Brigadier Sykes paced over to Tommy, pinning the silver cross to his chest to cries of approbation from all present. They raised their glasses to Brigadier Sykes’ toast.
“To the hero, ladies and gentlemen!”
The cameraman had been permitted to attend the reception, which was out of the ordinary way of things; Tommy now realised why. The lesser newspapers would have this on their front pages in the morning, visible proof that Old Albion’s men were fighting boldly and undaunted in the air as well as at sea and on land; the serious Press would undoubtedly have the story on an inside page, but the photograph would be prominent. After the recent disasters at sea, the newspapers needed some assistance to beat the jingo drum.
All else was anti-climax after this.
The bride retired to change and Tommy made the circuit of the guests, as was only good manners, thanking them for coming and smiling, fixedly, at their congratulations. He came to Mr Sopwith, in conversation with Brigadier Sykes.
“When will you be fit to fly, Tommy?”
“Two weeks, the doctor told me, Mr Sopwith. I am waiting for my orders now, sir.”
“I can tell you what they will be, Captain Stark.” Brigadier Sykes was in friendly mode – the RFC had had a good morning. “You are to remain in England for a time – how long is not yet determined – and to act as a testing pilot for Mr Sopwith and for de Havilland’s Airco as well. You may be called to assist at the Royal Aircraft Factory on occasion, and will have the opportunity to share your knowledge with all parties. Very briefly, Captain Stark, what is your opinion of the French plan to create separate squadrons, with different machines, for observation, pursuit and bombardment?”
This was the suggestion of Commandant Mauret, Tommy recalled.
“Different machines for the three functions, certainly, sir. Single-seater pursuit aeroplanes for a certainty, fast and with a forward-firing machine-gun; two-seaters for observation, with a gun as well if possible for defence; for bombardment, big, necessarily slow, probably twin-engined aeroplanes to carry a heavy load and an observer and bomb aimer. As well, sir, a fourth sort, to fly low and fast and drop a smaller load onto important targets such as command posts or gun emplacements. But not in separate squadrons, sir. I think every observation and bombardment squadron should have its flights of pursuiters who can protect them, possibly by attacking the enemy first.”
“What of enemy observation aeroplanes, Captain Stark?”
“To be a target of pursuiters, sir. Good point, in fact. There would be a need for pursuit aeroplanes whose job was to command our skies. So, we come back to three sorts of squadrons, sir, but two of them mixed.”
“I shall bear your words in mind, Captain Stark. Report at Mr Sopwith’s factory two weeks on Monday, but until then, well, you have other and better things to do!”
They laughed and sent Tommy out to join his bride at the car.
In the days of peace they would have gone away for a honeymoon, quite possibly to Paris; that was ineligible in wartime and they were simply to stay in their own house in Wilton. Squire’s chauffeur was to drive them there, leaving the Lanchester in their garage and making his own way back to Farnborough; there might well be a bus service into Salisbury, where there was a railway station, Tommy thought, and besides, it was not an impossibly long walk, not much more than an hour.
They spoke very little in the car, both tired from the exertions of the day, and unwilling to be overheard by the driver just to their front.
“You did not tell me of an ‘aerial battle’, Tommy.”
“It was more of a minor skirmish, my love. There was one of the two-seater Taubes, an Albatros, I think, taking photographs of our artillery, locating it for the benefit of the big siege guns, or so I must imagine. The Germans have far bigger guns than our army has. I could not let them take the photographs back to their people, so I had to shoot them down. There was no choice.”
She was satisfied with his answer, fell into a half-doze, her head on his chest. He cradled an arm around her, quietly happy to hold her as they drove the rough roads of the downland leading into Wiltshire. He thought back to the brief fight, something he had carefully avoided doing before – he had simply wanted to put the episode behind him. He realised now that it would not be a single, unpleasant encounter, but must be the first of quite possibly many. There would be more enemy Scout planes, and they would be armed at least as well as him… Better than the soldiers down in the mud of Salient were facing from the little he had seen from above; he wondered how George was faring down there.
