“Two tours have got to mean something,” Silk said. “Any old cockpit will do. Not Training Command. I’ve done that. Ropey old kites. Terrifying.”
“You’ll do what you’re bloody well told, Silko. The war is not for your benefit.”
“They can’t ground me. If they ground me, I swear to God, I’ll desert and join the Luftwaffe.”
“There you go again,” Rafferty said wearily. “The wrong way down a one-way street.”
Silk sipped his beer. It tasted thin; he didn’t want it. He felt flat. How could he have been so lucky and yet end up so flat?
SWEET BLIND O’REILLY
1
On the morning after the squadron party to celebrate completing his second tour, Silk put his bags in his little lemon-yellow Frazer-Nash and drove to the cottage. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone, not even his crew. He had said goodbye, silently, to each of them, long ago.
It would be fun to be kissed by Zoë, to tell her about his second DFC and let her read all the telegrams. Then they would celebrate with a bit of rumpty-tumpty. Or a lot. He had two weeks to kill. She wasn’t there.
He dumped the suitcases. Maybe there was a note on the kitchen table. Nothing. Maybe she was asleep, hadn’t heard his voice. You’re getting bloody desperate, Silko, he told himself. He tramped upstairs, making the treads creak, and found the cat asleep on the bed. She was a little cat, black with white paws, and she made the bed look very big and very empty. “I bet you’re glad to see me, puss,” he said. She opened her eyes a crack and studied him. “Silko,” he said. “DFC and Bar. Remember?” She yawned.
He sat on the bed and tickled her stomach. She stretched and doubled in length and rolled onto her back. “I can make Zoë do that,” he said. The cat showed her claws and made an upside-down grin. “Not that, though,” he said.
He went downstairs, boiled a kettle, made a pot of tea. He was looking for milk when the thought occurred that Zoë might be ill, suddenly stricken, lying in hospital in Lincoln. Stricken... That was a damnfool word. Nobody in England had been stricken since the Black Death. For no reason, it reminded him of the writing bureau in the sitting room. Might as well check it out.
Nothing there.
This was like coming home to the Marie bloody Celeste. He opened the top drawer of the bureau. Full of stationery. In the bottom drawer he found his letters: three bundles, each tied with a ribbon. So she cared enough to keep his not-very-brilliant letters. Why was that a surprise? But it was. It made him feel suddenly valuable. An uncomfortable feeling.
He stood in the middle of the room and tried to make sense of his life. It seemed to have purpose without direction. Or was it direction without purpose? Bollocks. Too early in the day for that sort of tosh.
Silk put the bundles of letters back in the bureau drawer, at first trying to make it look as if they had never been disturbed, then getting annoyed with himself for wishing to hide something from his wife when it was perfectly harmless, even likeable; so he turned the bundles sideways, making the change obvious. Why? Stupid thing to do. He slammed the drawer. It jammed, half-shut. “Sweet suffering buggeration!” he shouted. He raised his foot to kick the drawer just as the cat came into the room, yawning. He balanced on the other foot. “I suppose you want some milk, puss,” he said. The cat sniffed the raised shoe. “It’s a long story,” he said.
They went into the kitchen, and he watched the cat drink some milk. It sat and washed its face. “Bloody good show,” he said. “You deserve a gong.”
He changed into some old clothes and went out and did what he usually did when he felt flat: he bashed the garden. Zoë couldn’t find a gardener in wartime, so brambles and nettles and giant cow parsley had a free run. Silk hacked and slashed with a billhook, his favourite weapon. He dragged the stuff into a heap and lit a bonfire. It made a lot of smoke but very little flame. “Couple of nice 110-pound incendiaries, that’s what we need,” he said. He was poking newspaper into the heap when a car arrived. Zoë’s taxi.
She was wearing a deep red outfit, just a slim skirt and single-breasted tunic, almost military in style, and a modest black cap with a short veil. The cottage was shabby, the garden was wrecked, even the bonfire was not a success; but in Silk’s eyes all the colours brightened now that Zoë was there. Lucky, lucky me, he thought.
