Afterwards they walked across to the old runway. The Colonel looked down the hundred-foot-wide concrete path that had led to the stars. It stretched far into the distance, potholes and cracks infiltrated by grass and weeds and thistles. The Lancaster bombers had taken off from there. Risen up with a great roar of engines, climbing laboriously, burdened by their weight. They would have returned lighter and quieter, hours later. If they were lucky.
They walked back to the house, Monty padding behind.
Geoffrey said, ‘Of course, after the war, nobody wanted to know about the Bomber Command chaps. Churchill dumped them, so did the Government and all the Lefties. People said we shouldn’t have dropped bombs on the enemy; it wasn’t a nice, kind thing to do. So there was no campaign medal, no proper recognition, no thanks. Bloody disgraceful, in my opinion. It was conveniently forgotten about the Germans bombing us. About Coventry and London and Portsmouth and Southampton, and about Warsaw and Rotterdam and all the rest, not to mention the small matter of the Nazi death camps and the millions who suffered and died in them.’
‘There’s talk of a Bomber Command memorial in London.’
‘Too little and too late.’
They neared the house.
‘By the way, I ought to warn you about Miss Warner, Hugh.’
‘Miss Warner?’
‘She’s another guest we have staying.’
‘What do I need warning about?’
‘She’s rather … eccentric. They do a Tudor re-enactment at Buckby Hall every summer and she’s taking part. They dress up in period costumes and speak a sort of fake olde English. Miss Warner takes it all very seriously – even at breakfast. It’s rather wearing. I thought I’d better put you in the picture.’
The Colonel smiled. ‘I appreciate it, Geoffrey. Thanks.’
‘I’d be grateful if you’d have your breakfast in the dining room with her.’
‘To draw some of the flak, you mean?’
‘If you can stand it.’
There were two more cars parked in the driveway alongside his Riley.
Geoffrey said, ‘Looks like our crew have already arrived. We’d better go and say hello to them, if you don’t mind.’
‘It would be a pleasure.’
FOUR
They were standing in the hall, talking to Heather Cheetham. Six grey-haired elderly gentlemen – quietly dressed and quietly spoken.
The Colonel hung back while Geoffrey went to greet them and listened as they gave their names in turn: Jack Davies, Bob Tanner, Roger Wilks, Ben Dickson, Jim Harper, Bill Steed. Good solid English names. It reminded him of the old song about the grey mare carrying all those men to Widecombe Fair: Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan’l Widdon, Harry Hawk, old Uncle Tom Cobley and all … Except that these men hadn’t ridden one behind the other on the back of some old nag to go to a country fair in Devon. They had flown on perilous wartime operations in a four-engined heavy bomber over occupied Europe. Remarkable.
He was introduced and shook their hands. It was a privilege to do so. He hadn’t met many real heroes.
‘I understand you were a Lancaster crew.’
‘That’s right,’ Jim Harper said. ‘We did thirty ops together. We don’t see each other so often these days, now that we’re getting a bit long in the tooth, but we’ve kept in touch for more than fifty years.’
He was a good bit taller than the others and could have passed for being in his late sixties which he must, in fact, have left some time ago.
‘Were you the pilot?’
‘No, that’s Bill here. I was the navigator. Bob was our flight engineer, Roger our wireless op, Jack our bomb aimer, Ben our tail-end Charlie.’
The rear gunner was the smallest, which made sense; it must have been cramped inside the rear cockpit.
Otherwise, there was nothing about them to give any clues to what they were – or rather – had once been. None of them would have stood out in a crowd, though, in reality, all of them were remarkable men.
Uncle Tom Cobley seemed to be missing.
‘I thought a Lancaster had seven in a crew.’
‘We’re one short, more’s the pity. Our mid-upper gunner, Don Wilson, was an Aussie and he went back home after the war. We haven’t seen or heard from him for a long time. He may not be alive for all we know.’
Heather Cheetham said, ‘That’s rather a coincidence. We have a Mr Wilson coming this weekend. A last-minute booking. And he sounded Australian when he phoned.’
The six men looked at each other. The navigator, Jim, shook his head.
‘It can’t be Don, Mrs Cheetham. He’s never made it to a reunion yet. He’d have let us know if he was going to turn up.’
‘Well, whoever he is, he’s due to arrive later this evening. Would you all like a cup of tea?’
They thanked her politely.
‘We haven’t been back to Buckby for a few years, Mr Cheetham,’ Bill Steed, the pilot, said. ‘What’s it like now?’
‘I’m afraid there’s not a lot left. Most of the buildings are in ruins. But we’ve managed to keep the control tower from falling down and the main runway’s still there. We’ve arranged a coach tour of the air field for you tomorrow morning, so you’ll be able to see for yourselves.’
‘Yes, we noticed it on the programme. It looks like everyone’s gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘We want to make you feel welcome, after everything you did for us.’
‘Well, we certainly appreciate it. We don’t usually get VIP treatment. People are disappointed when they find out we didn’t fly Spitfires.’