The car stopped and Tommy tipped the man five sovereigns, somewhat shamefaced for realising that he would be hours getting home. The chauffeur touched his cap quite happily; he knew that the railway line passed through Wilton and that he had a choice of routes to take him back to Farnborough, and Squire had already put money for the ticket into his pocket.
They reached the front door of the house and Tommy formally unlocked it and then made the traditional performance of carrying Monkey over the threshold, asserting his manly dignity, or so he supposed. His leg hurt, but he was determined not to hobble – that would not have been proper.
The housekeeper, newly appointed by Monkey and her mother, came forward to greet them.
“I’ll be damned! Mrs Rudge! How are you, ma’am?”
She curtsied, as was right, a broad smile across her face.
“I told thee where my place was, sir!”
“So you did, Mrs Rudge. You are very welcome, a memory of my old home.”
“Not that you would recognise the place any more, sir. Changed everything indoors, so he has, the young master, put up all new, right down to the wallpaper!”
“It is his house and he has the right, Mrs Rudge.”
“And so he has, Captain Stark, sir. May I be so bold as to ask what that be, sir, on the chest, like?”
Monkey answered that it was the new medal, the Military Cross. She must discover the colours of the ribbon and sew them on Captain Stark’s tunics, for the medal itself was to be worn only on special occasions, on dress uniform.
“Master would ‘ave been that proud of you, if I might say so, sir. Always said, he did, that you would do well, sir, better nor he ever managed.”
Tommy smiled his thanks, knowing that she was right. His father had been uncritically delighted in him, and might well have been over-indulgent as a result; perhaps it had not been the wisest of actions, allowing his son to become a pilot at fourteen, and there were those who would have questioned his wisdom in allowing Tommy to grow up virtually uneducated… Even so, he had been a good father, willing to tell Tommy when he was wrong as well as praising him when he was right. His own children would be granted that same benefit, provided he lived long enough to father them, or get to know them.
He walked slowly upstairs to change, to escape from the formal, dress uniform, which was not designed for comfort. He glanced at his watch; five o’clock and the evening to get through yet. It would be dark within a few minutes, winter nights drew in early; a single glass, a bite to eat, a quiet talk at the fireside before they went to bed… He hoped Monkey was not frightened.
She came down, very smart in skirt and blouse, newly bought, in autumn colours rather than the washed-out pastels that were ‘suitable’ for the unwed girl.
“I like that, Monkey! It’s right for you, really the right sort of colours.”
“It’s not too old for me, is it, Tommy? Mama said that you would like it, but I was not sure.”
“It’s just right – it makes you look like Mrs Stark!”
“That is what I wanted. Shall we ask Mrs Rudge to bring in a pot of tea?”
“What about a half-bottle of wine instead? A celebration.”
It was very daring, but she realised that, as the lady of the house, she was free to drink a glass if she wanted.
“What sort? I know nothing of wine, Tommy.”
Unfortunately, neither did he; his limited education had entirely
missed that aspect of culture.
“Perhaps we should stick with tea, Monkey.”
They talked quietly of the wedding, of the neighbourhood and of the very few young men who had been present.
“So many have gone to war, Tommy. Will they come back, do you think?”
“Some will… How many, I cannot tell. It is said to be bad up at the front, but that will not last, so they tell us. The fighting is hard up at the Salient, and elsewhere in the French lines, I expect, and will have to end soon with a victory, and then it must be the Big Push into Germany. Once we are back to a war of movement, then everything will become much more the way it ought to be. I doubt we shall go very far in winter, but when the summer comes and the ground dries out, then it will be a proper war again.”
She was comforted, a little; she had taken to reading the newspapers recently, and, being intelligent, she was coming to doubt their veracity. She did not entirely believe that everything was going according to plan, that the initial upsets had been no more than a trivial aberration.