“London is the purest hell,” she said. She made it sound like rain at Ascot. “Weak gin, and a choice of shepherd’s pie or spam fritters. You look very dashing, darling.” She kissed him, full throttle. His hands were filthy, so he did not embrace her. She kissed him again. “What lovely lips you have. Could you get changed, darling?
“Where are we going?”
“Lunch, obviously. With the bishop of Lincoln.” She picked a dead leaf from his sweater. “We’re organising the Salute For Stalin Week. I’ve got five thousand ladies knitting socks for the Red Army. You will make a speech, won’t you, darling?”
“Dozens. I’ve got another DFC.”
“Silko, what perfect timing.”
“And I’m off ops. I’m grounded.” That surprised her. Eyebrows went up, lips parted. “Well,” she said. “I mean, sweet blind O’Reilly, Silko. Grounded? For good? Honestly?” The bonfire crackled. For years afterwards, whenever he heard a fire crackle, it brought back that day, that moment when he and Zoë looked at each other and realised the disaster of death was postponed. It had been pointless to think about years of married life while the nightly chop was waiting over Germany. Now they were totally, inescapably married, probably for a very long time. She was enormously relieved. Two years ago, when Tony died, grief had been dumped on her like a freakish cloudburst, and she had found it an ugly, exhausting experience. One load of grief was enough; she couldn’t take another. It was simply unacceptable. Her mother had buried three husbands and all she’d got out of it was money and gallstones. And a title. So: grounded sounded fine. Silko looked good, tousled, a bit piratical with bonfire smudges on his face, and amazingly, wonderfully alive.
“The bishop won’t mind if we’re a little late, will he?” he said. She took his arm and they strolled to the cottage. “You can tell him we were consummating our holy union. The church is very hot on that.”
“Two gongs,” she said. “I married a man with two gongs.”
“One’s called Rumpty and the other’s called Tumpty. Knock them together and they chime the hours.”
That’s better, she thought. Silko had survived, and she had five thousand ladies knitting socks for Stalin. Little Laura was safe in Dublin, which was neutral, being cared for by an aunt. Time to make whoopee. The bloody silly war could wait.
2
Silk enjoyed his leave. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing to plan, nothing to avoid: no Stuttgart, no Bremen, no Essen, especially no Berlin.
Zoë’s involvement in Salute For Stalin Week brought with it a supply of petrol coupons. They drove around the Lincolnshire towns and villages, giving pep talks to Women’s Institutes and Mothers’ Unions, to Gardening Clubs and Townswomen’s Guilds. He stood behind her, in uniform, looking handsome yet modest, while she savaged the Wehrmacht.
“We always knew the Hun was gutless,” she said. “Now his guts are strewn across the bloody battlefield of Russia. Stalin’s gallant troops are stamping out Hitler’s vile stormtroopers, stamping them out with strong Russian boots and warm English socks! From you! Think as you knit – think that your needles are stabbing the heart of Nazi Germany!” And so on. The ladies enjoyed it enormously. Silk added a very few words. “Any one of you could fly a Lanc,” he said. “Piece of cake. I couldn’t knit to save my life. Damn good show. Wizard prang.” He smiled, shyly. They loved him.
Ten minutes later he accelerated away in a crackle of exhaust from the little Frazer-Nash while Zoë fluttered a handkerchief to the waving hands.
Two or three talks a day. The rest of the time they motored around the county, stopping occasionally to look at a ruined abbey or to stroll along a riverbank that had picture
sque swans on one side and inquisitive cattle on the other. Then lunch. Zoë knew all the best black-market restaurants, and they knew her. If the weather turned foul, she navigated Silk to the nearest big house. One day, in a cloudburst, it was Tattershall Castle. “What a pile!” Silk said. “It’s like the Tower of London.” Rain was lashing the windscreen, melting the battlements. “It’s got a moat. Are you sure you know these people?”
“Felicity was at Cheltenham Ladies College with me.” Zoë leaned across and punched the horn. “Rode in a point-to-point without permission, got the sack. Came second, though.” More horn. “Ah! Results.” Servants appeared with golfing umbrellas.
“Have you been here before?”
“Finest lavatories in the county, Silko. Your tubes have a treat in store.”
