Victory Disc

by Andrew Cartmel

  He led us away from the noise of the wedding reception on the lawn outside and into the cool shadows of his house. Despite its traditional English mansard roof, the house was ranch-style and built in modern blocks on different levels, intersecting each other. If Frank Lloyd Wright had been asked to do a cowboy movie it might have turned out like this.

  “Sorry to drag you away,” said Nevada again.

  “I’m glad to get a bit of respite. Would you like a cup of tea? I could murder a cup of tea.” He led us into the kitchen, which was Mexican themed, with a red tiled floor, wooden work surfaces and lots of hanging implements. A long table was covered with large plates of brightly coloured food. “Please help yourself to anything in the way of grub.”

  “Really?” said Tinkler.

  Gerry gestured casually with a big hand. “Oh yeah, get stuck in, mate.” Tinkler took our host at his word and enthusiastically applied himself to the free food. It wasn’t as good as the gorgeous girls, but it would have to do. While he was piling a plate perilously high, Nevada and I sat down with Gerry at a small circular table in an alcove that overlooked a shady corner of the garden devoted to what looked like vegetable beds. There wasn’t a shed in sight, which was a relief.

  Gerry held the photograph delicately in his big hands and peered at it like a man looking through a window at a distant vista, which I suppose he was. “Where did you get this? Off the Internet, I imagine. Everything’s the Internet these days.”

  “That’s right,” said Nevada. “You certainly look dashing in it.”

  Gerry chuckled contentedly. “The birds used to love it. The young ladies, that is. If a feller was in a band. In uniform and in a band. We could do no wrong.”

  I said, “What did you play?”

  He looked at me, pale eyes surprised. “What instrument, do you mean? I didn’t play anything. I was no musician. I was what you’d call the roadie! I used to carry all the equipment and music stands and all that.”

  I felt my heart sink. The writing on the photograph hadn’t given any indication of what instrument anyone played. And none of the men were holding their instruments. They were just standing or sitting, shoulder to shoulder, in neat rows in their best uniforms.

  “They included me in the picture, though. I was definitely part of the orchestra. And it still got me the birds—didn’t it just!” He sighed reminiscently, looking at the picture. Then he glanced up at us. “No need to mention that last bit to the wife.”

  I said, “If you didn’t play in the band, I suppose that means you don’t have any copies of their records.”

  He looked at me. “I never said I didn’t have no records.” My stomach did a little flip of excitement. “I think I’ve got the lot,” said Gerry.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “Oh yeah, I couldn’t play an instrument but that don’t mean I didn’t love listening. I loved the music. I had all the records. Still got most of them. Got a copy of us playing ‘In the Mood’. ‘In the Nude’ we called it, which was ever so apt, given the number of lovelies who ended up in the nude as a result of hearing the band play it. No need to mention any of that to the wife, either.”

  I explained about Joan Honeyland and her search for the records. “This is Lucky’s little girl, Joan?” said Gerry.

  “That’s right.”

  He shook his head. “Isn’t that wonderful? Building a museum for her old dad.”

  “Apparently he was quite a successful children’s author,” I said.

  “Oh, really? I didn’t know nothing about that. Clever bloke. Not just a pilot and officer and musician, but a writer too. He was a good sort, Lucky, considering he was a toffee-nosed aristocrat.”

  “This chutney is amazing,” said Tinkler, pausing between mouthfuls. He’d sat down at the counter opposite us, his plate in front of him. On it he had bread, cheese, three pieces of chicken, an indeterminate number of sausages, a cluster of bright pink king prawns, smoked salmon, potato salad, chips, some sort of curry, and a mound of coleslaw. “What is it?”

  “Green bean, mate. That’s the green bean chutney. Did well with our beans last year.” He gestured towards the window and the vegetable garden beyond.

  “This green bean chutney is amazing,” said Tinkler, returning to his plate.

  “If god made anything better he kept it for his self,” said Gerry. “Actually, god didn’t make it. I did.”

  “And luckily you didn’t keep it for yourself,” said Nevada.

