‘There you are,’ she said as she put the tray on his lap. ‘I’ve got you an egg. Can you manage all right?’
‘Yes.’
She stood beside the bed. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. If you want another egg I might be able to get you one.’
‘This is all right.’
‘Well, just ring the bell if you want any more.’ And she went out.
He had just finished eating, when the nurse came in again.
She said, ‘Wing Commander Roberts is here. I’ve told him that he can only stay for a few minutes.’
She beckoned with her hand and the wing commander came in.
‘Sorry to bother you like this,’ he said.
He was an ordinary RAF officer, dressed in a uniform which was a little shabby. He wore wings and a DFC. He was fairly tall and thin with plenty of black hair. His teeth, which were irregular and widely spaced, stuck out a little even when he closed his mouth. As he spoke he took a printed form and a pencil from his pocket and he pulled up a chair and sat down.
‘How are you feeling?’
There was no answer.
‘Tough luck about your leg. I know how you feel. I hear you put up a fine show before they got you.’
The man in the bed was lying quite still, watching the man in the chair.
The man in the chair said, ‘Well, let’s get this stuff over. I’m afraid you’ll have to answer a few questions so that I can fill in this combat report. Let me see now, first of all, what was your squadron?’
The man in the bed did not move. He looked straight at the wing commander and he said, ‘My name is Peter Williamson, my rank is squadron leader and my number is nine seven two four five seven.’
The Champion of the World
First published in the
New Yorker
, 31 January 1959
All day, in between serving customers, we had been crouching over the table in the office of the filling-station, preparing the raisins. They were plump and soft and swollen from being soaked in water, and when you nicked them with a razor-blade the skin sprang open and the jelly stuff inside squeezed out as easily as you could wish.
But we had a hundred and ninety-six of them to do altogether and the evening was nearly upon us before we had finished.
‘Don’t they look marvellous!’ Claud cried, rubbing his hands together hard. ‘What time is it, Gordon?’
‘Just after five.’
Through the window we could see a station-wagon pulling up at the pumps with a woman at the wheel and about eight children in the back eating ice-creams.
‘We ought to be moving soon,’ Claud said. ‘The whole thing’ll be a washout if we don’t arrive before sunset, you realize that.’ He was getting twitchy now. His face had the same flushed and pop-eyed look it got before a dog-race or when there was a date with Clarice in the evening.
We both went outside and Claud gave the woman the number of gallons she wanted. When she had gone, he remained standing in the middle of the driveway squinting anxiously up at the sun which was now only the width of a man’s hand above the line of trees along the crest of the ridge on the far side of the valley.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Lock up.’
He went quickly from pump to pump, securing each nozzle in its holder with a small padlock.
‘You’d better take off that yellow pullover,’ he said.
‘Why should I?’
‘You’ll be shining like a bloody beacon out there in the moonlight.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
‘You will not,’ he said. ‘Take it off, Gordon, please. I’ll see you in three minutes.’ He disappeared into his caravan behind the filling-station, and I went indoors and changed my yellow pullover for a blue one.
When we met again outside, Claud was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a dark-green turtleneck sweater. On his head he wore a brown cloth cap with the peak pulled down low over his eyes, and he looked like an apache actor out of a nightclub.
‘What’s under there?’ I asked, seeing the bulge at his waistline.
He pulled up his sweater and showed me two thin but very large white cotton sacks which were bound neat and tight around his belly. ‘To carry the stuff,’ he said darkly.
‘I see.’
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘I still think we ought to take the car.’
‘It’s too risky. They’ll see it parked.’
‘But it’s over three miles up to that wood.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And I suppose you realize we can get six months in the clink if they catch us.’
‘You never told me that.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘I’m not coming,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth it.’
‘The walk will do you good, Gordon. Come on.’
It was a calm sunny evening with little wisps of brilliant white cloud hanging motionless in the sky, and the valley was cool and very quiet as the two of us began walking together along the grass verge on the side of the road that ran between the hills towards Oxford.
‘You got the raisins?’ Claud asked.
‘They’re in my pocket.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Marvellous.’
Ten minutes later we turned left off the main road into a narrow lane with high hedges on either side and from now on it was all uphill.
‘How many keepers are there?’ I asked.
‘Three.’
Claud threw away a half-finished cigarette. A minute later he lit another.
‘I don’t usually approve of new methods,’ he said. ‘Not on this sort of a job.’
‘Of course.’
‘But by God, Gordon, I think we’re on to a hot one this time.’
‘You do?’
‘There’s no question about it.’
‘I hope you’re
