The woman stood up, straightened her dress, and held her hand out in turn.
‘Hello. I’m Doris. When I married George I wanted to change my first name to Door, but George has no latent sense of humour.’
George scowled as if to prove it. It was my turn to open my mouth.
‘I’m Charlie Bassett.’
Doris said, ‘We know. You’re the fellow who’s going to help us find my baby brother’s aeroplane.’
‘He hasn’t agreed yet, Doris,’ her husband warned.
‘He will, though – won’t ya, Charlie?’
Although my libido was screaming Yes please my tongue managed to get out, ‘Maybe,’ and, ‘It all depends.’
Spartacus ran up. Then he wagged his arse all over the place – the dynamics of a dog that’s short one of his rear legs wagging his tail, is that the whole back end wags. Doris said, ‘Aw! A three-legged dawg, how sweet.’
I wanted to have her until the friction ignited us, and we burned to death still going at it. It was a very good reason to turn down the proposal and walk away. From the corner of my eye I could see Bozey smirk.
‘OK,’ I told them. ‘I’ll probably take the job.’
‘Thanks, Mr Bassett,’ George said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
I already bloody well was. I looked down at my trousers and thought, Another fine mess you’ve got us into. It was at that moment I decided to call my left nut Laurel, and the right, Hardy. When I looked up again I must have been smiling. So was Doris. George looked worried, and Bozey looked as if someone had just told him a very good joke. Spartacus sat on his balls, and gave out a mournful howl like a wolf. Doris lit one of those new long cigarettes, and turned her head to one side to blow the smoke away. Then she shook her head and said, ‘Your dog needs to get a sex life.’ And wondered why we all turned to look at her.
We had them over to the Leihhaus for the evening to show them a bit of gay old Berlin.
You noticed the small g. There weren’t all that many bits left actually: we’d dropped bombs all over the best bits in the forties. The buildings we hadn’t flattened in the big area-bombing raids had bowed to Russian artillery at the very end.
At my request Bozey had kept the big round wooden table we used in ’49, but he’d tossed the rest of the interior out, and redecorated with Bakelite and chrome. A Russian copper I knew then used to sit with his boots up on my table. You could still see the grooves his spurs had cut. We made the table our own that night.
It gave me an opportunity to have a better look at Handel. He was a tallish, whippy individual in a grey lightweight suit and a discreet tie. His hair would have been lighter if it wasn’t slicked back with so much brilliantine: he smelt like Friday night at a petrol dump. Every time he lit a cigarette I leaned back expecting him to go up in a fireball. He told me, ‘I really appreciate you doing this for us, bud,’ and gave Pete a hundred dollars. Pete solemnly peeled off fifty and handed them on to Bozey. I thought Brother George was giving the loot to the wrong people. Pete must have seen my look.
‘Don’t fret, Charlie. We done our bit when we delivered you. You’ll get yours when you’ve delivered also.’
‘I’ll be almost a thousand miles away by then.’
‘Everyone knows Scotland’s a backward country, Charlie. Don’t worry about it – your money will go further there.’
‘You want an advance?’ George asked me hurriedly.
‘No, George, but thank you for offering. You’re a gentleman. I’ll tell you when I need money.’ But he wasn’t a gentleman; he was a thug. He had the long, coiled look of a knife man all over him.
‘When can we start?’
‘I’m flying back to Blighty tomorrow. There’s room for you and Mrs Handel in the aircraft if it suits you. If you tell Bozey where you’re staying we’ll pick you up on the way to the airport – say ten-thirty.’
Mrs Handel wasn’t at the table. She was in the room that girls disappear into for hours at a time, and then come out looking younger than when they went in. When she came back it felt as if she was walking across the floor directly to me. I think every other man in the joint felt the same. I sat back in my chair, and had a decent dekko at her this time.
She had a slinky black dress on, which clung to her curves like a racing car clings to the Brooklands’ bankings: was about the same height as me, had dark hair that fell beyond her shoulders like wavelets, feline eyes, and flawless milky skin. Her shoulders were square, above a wasp’s waist and wide flat hips. And front bumpers like weather balloons – I couldn’t see how she held them up like that. We all stood up for her: she was that sort of broad. Her grin said she knew exactly what the score was.