  This was all very nice, but I felt it was time to cut to the chase.

  “Anyway,” I said, “we represent Miss Honeyland. And she’d be very interested in acquiring any records you have by the Flare Path Orchestra.”

  “You can fleece the old crone,” said Tinkler cheerfully, gnawing at a chicken wing. This was perfectly true, if a bit mean-spirited, but it didn’t seem particularly relevant. Sitting here in the big kitchen of his big house, Gerald Wuggins didn’t look like he was hurting for money.

  “Yes, well, I’m sure we can work something out,” said Gerry, waving one of those big hands in the air in a vague gesture. “I’ve got all those old records up in my attic just doing nothing. Haven’t even got anything to play them on any more. The gramophone—can you imagine? It’s all iPods now.” I began to get a warm feeling inside.

  “They’ll be going to a good home,” I said. “And Miss Honeyland can make digital copies for you.” I didn’t know that she would, but it seemed like a reasonable request. “So it will be like you still have them, the records.” Of course it would be nothing like that at all, as far as I was concerned, trading the original shellac—on which the music actually existed, physically etched there by the very sound waves that had been emitted when it was played—for a phantom digital version to haunt your MP3 player. But most people would go for the latter every time.

  Tinkler finally paused in his eating. The pile of food on his plate had got the better of him. He looked around. “I don’t suppose there’s anything here I could use as a doggie bag?”

  “Tinkler!”

  But our host just chuckled indulgently and returned to looking at the photograph. “There he is: Lucky. I was with him, you know. On the big night. The night when he flew us back on one engine.” He shook his head. “He won the DFC that night, he did.”

  “Distinguished Flying Cross?” said Nevada.

  “That’s right. And he bloody well earned it. We’d been shot to pieces. The co-pilot was dead, hit by a cannon round. Tail gunner was dead—poor Tosh, he never had a chance. He couldn’t operate his guns. It got so cold in those Lancasters that you froze. Literally. His fingers were literally frozen. He couldn’t bring the guns to bear. Not in time. Then we lost our navigator. What was he called? Maurice something, or something Morris. Hit by shrapnel. There was blood everywhere and the wind was ripping through us, we were so full of holes. We were down to two engines, and as we were coming in for our final approach we lost one of those. But Colonel Honeyland still managed to land us in one piece. On a single bloody engine! And they gave him the DFC. Yes, he bloody well earned it that night.”

  He set the photograph down and looked at us. Straight at us. Yet somehow it was as if we weren’t here. Or perhaps he wasn’t here. He was back in that moonlit night, flying over Europe. “We was on our way back from Berlin. Berlin was a bugger. It was deep inside Germany, you see, a long way in. The only time you could fly a long-distance mission like that was when the nights were long. In other words, in the middle of bleeding winter. So the weather was always filthy. There was this bloody big cloud looming over Berlin. You couldn’t see nothing. You had no idea what you were bombing. And the anti-aircraft fire was diabolical. But that night it wasn’t too bad. We didn’t take a single casualty going in. It’s funny, it was often like that when Colonel Honeyland flew with us. That’s why we called him Lucky. Whenever he flew a mission with us, it seemed we came back without a scratch.” He laughed. “Of course, the boys wished he could fly with us all the time
. But it wasn’t allowed. It was a miracle he flew with us as often as he did. Most commanders didn’t fly any missions, not a single one.” His smile faded and his face darkened. “They sat on their arses safe at home while they sent us boys out to die.” He brightened again. “But not Lucky. He flew bombing missions. And he was like our good luck charm. When he was flying a mission, we knew we’d all come back in one piece.”

  “But not that night,” I said.

  “No, you’re right, mate. Not that night. We were on our way back from Berlin. We’d dropped our load, mission complete, and we were in the bomber stream coming home. All that was behind us: the searchlights and the anti-aircraft batteries. We were approaching the coast. And suddenly this night fighter spotted us. Got us on his radar, I suppose. Or maybe he was being directed by ground radar. Or maybe he just saw us. Anyway, our number was up.” He sighed.