“Papa is worried for George, Tommy. He does not say so, but I think he is surprised that there has been not so much as a single letter, not even a postcard.”
Tommy was concerned by that as well; even a casual, unthinking young man of leisure such as George had been, might be expected to make just a little effort to reply to the letters from his family. It was particularly disquieting that he had not sent a few lines to Monkey on her marriage, because he had always had an affection for his little sister, more than for Lavinia, and he had written a dutiful letter to her on her wedding to Monkton.
They ate a sandwich and talked a little more, discussing Mr Monkton’s possible political career, and deciding that he should become a Minister for Agriculture, for being at home with the sheep and cattle and developing a resemblance to the pigs.
“He is very rich, I think, Tommy, though Papa says that he has no idea of business, being content, he says with ‘Land and Consols’. Papa said that if it should be a long war, then Mr Monkton might find the taxes a burden.”
“Your father is a man of finance, I believe, Monkey. He must give Mr Monkton his advice and then he will not come out of the war badly off. Nor will we, of course, because he is looking after all of my money, and yours.”
“But, I haven’t got any money, Tommy.”
“Your father has arranged for you to have an income of your own, Monkey, so that you will be safe if anything happens to me. It might take weeks or even months to access my funds if the lawyers start to play, so you need your own account. Later in the week we must drive into Salisbury and I shall take you to the bank and let them explain how you are to have the money you will need for the house and for yourself when I am away. The bank manager will tell you what you must do, and show you how to go on. And me, for that matter, because I know very little about money matters – which has exasperated your father, more than once, I fear.”
“What might ‘happen’ to you, Tommy?”
“We are at war, my love. I could be killed, like poor Charlie, or I might crash on German soil, and then it would be the prison-camp for me. Anything might occur. There is always the chance as well that I might be sent far overseas for years. I might end up in Africa or India, or perhaps training pilots in Australia – anything is possible.”
She did not like any of those prospects – but war made its demands, she was forced to accept.
“It’s getting late, Tommy. Time for bed… will you wait just a few minutes before coming upstairs, Tommy?”
He smiled and said that he would.
Twenty minutes seemed long enough; he changed into pyjamas in the bathroom and opened the door to their bedroom.
Monkey was tucked up in the double bed, looking very small and vulnerable; he was very thankful to Charlie’s sister, Meg, at that moment, for at least knowing what he was doing…
He woke early in the morning, Monkey asleep in his arms, obviously very content to be there. He felt very proud, was able to call himself a man, not a boy in any way now.
They ate a leisurely breakfast and took a walk around the village, discovering what was where and finding the Wilton carpet factory, the existence of which neither had been aware of.
“Should we call at the rectory, Tommy? It is only polite to make the acquaintance of the vicar, or so Mama told me.”
“We must, I suppose. It seems very strange to be doing all of these things. I must have some cards printed, I imagine – very staid, my dear!”
The vicar was a young man, newly appointed to the parish and overawed by Tommy; he turned to the inside pages of his Daily Telegraph and showed him the photograph of Brigadier Sykes pinning the Military Cross to his chest, Monkey in white at his side.
“I had not known that you were to be one of my flock, Captain Stark, and you, ma’am! I am very pleased that it is so, sir, and ma’am.”
They talked a few minutes before continuing their walk and locating the village store which was also the newsagents.
“A newspaper, sir, to be delivered daily, and on Sunday. Which one, sir?”
“The Telegraph, if you please. The account in the name of Captain Stark, if you would be so good. We have just moved into River Cottage.”
“Ah, yes, sir. I did hear as ‘ow it ‘ad been sold to some military gentleman, sir. May I make so bold as to ask what regiment, sir? I was Rifles, in my time, sir. Did my twenty, sir.”
“Royal Flying Corps, lately in Three Squadron.”