We rearranged ourselves. Pete lit her cigarette – she used a small holder in the evenings – and snapped his fingers for some service. Spartacus took that as an invitation, and tried to climb on to his lap. Pete didn’t even like four-legged dogs, so the way he jumped his chair away was no surprise to me. Doris had a confession to make.
‘I got lost looking for the little girls’ room, Charlie – and found my way upstairs. I opened a door, but a girl found me there, an’ tol’ me it was your room. You don’t mind that I did that, do you?’
‘No. We’re gonna be partners for a week or two, so we’ll get to know each other anyway.’ Who was I kidding?
‘I knew we were gonna get on, Charlie – right from the moment I first saw you.’ That was what I was hoping too, but before I could say anything she asked, ‘Can I get a Martini in this place? I feel like celebrating. This is the first progress we made in a month.’ She crossed her legs, and leaned forward to open her fag packet again, having puffed her way through the first in a few minutes. The material of her dress stretched across her thighs, clearly outlining her stocking top and the button of her suspenders. In the fifties that was one of the things that could drive a man mad.
I said, ‘I’ll fetch you one,’ because I wanted to get away to somewhere I could breathe again. She leaned over, and touched the back of my hand where it lay on the table. I’ll swear I was scalded.
‘No need. George’s in the chair,’ she said. ‘Ain’t you, honey? He’ll get a round in.’ George did as he was told: I suspect that most men did when she opened her mouth. There was something going on here. Part of me liked it, and the other part of me was telling me to run.
Before I went up, but after the Handels had left, I told Pete, ‘I’ve a small pistol I like. I could always buy another on the black market, but I’m kind of used to it now.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that, Charlie.’
‘I need a box of older .32 rimfires for it.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘Until tomorrow morning.’
‘No problem.’
Your local chief constable wouldn’t like that at all these days.
When I got upstairs Reimey was in bed reading a Peter Cheney paperback. The guy on the cover wore a trench coat and a fedora, and held a pistol as big as a foot. The girl alongside him didn’t have much on at all, and held a cigarette. That should have told me something. Its French title was meaningless – I wondered if they’d hired a cheap translator. Reimey was wearing a large pair of spectacles, and looked pleased to see me.
‘Hard day?’ I asked her.
‘No day at all. I have Tuesdays off. I went to the market with Marthe and bought vegetables.’
‘Are you wearing anything at all?’
‘Just these.’ She removed the specs and waved them gaily at me. She turned the light off as I slid in beside her. ‘When I came upstairs earlier there was a very pretty woman in here. She yours?’
‘No, she’s my employer. She told me she got lost. What was she doing?’
‘Turning you over. She looked quite professional.’
So; that was the way it was going to be.
I sensed there was more to come, so I asked, ‘What else were you going to tell me?’
‘Gonna fuck you tonight, Charlie – tired of wa
iting.’
Chapter Three
Love and Bullets
The man in the outer office chatting up Elaine, and sitting on the edge of her desk, could have come from the cover of that same Peter Cheney book. He had the trench coat and fedora, and used too much cologne. Why were men beginning to stink like French ballet dancers all of a sudden? He thought she’d fallen for whatever line he’d spun, but I’d seen that look in her eye before – she was about to run him through. My arrival on Randall’s aircraft, with the Handels in tow, had saved him from a tongue worse than death: Elaine had the ability to cut a person in half with a dozen well-chosen words.
He stood up quickly, and stuck out his hand, trying for the usual bone-crusher. I did what I always did – locked my fingers, and watched his face turn white with effort. The women smiled at each other; they’d seen male mating displays before.
Elaine said, ‘This is Mr Dory, Charlie. He’s come all the way from London to see you.’
Dory pulled his hand back.
‘My name is Harold.’ His voice was high-pitched, the vowels oddly rounded, and he rolled his Rs. A working-class Geordie trying to sound as if he’d climbed the golden ladder. For a moment I couldn’t place the sound in my memory. Then I realized that he sounded a bit like Pinocchio.