  “It was a Junkers. A Ju 88C. Twin engine night fighter. Three 20mm cannons in the nose. And three 7.9mm machine guns. He got on our tail and just started shooting us to pieces. Tosh was the first to go. Then Maurice something, or something Morris. The Junkers was taking his time. Accurate, measured fire. He was in no hurry. Blowing us to bits. And that would have been the end of us if Lucky hadn’t—” He paused and gave us a sharp look. “But you don’t want to be hearing my war stories.”

  “Yes we do,” said Nevada, at her most honeyed and persuasive. Of course, Miss Honeyland had asked us to try and collect anecdotes about her father. I’d completely forgotten this until Nevada had chimed in. The thought of records in the attic had entirely filled my attention. Now I was grateful for her help.

  I had the distinct sense Gerry was going to tell us something significant and had deliberately stopped himself. I nodded eagerly. “As well as any records, we’re also very interested in any reminiscences about Lucky.”

  He hesitated. I felt he was making up his mind whether to tell us. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “So this is where you are,” said a voice.

  A woman came into the kitchen. She was in youthful middle age, smartly dressed and well-groomed. She had blonde hair, which no doubt later Nevada would tell me was natural or not, and disconcertingly large and alert blue eyes. “We thought you’d run off. And with the cake-cutting still to happen.”

  “Oh no, love,” said Gerry. “I wouldn’t run off, not with the cake-cutting still to happen. I was just talking to these folk here. You know my old records of the Flare Path Orchestra? These nice people are interested in them. They reckon there might be a few quid in it for us—or at least some glory.”

  “That’s nice, honey,” said the woman. “Can I have a quick word with you?”

  Gerry gave us an anxious glance in which one could suddenly see the guilty schoolboy of many decades ago, and rose from the table. “Back in a tick,” he said, and followed the woman out. She was clearly his wife, although she looked about half his age. He returned promptly and clapped his big hands together.

  “Well, folks, it looks like the records in the attic will have to wait. I’ve just been read the riot act.”

  “I’m so sorry,” said Nevada. “It’s all our fault.”

  “No, no, it happens all the time. We’ve got a lot of grandchildren, and all of them are girls and all of them are getting married, at least so it seems. We always have the receptions here and I always spring for it—of course I do. But it gets a bit much, and I’ve taken to sneaking off when I get the chance.” He shook his head ruefully. “Trust me, this wasn’t as bad as the time she caught me watching cricket on the telly.” He chuckled. “Actually, Sheryll was pretty good about it. It’s just that she’s really hot on family occasions and all that. Makes a special point of it.”

  “Second-wife syndrome,” said Nevada.

  “Yes,” said Gerry. “Exactly! There are two ways the second wife can go. She can try to cut you off completely from all your old mates and your family, chop all those ties and have you all to herself. Or she can go overboard in the opposite direction, making herself part of the family and being in everybody’s good books. You know, remembering every bloody birthday. Like Sheryll. She’s hot on family, oh is she ever. Every time one of the grandkids farts we have to have a party to celebrate.” He shook his head. “She’s worse than Doreen ever was.”

  “The French have a saying for that,” said Nevada. “Plus catholique que le pape. It means ‘more Catholic than the pope’.”

  “More Catholic than the pope! I like that.”

  “Doreen was your first wife?”

  “Yeah, lovely girl. Her ticker just blew.” For a moment he was lost in thoughts about the past. Then he shook his head, as if clearing it. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to the wedding.”

  “Of course,” said Nevada.

  “Of course,” I said, trying to conceal my bitter disappointment.

  “Don’t worry, mate, you’ll get your records. We’ll go into the attic and get them this evening.” Gerry grinned at me. “You and me together. You can hold the torch.”

  “Are you sure?” said Nevada.

  “Oh yeah, come back later. Then this mob will either be gone or too drunk to care. I’ll be a free agent again, and we can sort it all out. Just kill some time and come back here.” He nodded his head and smiled as if he’d thought of something. “Tell you what, why don’t you go to Dover?”

