by C S Gibbs
Hector nodded in agreement, encouraging Ben to do likewise.
“May I ask what this appointment will be, Señor?” he asked Hector.
“Mr Hutchinson is coming with me on Saturday to my club to talk about an appointment overseas. He will want to look his best and feel comfortable in there. We will be talking with Mr Bartholomew – I know that he is one of your customers, too.”
“Oh, of course, Señor,” smiled Taplin, “A very pleasant gentleman, Mr Bartholomew. Please give him my regards when you meet him.”
Señor Taplin then began to speak to Ben in what was to him yet another new language – that of tailoring. Words and terms such as vents, blind cuffs, lustre, drape and gorge all required explanations, but Hector assured him that these things were all part of a well-dressed gentleman's essential knowledge – and all gentlemen should be well-dressed!
Measurements were taken and material was chosen. Despite Hector's initial feeling that Ben should eschew his dour, Anglo-Saxon tendency to constantly dress in the bland, dark hues of an English Winter, and choose some slightly lighter shade, he conceded that it would be best to settle for an honest-to-goodness, never-let-you-down suit in charcoal grey, worsted wool from the Pampas.
Over the next five days, Señor Taplin made good his word and worked beyond his normal tempo to ensure that Ben looked every inch a man of the world, even if he had, as yet, seen very little of it. The quality, feel and craftsmanship was not lost on him, nor was the fact that this double breasted work of art had cost a whole week's wages. He did not have to convince himself that it was worth it, though, because when he saw himself in the mirror, feeling like a young prince, he knew that it was worth every peso.
So it was on the aforementioned Saturday that the young prince and his mentor, both dressed to kill, drove their way through Palermo, along the Avenida del Libertador, en route to do business with some man of great import named Bartholomew.
Past the Plaza Alemania, they came to the majestic Monumento a la Magna Carta. The elegant city parks with their lush green lawns and regiments of trees, surrounded by grand architecture brought memories to mind for Ben of a boyhood trip to London with his father (to watch Derby play Arsenal). To the left was the Jardin Zoologico and he afforded himself a smile, as he remembered the scene of the first kiss he had stolen from Setsu.
Eventually, the car pulled off the main road and along a short drive way, coming to rest outside an imposing looking building of sand-coloured stone, owing more to the Greco-Roman school than the Parisian.
A uniformed usher stepped forward from the building's main entrance and stood to attention by Hector's car door. He wound down the window to be greeted cordially by the man, whom Hector instructed to park the car.
Alighting from the car at Hector's bidding, Ben followed him, receiving some advice as they went.
“Ben, please do not be offended, but I think you should not say too much until I have made some introductions for you. We are going to meet a truly influential man in here and he may not always be as open and welcoming as Vero and I. Sometimes I think that some of these people are too serious for their own good.”
“I understand,” Ben assured him. “To be honest, I am not sure what it is going to be like in there.”
“Oh, perhaps I have intimidated you with my words. Look, as long as you can drink a whiskey and brandy without coughing, I think you will be fine!”
They strode in to the building and Hector signed Ben in to the guest book as waiting staff bid him welcome. The concierge asked about Ben's identity and was assured by Hector that he was a worthwhile guest.
Hector led and they headed towards the mottled glass doors of the smoking room, which were opened by an obliging steward. On entering, it seemed impossible to make out any faces in the dense, Cuban fug, but Hector knew exactly where to find his quarry and forged ahead to his target.
In the corner of the wood-panelled lounge, just beyond the grand, marble fireplace and almost cocooned in the easiest of bottle-green leather chairs, sat a thoroughly relaxed figure, nursing a double brandy whilst adding to the already industrial atmosphere with a Havana of lung-withering proportions. His suit, another Taplin original, was a well kept and trusted version of Ben's (who could now see the logic of his new attire, amongst this well-heeled company – by simply looking the part, he did not feel overwhelmed in these lofty surroundings) and its occupant looked up and greeted Hector with a nod, then rose to shake his hand.