‘He’s been waiting an hour for you, Charlie,’ Elaine continued.
‘Mr Martenson sent me,’ Harold explained.
I said, ‘That doesn’t help much, Harold. I don’t think I know him.’
‘One of your mates does though. Some Pole who was here in the war – Arnie owes ’im a few favours.’ That figured. It was the way they did business in Pete’s world. Dory added, ‘I have to give you these.’
He pushed his hands into his coat pockets like Johnny Mack Brown going for his guns, and came out with a small cardboard box in each. When I took them their weight disagreed with their dimensions. Two boxes of bullets. Pete hadn’t turned up before I left: I’d wondered if he’d forgotten.
‘Thank you, Harold. Tell Mr Martenson I’m obliged. I’ll settle up with Pete when I see him.’ I had no doubt that I would. I gently ushered Hunky out of the building in front of me; bullets weren’t something I wanted to discuss in front of the others.
He walked to his car – a smart two-tone Riley One and a Half with the mock-leather roof. I followed him. In maroon and black it looked even better close up.
‘I like your car, Harold. What will it do?’
‘More than a ton, Mr Bassett: I had twin SUs fitted to her, and lowered the suspension an inch. The coppers haven’t a car in the kingdom that can catch me.’
‘Not that they’d ever have to.’
‘Nah. You’re right.’ And he laughed. He had a right nasty little laugh. I guessed he might even be a match for George Handel up a dark alley. ‘I like you, Mr Bassett. You can call me Harry. Take this.’ He’d pulled a visiting card from his top jacket pocket. All it had on it was a Plaistow telephone number. ‘Call me if you think we can do business.’
‘Thank you, Harry. I shall.’ We shook hands again without breaking fingers this once. I watched him drive away. Nothing flashy. He gave me a wave, and I suppressed a shudder.
Randall walked out of the office door as I approached it. He growled, ‘Those bastards!’
‘What bastards?’
‘Your fucking passengers! He tipped me thirty dollars like I was a goddamned taxi driver.’
‘You keep it?’
He glanced down at his hand as if he didn’t know. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. I was too surprised to throw it back at them.’ He had a bundle of notes crushed in his fist.
‘Good. Save it for later. We’ll have a few jars on them.’ One of the nice things about the local pub was that they changed currency for us like a bank. I hoped we’d find somewhere as accommodating near Panshanger.
Inside the office Elaine was filing one of her nails. She always did that when she was feeling feisty. I asked her, ‘Where are they?’
‘Using the cloakroom. I phoned for a taxi to get them to the station. They say they’re going to stay in a hotel up in town until you contact them. What are you up to, Charlie?’
‘Never you mind. Fancy a quick one when you’ve finished up this afternoon?’
She pouted. ‘I’d rather we went for a drink, if you didn’t mind.’
‘That’s what I meant.’
‘Oh.’ Some you win, some you lose, and some you don’t even bloody notice.
The Handels reappeared together. Americans take an inordinate amount of time to wash their hands, have you noticed that? Maybe it’s a fetish. I wondered if Doris had searched our lavatories, while George had been polishing his knives, but I didn’t have to small-talk them because old Harris’s taxi drew up outside – it was a big black Humber Hawk estate he’d bought from the undertaker. I always thought it smelt of formalin.
George did the handshake thing, and Doris gave me a kiss on the cheek. George had turned away from me as she did that. Her lips felt big and full, and I knew that she’d left her red brand on me. I had something to ask them.
‘I’ll phone you in a couple of days, but how will I know where you’re staying?’
‘We’ll stay at the Savoy, won’t we, Georgie? Your man in Berlin said they’ll always make room for people like us.’ Which man in Berlin, I wondered.
George nodded, and handed me an old pre-war Ordnance Survey map with cloth covers, saying, ‘I marked the hills where the plane went in. The nearest houses are at a place named Shieldaig.’