  “Why would anyone want to go to Dover?” said Tinkler, who had attended secondary school in that fabled port town.

  Gerry reached down and picked up the photo from the table. He prodded it with a large finger.

  “Because he lives there.”

  6. DOVER

  We drove down a winding hill past Dover Castle, which was very impressive, looming on the hill against the moody grey sky in angular grandeur. “Nice castle,” I said.

  “It wasn’t enough,” said Tinkler. “Believe me, growing up here, it wasn’t enough.”

  “You’ve really got it in for poor old Dover,” said Nevada.

  Tinkler glanced in the mirror to catch a last glimpse of the vast Norman battlements as we drove downhill, away from the castle. Then, thankfully, returned his eyes to the road. The one-way system seemed to be routing us inexorably towards the docks. I assumed he knew where he was going.

  “Still, you’re right,” he said. “It is a nice castle. Clean Head would like it. I should bring her down here and show it to her.”

  “That’s your plan?” said Nevada. “You’re going to try and get into her knickers by showing her the great castles of England?”

  “Her knickers,” said Tinkler happily.

  “Keep your mind on the driving, Tinkler.”

  We crawled through the town centre. There was a lot of traffic. Perhaps a ferry had just arrived. Then we turned left and began to wind our way uphill again. The little blue Volvo climbed past playing fields and then a gateway leading up a steep slope towards a big ornate building on a hill. “There’s the old school,” said Tinkler, glancing at it as we passed. “My alma mater. What does that mean, by the way? ‘White mother’?”

  “Nurturing,” said Nevada. “Nurturing mother.”

  “You see the school gates there? That’s where old Smithy got beaten up. Two boys in the year below us. I think they were brothers. They waited for him after school one day and beat him up. He came in the next day with a black eye and split lip.”

  I said, “So it wasn’t very nurturing for poor old Smithy.”

  Tinkler bobbed his head. “The funny thing was, he wasn’t some kind of loser. He was one of the school’s alpha males. So I wondered how he was going to get them back. I waited for the showdown.” Tinkler signalled and turned left. “But nothing happened. He got beaten up, he took his lumps, he never did anything about it. Time passed and no one mentioned it anymore and that was that.” Tinkler shrugged.

  He glanced at us. “It turned out that in this respect life was different to any number of Clint Eastwood movies.”

  “What happened to him?” sai
d Nevada. “Smithy?”

  “He’s a doctor now. Loads of money, big house, nice family.”

  Nevada glanced at me. “Why couldn’t you be a doctor?”

  I said, “I’m too busy looking for fucking records.”

  * * *

  Ever since we’d left Sevenoaks we’d been travelling under a vast, minatory charcoal sky that had promised at least storm and rain and quite possibly the apocalypse. But now, as we parked the car on a hillside slope in a row of small houses, the clouds broke open and sunlight poured through. We were sitting on a steep gradient, so Tinkler turned the tyres at an angle and applied the handbrake before we got out; Clean Head would have approved.

  We stood blinking in the radiant afternoon. “Gorgeous day,” said Nevada. “Breathe that fresh air. I bet it’s lovely down by the sea.” She looked at us. “We can go for a walk along the seaside before we drive back.”

  “Can I kill myself instead?” said Tinkler.

  We walked up the sloping street. There was a minivan parked at the top. It was a classic hippie vehicle, rusting and highly decorated. On the side facing us was a giant smiling yellow sun shedding slanting rays across a pale blue background. In swirling purple lettering it read: Mr Sunshine is giving us some golden love today. Thirty seconds ago it would have been a bad joke. Now it seemed eerily, almost prophetically apt.

  As we reached the top of the hill and the van, Nevada glanced to the right, where the residential dwellings gave way to a small parade of shops meandering back downhill. “Look,” she said. “My god, there’s a clothes shop. A second-hand clothes shop.”

  Tinkler rubbed his hands together. “And who knows what bargains these gullible locals might have on offer?”