“Hernandez, on time as ever. It's good to see you again. This must be the young fellow of whom you spoke.”
His accent was clearly that of the English establishment. It was clipped and clear, neither high nor low in pitch – the sort that Ben had only heard on the BBC, but never in person. Sure enough, though, the sound and the image fitted perfectly: his hair, the colour of damp sand, was swept back neatly, the eyes were blue and sharp, the nose and jawline were streamlined and solid, whilst the lips were non-too thin and, if ever any more proof of English-ness were required, they housed a less than well aligned set of teeth that did not smile too much. This man was officer material.
“Yes,” responded Hector, “This is my young friend, Mister Ben Hutchinson. Ben, please meet your fellow countryman, Mister Richard Bartholomew. He works for your embassy, here in Buenos Aires.”
The men shook hands and sat down, pausing to order drinks and join in with the rest of the smoking fray.
“Do, please, indulge in one of Cuba's finest, chaps – one of the real perks of being out here is that a fellow can get his hands on these,” enthused Bartholomew. “And how is Buenos Aires suiting you, Hutchinson?”
Ben was used to being addressed by just his surname, but for an instant he felt as if that was Bartholomew's way of putting a working-class boy in his place, but then he realised that he had barely said a word to the man, not enough to belie his origins, and this this was obviously the way that these men addressed one another.
“Very well, thank you,” he responded, “I only wish that I could stay for longer, but my contract and visa are only for six months and I've only two more months remaining.”
“After which,” pre-empted Bartholomew, “You will be needing to go home and do your bit, eh? Hector tells me that you rather fancy being a fly boy and that sounds like a capital idea.
“Got a younger brother, myself, who was a pilot in the RAF back in the twenties. He had himself a whale of a time out in the desert sorting out some bunch of mad mullahs called the Kurds, I believe – not sure what they'd done to warrant it, but one assumes that they deserved a thrashing and someone had to teach them a lesson, I suppose. Lots of shooting at camels and the like. Real fun and games, apparently. I fancied it, myself, but I used to get so bloody sick when flying, so I went in to the Guards, instead.” He took an enthused mouthful of brandy.
“Listen, I've made a couple of calls and I think I might just have something for you.”
The two guests sat forward in their chairs.
“Have you heard of the EATS? That's the Empire Air Training Scheme – Britain has lots of young pilots being trained all over the empire, in Canada, Australia and the like. Well, what would you say to training in New Zealand?
“Look, they only have a small population and are always in need of recruits for pilot training, there. I sent a couple of messages down the wires to the New Zealand legation in Washington and the news is that they say that they can fit you in, provided you can get yourself over there. We can get the references sorted out between us and then send word home through the proper channels that you are signed up for King and Country. Then you can go down to the South Pacific and fly your Tiger Moth! How does that sound?”
Ben looked agog at Hector. It sounded so improbable, but perhaps this was the next part of the adventure (his mother would never believe this!)
“Thank you, that sounds wonderful. How will I get there, though?” he asked.
“We can find you a berth on a merchant vessel – no problem. Unt
il then, you can just enjoy the rest of your time here,” offered Hector.
“What we have to do, right now,” continued Bartholomew, “Is get you sorted out with a medical certificate. Here is the address of our doctor. Jennings is his name – he's a fine chap. It should be a formality – you look like a strapping young chap. Where are you from, exactly, Hutchinson?”
“Derbyshire.” Those three syllables, spoken in his natural dialect ('Daa-bih-shuh') were enough to instantly stereotype him for Bartholomew, who puffed out a bellyful of cigar smoke with a guffaw.
“Good Lord, man, you sound like a coal miner when you say that! Never mind learning to fly – if you want to get by in the RAF, you'd better take some elocution lessons, old man!”
