’d retuned the receiver to British Forces Network. David Whitfield was still singing that silly bloody soldier’s song. They played it a lot in those days. Watson pulled open a lower desk drawer. I heard the bottle clink. He was back on it again.
The telephone hissed and crackled for half an hour, and then I heard someone clearing his throat. It wasn’t me, and the office was empty. The Wing Commander and the rest of Cyprus had retired for their siestas. I’m sure the Daily Mirror would love to know how we were spending the taxpayers’ money.
I spoke, ‘Sergeant Pike, is that you?’
‘Sergeant Pry, Mr Bassett. Pry. Did they tell you that your father was in trouble again?’
‘Only that he’d been arrested. What was it for this time?’
He paused, as if ordering his thoughts. ‘Are you familiar with a delicacy known as a Scotch Pie, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. I’ve even eaten a few. Smashing. Round hard pastry pie crust with a filling of mince, onions and loads of really sloppy gravy. The Jocks eat them with chips . . . pie and chips. I’m babbling, aren’t I?’
‘Only a little, sir. It would appear that your father made another of his special little excursions down here, with half a dozen of the tasty little beggars in his rucksack.’
‘What for?’
‘To throw at people, apparently. He got both the Chief of the General Staff and the First Sea Lord on the steps of the War Ministry. It was the gravy that did all the damage – it went everywhere.’
‘Is it in the papers?’
‘Not yet.’
‘That will disappoint him. What can I do from here, though?’
‘If you can find someone to stand for him, he’ll probably be let out on bail and sent back to Glasgow, with his tail between his legs. The bail conditions would banish him from London. That would be a start.’
‘He’s been charged, I suppose?’
‘Assault, threatening behaviour and damage to government property – to wit two uniforms, one gravy-ed door, and mince all over a nice set of granite steps. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t come to anything, provided you can get him to stop.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘That’s the style, sir. No one wants the publicity of a trial, do they? What about a bail surety?’
‘I’ll make a few calls, OK?’
‘Good. I’ll wait until I hear from someone. If you don’t get him out, we’ll need to find him a solicitor.’
‘A psychiatrist would be more use. What did I do to deserve this?’
‘Have a father who worries about you, I think, sir. Shall I tell him that you’re safe and well?’
‘Yes, Sergeant. Thank you.’ I didn’t apologize, because deep in my heart I knew the old man was right.
I put the receiver down, and then lifted it again to ask the switchboard for another number. Then I took a deep breath before speaking to Dolly. I needn’t have worried: she thought it was terribly funny.
For the Beach Club, the military had probably nicked Cyprus’s best bathing spot. No wonder the buggers wanted us off the island. I headed down there in an old pair of KD shorts I thought I could wade in if I had to, an even older KD shirt open and flapping, and a pair of new plimsolls. The Hank Janson I hadn’t finished was in my back pocket and a towel over my shoulder. I couldn’t help reflecting how people pay money to do this sort of thing on holiday. There was a row of gaily painted Billy Butlin beach huts, like a terrace of small houses, and anyone who wasn’t sleeping in their billet was probably in a deckchair under a sunshade here. There were a few empty ones, so that was all right. Occasional stewards, with trays of glasses of cold beer beaded with moisture, moved among them. That was all right, too. The Brown Jobs had managed to make a nice set-up here on the quiet.
I hadn’t gone ten yards before a voice from the 1940s spoke to me. It was just as I was passing a big beach shade. There were two deckchairs. One was occupied by a woman.
She spoke again. ‘Hello, Charlie; small world.’
Adelaide Baker was Grace’s mother, and Carlo’s grandmother. I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses, but her legs and arms were firm and tanned. Tennis? She must have been nearly fifty but her body, under an inappropriately white swimming suit, was still as good as money could buy. Millionairesses seem to have this system that defies the ageing process: it’s called cash.
At first I couldn’t speak. Then: ‘Hello, Addy. What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting someone. How about you?’
‘Passing through.’
She took a great gulp of cold beer from her cold glass, and then pressed it between her tits. It left a damp patch on her costume. Then she offered it to me – the beer, I mean – which was a surprisingly intimate gesture. ‘Thirsty?’
‘Yes. Thanks.’
I drained it, and then scooped two more from the tray of a passing steward, pausing to sign the chitty with a Mess number I made up on the spot.
It was her turn to say, ‘Thank you.’
We had absolutely nothing to say to each other, and a million things to say, all at the same time. She smiled like royalty.
‘Passing through, Charlie . . . for how long?’
‘A few days.’
‘Have dinner with me tonight?’
I didn’t have to think about it. ‘Why not? Where, and when?’
‘There’s a restaurant run by the NAAFI for waifs and strays and in-betweens like me – about ten minutes along the beach. It has the really tacky name of