Felicity gave them tea. Later, Silk peed into a superb lavatory and told his bladder how luck it was to be in a 15th century castle with 20th century plumbing. Then he told himself how lucky he was. Zoë could have smiled at any one of a thousand men, cleverer, better-looking, braver, and the chap would have jumped at the chance. Silk looked in the mirror. Double DFC. No visible scars. Zoë was no fool, so she must have found something special in him. That was good enough.
Life with Zoë was all fun, and that was rare in the middle of a war. Money helped. Lots of money helped a lot. He slipped easily into her lifestyle. They fell easily into bed. As they lay together, joined snugly at the loins, he heard the squadrons circling, making height, and he thought: I’ve done all that, so I deserve all this. Next day the telegram arrived. Report to Air Commodore Bletchley at Air Ministry.
YOU CAN SHOVEL ALL YOU LIKE
1
The air attaché at the Washington embassy was Group Captain Hardy, a stubby man in a light grey suit. As they shook hands, he made a rapid study of Silk’s face. “No visible scars, thank Christ,” he said. “The last man London sent us had first-degree burns and a lisp. No use at all. Imagine showing him to American mothers. Your boy goes for aircrew and comes back looking like overdone steak and talking like a pansy.”
“Very inconsiderate of him,” Silk said.
“Spare me your wit. It won’t ring any bells over here. I was a pilot once, I know all about crashes, I felt sorry for the poor devil. But this isn’t Europe, it isn’t even a different country, it’s a different world.” They followed the porter to Hardy’s car. “The ambassador wants a quick word. Then we’ve got you a hotel room. Not de luxe, but Washington’s stuffed to the gills with people, and it’s only for one night.”
The ambassador was tall and slim, and he made Silk feel that his arrival was the high point of the day. “I do congratulate you on your second DFC,” he said. “We are privileged indeed. It can’t be right that you are still only a flight lieutenant.”
“Natural phenomenon, sir. Like the eclipse of the sun.”
The ambassador smiled. “Jolly good... But it won’t do. Americans feel shortchanged by any rank less than squadron leader. We leaned on Air Ministry and you are now an acting squadron leader.”
“Let’s get that third ring sewn on lickety-split, shall we?” Hardy said. He helped Silk take off his tunic and he left the room.
“Three things I feel you should know,” the ambassador said. “Steer clear of the race business, Negroes, segregation, their Civil War – it’s a minefield, and it’s their minefield, so leave it to them. Homosexuality is another hazard. Americans believe it’s compulsory in England. They fear for their manhood; that’s why they shout so much. When in doubt, ask them to explain their gridiron football. They like that. And above all, never discuss politics. Your wife is doing truly splendid work in the
Salute For Stalin campaign, isn’t she? Say nothing of that. Americans tolerate Russia as long as it’s six thousand miles away. Here, they consider Socialism a transmittable disease, like cholera.” He smiled. “All tickety-boo?”
“Yes sir.” But this wasn’t what Silk had expected. The song about America said Anything Goes. Obviously, anything didn’t go. “Complicated, isn’t it?”
“Keep it simple, squadron leader. Just say we’re winning, because we’re best. Which, of course, we are.”
2
Hardy had breakfast with him at the hotel. “Here’s your speech,” he said. “Memorise it. Stick to it. Stand up, speak up, shut up. Can you manage that?”
“Piece of cake.” Typed, double-spaced, with wide margins, it made half a page. “One thing wrong: I never flew a Liberator. Have to change that.”
“You flew a Liberator, Silk. Today’s factory makes gun turrets for Liberators. They’re not going to give up ten minutes of their lunch break to be told what a wonderful kite the Lanc is.”
They drove to Baltimore, Maryland. The plant was vast. Half the workers were women. A manager introduced Squadron Leader Silk as one of Britain’s knights of the sky who took the battle to the heart of the Nazi homeland, and the roar of applause startled him. The speech was easy. He told them the U.S. Air Force and the Royal Air Force together delivered a left-right punch that had Germany on the ropes, and they cheered. He said the Allied formula was simple: we’re winning because we’re best. They cheered. He said he’d flown the Liberator, he’d sat in its magnificent turrets, fired those 50-calibre guns, seen the havoc they caused, and every man and woman here should feel proud... the rest was drowned by a storm of cheering.