Ben felt crushed. The months in Argentina had allowed him to feel unshackled by the constraints put upon him by distinctions of class and social standing. At work, he was respected for his ability as an engineer and to his Argentine colleagues he was simply English, rather than lowly English. It had taken just a few minutes in the company of the Mother Country's elite and he was now back in his pigeonhole.
“But his accent sounds just fine to me,” pondered Hector, “I think that he sounds just like you, Richard. I think that you will find him to be a well-spoken young man, and not just in English, but in Spanish, also.”
“Well, you might be advised to carry on speaking in Spanish, my boy. I say this as friendly advice. If you can't brush the coal dust off of that accent, then you'll never make it as an officer, I can tell you that.
“Come on, Hector, you should know how it works. Do you think that you would have got this far in life if you still spoke like a country gaucho?”
Bartholomew's knowing look held both men for a moment and they both knew that he was right. Liza had nagged Ben to say his words nicely and Hector realised at an early age that if he was going to mix with the people at the top, he would have to speak like them.
“Alright,” conceded Ben, “Perhaps I don't sound like Leslie Howard, and I might well have grown up in D H Lawrence country, but I've proved my worth as an engineer and I'll prove my worth as a pilot, too. Don't judge me on my accent, alone.”
Bartholomew sat back with his first proper smile of the engagement.
“Well said, young sir. Well said. I'll drink to that,” he gave Ben an approving nod, then raised his brandy glass and finished it in one.
“In fact, we all need to drink to that!” He called the waiter and ordered three double brandies. The three men then set about re-lighting their cigars, by which time the drinks arrived. Glasses were raised and Hector led the toast.
“Here is to you, my friend, and the next part of your journey!”
Chapter Twenty-one - Cold hands, warm heart
“Cough!” Instructed Doctor Jennings, whose wiry, liver-spotted hands were every bit as cold as Ben had dreaded they would be.
“No problems, there. Now, turn around and bend over, please.”
This was the fearsome stuff of legend – everyone who had taken their medical for the armed forces would nudge and wink about those shameless hands grasping down below. Whilst Ben had prepared himself for the infamous test of his manhood, he was not quite prepared for the further indignation of a speculative inspection for haemorrhoids.
This, however, was certainly not the stuff of heroes. The likes of Gary Cooper and David Niven would never have to endure this sort of humiliation in the movies, that was for sure.
“Well, Mr Hutchinson, I can assure you that that was just as pleasurable for me as it was for you, but it's all over now. Do please get dressed and take a seat.”
The learned doctor lit a cigarette and set about signing off the paperwork on his desk whilst Ben gladly climbed back in to his suit.
“So, young Ben, remind me, again, of your height and weight, please.”
“Well, last time I checked, I was five foot eleven inches and eleven stones.”
“And that last time was back in England, yes?”
“That's right.”
“Clearly, the last six months in Argentina have been good to you, my lad. You have grown and inch in height and gained almost a stone in weight!”
“You're joking!”
“Not at all. I don't wish to sound rude, but your diet, growing up, was probably not all that rounded, whilst three years of rationing was never going to put much on your waistline. Since you've been here, you've had prime steak every other day and you've been getting lots of exercise just by doing your very physical job. It really has built you up, young fellow!”
“I must say, I don't think I've ever felt better.”
“A proper diet, lots of exercise, fresh air and a country that is thousands of miles away from the war – it's all combined to make you in to a fine young specimen of a man, which is almost a shame, Ben.”
“A shame? I'm not sure I follow you, Dr Jennings?”
“It means that I have to give you an A-one grade for active service, so you are just what the air force is looking for. Consequently, you are perfect material to become a fighter pilot, which will immediately put your life expectancy in danger. You see, it's the pilots who get shot at the most – there are only so many things to shoot at up in the sky, and there are no trees and rocks to hide behind up there – not to mention all the crashes and accidents that they get involved in.