‘Never heard of it, George, but don’t worry, I’ll find a couple of native guides to get us up there and back.’ He frowned momentarily; maybe he thought that I was about to take them up Kilimanjaro on my own. They turned away, and I showed them out, just the way I had Flash Harry. They even wanted to shake the cab driver’s hand before they mounted up. Some people touch too much. Kids play pat-a-cake instead.
I stood in the doorway and watched the taxi float away on a cloud of blue exhaust smoke. Doris turned to look at me through the Humber’s rear window. George didn’t. Elaine came and stood behind me, and leaned her chin on my shoulder. Some people can touch me as often as they like. She said, ‘Why don’t you wipe that lipstick off your face, Charlie?’ After I complied she asked, ‘What have you got yourself into this time?’
‘Don’t know, love, but it’s interesting. I don’t believe a word they say.’
‘Neither do I, but watch her – she’s a man-eater.’
I telephoned the Heathrow office to speak to June, but the dialling felt more like a duty than a pleasure. That worried me. It needn’t have; a different woman answered the telephone. She told me she was the new office junior, and sounded as if she laughed a lot. If ever I picked my own staff, I’d choose one just like her . . .
‘June’s having a week off. I think her boyfriend’s just come out of hospital for a few days.’
‘You mean the one from the loony bin?’
She laughed; I’d guessed she would. ‘That’s cruel.’
‘I know it is. I’m sorry . . . but are we talking about the same man? A soldier just back from North Korea or China?’
‘Yes. I think so. Who are you?’
‘Charlie Bassett. I run Lympne for us, and in a couple of months’ time I’ll run Panshanger. I don’t know what I’ll be doing in between, so if you wanted a date I could probably fit you in.’
She laughed again. ‘Not on your life – she’s warned me about you.’
It was interesting. It meant that June had three men in her life at present: a nice reliable fellah she was engaged to marry, a nutty, homicidal soldier who she also had been engaged to marry once, and me. Being neither reliable, nor a nutcase, I was on the wrong end of that queue. It looked as if Dieter and Carlo had been backing the wrong horse; I’d better break that gently to them.
There was no reply when I called June’s digs, so I phoned her parents’ home. Her mother answered. After the preliminaries she asked, ‘Where are you
just back from, Charlie?’
‘Berlin. It was cold and sunny. Berlin weather. How’s June?’
‘She’s fine. She’s out. Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why don’t you leave her alone, Charlie? You don’t see her for months on end, but whenever she gets her life going again you come back . . . and if she sees you she mopes around for weeks afterwards. You make her unhappy. What are you trying to do?’
I ran the first two choruses of ‘St James Infirmary Blues’ in my head before I answered. It’s always been one of my favourites.
‘I don’t know.’ They sounded like strange lost words, even to me.
‘Then why don’t you leave her alone until you do?’ And she put the phone down on me.
I was still holding the telephone when Elaine walked in. She took it from my hand, and replaced it on its cradle.
‘Who’s just had a surprise then?’ It must have been in my face.
‘Me, I suppose.’
‘Good surprise or bad one?’
‘I don’t know.’ Again they sounded like strange lost words, even to me, but Elaine knew how to handle it.
‘Put your coat on then. Flying’s finished for today, and the pub’s open. Randall’s up there waiting for us.’
‘How do you know? Did he call?’
‘No. I’m psychic.’
A few aircrew and some of the groundies were already there, so we made a party of it and the old thing happened.
I stepped outside after too many pints, wearing my old RAF blue battledress jacket – I don’t know where that had come from. Some dead guys from my past were whooping it up in the car park without me. There was an American named Peter Wynn dancing with Emily, a girl who had worked in the Red Cross Officers’ Club, and the Toff – our mid-upper gunner – was with a pretty woman in WVS uniform. I felt I should know her, but couldn’t retrieve her name. Marty, our bomb aimer, was dancing with a damned great empty bomb casing: he’d done that before. They waved to me as they jitterbugged past. The Russian I told you about was there, swigging from his usual bottle of expensive Tokay. I’d swear the music was the original Glenn Miller outfit.
A Blind Man's War Page 4