In the car, Hardy said: “Seven out of ten. Don’t rush it. And don’t grin. You’re David Niven, not Jimmy bloody Cagney.”
“Where next?”
“Allentown, Pennsylvania. Bomb factory. Same speech, tailored to suit the audience. Any ideas?”
Silk thought. “I could say the bomber’s only as good as the bombs it drops.”
Hardy grunted. “That’s a start.” He turned on the radio. “Ah... gospel music. I’m rather fond of gospel music.”
3
At the end of a week they had worked their way through Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. Silk had made fifteen speeches, praising the manufacture of everything from radios and bullets to flying boots and navigators’ pencils. At night they stayed at the nearest air base. “Don’t you find this boring?” Hardy asked.
“Compared with what? Flying home from Berlin with one engine on the fritz and a cookie hung up in the bomb bay? Yes, I suppose it is rather boring.”
“Well, I’ve had enough. You don’t need me. I’ll take you back to Washington and put you on a plane to Chicago. You’ll love the Midwest. It’s ten times more boring than the East.”
For the next two months, Silk toured factories making war material in Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Nebraska, Kansas, Missouri. An officer from the Chicago consulate planned the itinerary, arranged the transport, paid the bills, organized the overnight laundry, quietly reminded Silk which state they were in just before he stepped forward to say how privileged he felt to be in it. They visited forty-two factories, Silk gave fifty-three interviews to radio stations and local papers, was photographed several times a day. If he felt lonely he wrote home: short, jokey letters. If he could find a little fluffy baby-toy for Laura, he sent that too. Did they ever arrive? He never knew. If Zoë ever wrote back, the mail never caught up with him.
At the end of the tour, a reporter asked him what he thought of America. He had answered that question a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.
“I had a dream last night,” Silk said. “I was on a train crossing America, except it was going in circles, and I was in the locomotive with a shovel, stoking the furnace. And the engine driver said, ‘There’s good news and there’s bad news. The bad news is you’ve got nothing to shovel but bullshit. The good news is you can shovel all you like.’ Then I woke up.”
“Don’t print any of that,” the consulate officer told the reporter.
“It’s an old RAF joke,” Silk said. “Not very funny.”
“The squadron leader is tremendously impressed by the energy and enthusiasm he has found everywhere
,” the officer said. “Against the forces of freedom, the enemy stands no chance at all.”
The reporter left. “Sorry about that,” Silk said. “Sometimes I have this odd sensation of being two people, in two places. I’m over here, watching myself make another speech over there. And I don’t know which is the real me.”
“You’re doing brilliantly. Let’s get a drink.”
Next day he put Silk on a plane to Los Angeles. The man from the L.A. consulate met him. He was somewhat in awe. “You’ve made a tremendous impression back east, squadron leader,” he said. “It feels like every war plant in California wants you.”
“How many is that?”
“Around five hundred. Not all making aircraft, of course. Some are equipping the army or the marines. Still, it’s all the same war, isn’t it?” Silk could think of nothing to say. He looked away. “Ah! Now I see it,” the man from the consulate said. “The eyes, and the mouth. A clear resemblance. That’s very useful.”
“Resemblance?”
“David Niven. The Washington embassy mentioned that you’re related. Younger brother, is that right? Niven’s awfully popular in Hollywood.”
Silk rested against a pillar. “You can shovel all you like,” he said. His legs slowly folded until he was sitting on the floor. “Five hundred fucking factories.”
“More or less,” the man said. “That’s what you asked, wasn’t it? You’ll be visiting fifty. Only fifty.”
“Can’t do it.” He slumped further. “I’ll just lie down here and die.”
“For God’s sake... Stand up, squadron leader, please. There are photographers...” A couple of people had stopped to stare. “It’s the heat,” the man explained. “He’ll be fine in a moment.”
With their help he got Silk into his car. Silk said nothing on the way to the hotel, or in the elevator. He sat on the edge of his bed, too tired to take his shoes off. “You can lead a horse to water,” he said, “but what does it get you?”
“Rest,” the man advised. “You need rest.”
Hullo Russia, Goodbye England Page 3