“This is the stupidity of it all. It is precisely because you are a strapping, intelligent young man with twenty-twenty vision that you are best equipped to be put right in the firing line, doing the most dangerous job. If you were some asthmatic runt with bow legs and a squint, you would end up as a filing clerk in some remote office, seeing out the war without getting so much as a scratch. But you are going up in the wild, blue yonder, risking life and limb at three hundred miles an hour, with some hot shot Jerry haring after you in his Messerschmitt! So much for survival of the fittest – all the good ones are getting themselves shot to ribbons!”
“You present quite a strong case. What do you suggest I do, then?”
“To be honest, I agree with your good friend, Mr Hernandez, that you might be well served spending a couple of years training – the whole thing could be over before you get around to the sharp end of things, and believe me, I would be quite happy for you to miss out on that. I was in the last war and it was no picnic. Ah, that reminds me, I do feel the need to ask you a personal question, if I may, Ben?”
“Well, after that doing that cough for you, I don't really see how anything could be more personal! Fire away.”
“Are you currently courting? Have you got yourself a young lady friend?”
The question did catch Ben off guard. In reality, he and Setsu really were in a relationship, but it was almost as if he could not admit to it even to himself because of its nature. Regardless, it was a relationship and it was not the business of Dr Jennings to know Setsu's identity and certainly not her nationality.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I've been seeing a very lovely young lady for the last few months, here in Buenos Aires.”
“Ah, yes, the girls here are simply charming. Do you think that it has potential? Will you be keeping in touch with her once you have gone away?”
If only you knew, thought Ben. “Yes, I will certainly be writing to her a great deal, I hope.”
“So you'll be staying faithful to her, then?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. What are you driving at, Dr Jennings?”
“To cut to the quick, Ben, I am advising you not to put yourself about with the ladies whilst you are away – especially in the brothels.”
Ben was lost for words. The very cheek of it! Is this how he got his thrills in his old age?
“Please don't be offended, Ben. As I said, I was in the Great War – I was an army doctor out in Egypt and let me tell you, it was not the Turkish army that did for a lot of our boys, it was the whores in Cairo. I am sure that I treated as many men for the clap as I did for bullet wo
unds. We had to send thousands of them home with a dose – goodness knows what they told their wives, but there was no cure then and there's no cure, now. So please take my advice and keep away from those girls at the docks, otherwise the next time a doctor grabs you, down there, and tells you to cough, something might just drop off!”
Ben could only grin. The truth was rather hard to explain, but then, how would it have sounded to tell the old physician that he only had eyes for Setsu, but that his matronly Argentine friend was keeping his advances, urges and thoughts at bay? Chastity was compulsory at the moment, but he could wait.
“I can assure you that I'll be sticking with this lady, Dr Jennings.”
“I'm glad to hear it. She must be a lovely girl. Is she a local or of English stock?”
“Oh . . . er . . . she's not really what you'd call a local girl, she's from further west of here.”
“Ah, I think I know what you mean. Those indigenous types from the Andes are quite stunning, I find. Very different from us Anglo-Saxons in their looks.”
“Well, you could say that . . . she's certainly not like the other girls I've courted, that's for sure.”
“Make sure that you two write plenty of letters to each other. It will certainly help to keep the pair of you together. It did for my wife and I when I was away with the army. Well, I shall send all your medical forms onward and I wish you all the best on this next venture. Take care, Ben.”
Ben shook the hand that had so recently been cradling his most delicate body parts and left.
Chapter Twenty-two - Divine Inspiration
For five months, Vero had revelled in her role as matchmaker and chaperone. Nature had denied her the chance to have children of her own, to give succour and support to young ones in need of nurture. Was that how it was meant to be, she wondered? Well, clearly it had as far as her own biology was concerned, but now the improbable pieces had come to her without any effort: Setsu proved to be just the young lady in need of her guidance and to find her a nice young man was to be the icing on the cake. To have just such a young fellow appear before them on the liner from Lisbon was too good an opportunity to miss. Now, she could stand back and admire her work.