“Ah! That Captain Stark, sir. A pleasure to welcome ‘ee to the village, sir!”
The word would be passed round within the day, they knew. Newcomers to any village were rare and would attract the curiosity of every existing resident. A foreigner who had recently been pictured in the newspapers would be a talking point for weeks.
They drove into Salisbury later in the week, found their way to the bank and rather nervously stepped inside – it was an imposing building, powerful in red brick with Gothic turrets and a high-pitched roof, and they were not sure they matched up to the standards of sobriety and prosperity that it implied. Tommy found himself walking the smaller for observing that all of the customers and most of the men behind the counter were far older than him. He suspected that he should have worn uniform, to bolster his confidence. He stepped across to the counter, Monkey on his arm.
“I believe that my wife and I have accounts newly opened for us, sir. In the name of Stark.”
The cashier smiled in superior fashion and said that he would discover whether that was so; he disappeared through a massively heavy mahogany door into the rear of the building, returned within two minutes in the company of an older gentleman, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat, the uniform of the country banker.
“Captain Thomas Stark, sir? And Mrs Stark, of course?”
Tommy murmured that to be correct.
“May I offer a welcome to you as a client, sir, and ma’am? Please to come through to my office. We have a number of other distinguished military gentlemen who bank with us of course, Captain Stark, being on Salisbury Plain, and I am very glad to welcome you to their company!”
The latter speech was made in a slightly louder voice than might have been expected, was designed to attract the attention of the other customers in the bank, several of whom might have wondered why so young a couple were being treated with such distinction by their bank manager.
Cheque-books were issued, and signatures taken, in triplicate.
“There might normally be a slight difficulty regarding your age, Mrs Stark, inasmuch that I believe you be a minor. One might not normally grant a cheque-book to a person of fewer than one-and-twenty years; the circumstances, however, being at war, demand a certain relaxation of such regulations, for Captain Stark may well be returning to France very soon.”
“Not till spring, I believe, sir. I will be fit for duty within a week or two now, my wound healed, and will then be required to test new aeroplanes in England for some few mont
hs. Then, of course, I will go where my orders take me, but I much hope it will be back to France, to join my colleagues again.”
“And to win more medals, I doubt not, Captain Stark!”
“That lies in the hands of others, sir. I shall be content to do my duty.”
Tommy realised then that the bank manager was treasuring every word, would no doubt boast at dinner of his conversation with the ‘flying hero’ – such a modest young man! Tommy found it all rather irksome.
The manager escorted them to his front doors, his whole attitude informing them of the honour he was offering – only his most treasured clients received such a mark of respect.
“Where next, Monkey?”
“A walk to the cathedral, Tommy? I have never been inside. Then a glance at the shops, and a bite of luncheon, and make our way home… That is the first time I have called River Cottage ‘home’, Tommy, but it is now. I am so glad! There is much to say for being a married lady, I find. Are you happy to be wed, Tommy?”
“Very! I can almost be thankful for the war, because it has let us be married years before it would otherwise have been possible.”
There was a band playing in the distance, the music louder as they reached the cathedral.
“The Wiltshire Regiment, I think, Tommy. Those soldiers are recruiting, look, asking the young men to join up.”
Tommy had no knowledge of the Army’s badges, but it was part of a young lady’s education to know such things.
A brightly shining sergeant came across to them, loud-voiced in his appeals.
“Now then, sir, should not a fine, upstanding young man like you be in uniform? Think, ma’am, should your young gentleman not be doing his bit for King and Country?”
“Captain Stark is at home on wound leave, sergeant! Have you seen the fighting yet?”
The sergeant did not reply; he came to attention and stamped off. An elderly major, a dug-out, returned to duty, Boer War ribbons on his chest, walked over to apologise.
“I believe you must be an officer, sir?”
“Captain Stark, RFC, wounded and on leave, Major.”
A Deadly Caper (Innocents At War Series, Book 2) Page 2