At that moment the front door opened and they all turned to look at the woman who had come into the hall. She was middle-aged, overweight and dressed in some kind of period peasant costume – long brown skirts, a tightly laced maroon bodice, a white mob cap covering her head. She spread her skirts wide and curtsied low, revealing a mesmerizing amount of cleavage.
‘My greetings to you, good sirs. Pray pardon me for this disturbance to your discourse.’
There was a moment’s stunned silence before Geoffrey Cheetham collected himself.
‘You’re not disturbing us at all, Miss Warner. Did you have a good day at the Hall?’
‘’Twas naught but joy.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ He indicated the former crew. ‘These gentlemen are staying with us for the weekend.’
Introductions were made and smaller curtsies bobbed by Miss Warner.
‘I am a little weary, I confess, and would fain rest awhile. With your leave, kind sirs, I’ll be away to my chamber.’
She curtsied yet again and proceeded towards the stairs. They watched in silence as she scooped up her long skirts over one arm and make her way slowly upwards.
Geoffrey cleared his throat. ‘Miss Warner is taking part in the Tudor re-enactment up at Buckby Hall. They hold one every August for three weeks. The idea is to dress and act like someone from those days. She really lives the part, you might say.’
Roger Wilks, the crew’s wireless operator, said, ‘You mean, she speaks like that all the time?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘My Tudor’s a bit rusty.’
‘Don’t worry. We just talk to her normally. It seems to work all right.’
Geoffrey showed them up to their rooms and the Colonel wandered out into the gardens again. The ex-bomber crew had impressed him deeply. Ordinary men who had done something very extraordinary. Risked their young lives time and time again. They had volunteered to go through hideous danger in order to serve their country and they had apparently done so without complaint or fuss. Service and sacrifice of the highest order. Geoffrey was absolutely right. They had deserved due thanks from the nation after the war, not opprobrium and pointed neglect, which must have been a very bitter pill to swallow. He remembered an RAF bomber squadron insignia that he had once seen, depicting a steel chain with seven links forged into a circle; each link dependent on the others for the strength
of the whole. Seven links. Seven men. If all seven held fast, unbreakable.
It would be interesting to see if the remaining mystery guest would provide the missing link.
Later, the crew went off to the local pub, the Fox and Grapes, which they had apparently known well during their time at Buckby.
Heather Cheetham went to the kitchen to cook dinner and the Colonel and Geoffrey had drinks out on the terrace. The August sun was casting a theatrical golden light across the lawn and it was pleasantly warm and very still. England at her best, the Colonel thought. A moment when you completely overlooked the rain and the gloom, the damp and the cold. It was easy to forgive and forget when she could also provide such glorious days.
He had been rather thankful to learn that Miss Warner always took her supper on a tray up in her room.
‘Thank God,’ Geoffrey had added. ‘I can just about put up with her for breakfast, but there are limits. In my view, these re-enactment people are slightly loopy. They seem to take it all so seriously. Heather made me go to the Hall for a day and I couldn’t believe it. Do you know, they have more than three hundred volunteers taking part? Three hundred! They make their own costumes, even the shoes, and pretend to be Tudor gentry or servants or gardeners, or mummers … all sorts of things. Miss Warner is a cook, you know. She bakes bread in the bakery and does it from scratch with live yeast and stone ground flour, and all the rest of it. They mix the dough, then knead it, then leave it to rise, then knock it down and knead it again, then shape it into loaves and leave them to rise again before they’re finally shovelled into one of those old baking ovens by the fire. She’s told me all about it – at some length, I may say. Be careful not to get her on the subject. They have a dairy as well where other women churn butter and a brewery where men brew ale.’
‘Really?’
‘Really, Hugh. I’m not joking. Last year we had an archer staying here, complete with long bow and arrows which he had up in his bedroom. I rather wondered if it ought to be kept under lock and key like the police insist on with guns. After all it’s a lethal weapon, isn’t it?’
‘Fortunately for England.’
‘Point taken. Mercifully, he didn’t bother with the Tudor speech – not when he was talking to us, at least. In fact, he didn’t say anything much at all except that he wished he’d fought at Agincourt.’
‘I can understand that. Stirring times.’
‘Very true. Once more unto the breach, and all the rest of it! Well, our bomber crew friends certainly went unto it plenty of times. God, I admire their guts.’
The Colonel said, ‘I wonder if your last-minute guest could be their mid-upper gunner?’
‘They don’t seem to think so. And Wilson’s a common enough name.’
‘Still, it would be nice to complete the number.’
‘All seven together again after so many years? Yes, that would be quite something. Hard to imagine them as they must have been, don’t you find, Hugh? Young daredevils, doing that hellish job? They’re just quiet old men now.’
‘Yes, it’s rather hard to imagine.’
‘Well, it was a long time ago.’
They ate in the kitchen which suited the Colonel perfectly. The days of sitting at formal dining tables set with fine china, silver and crystal seemed to have vanished from his life and he didn’t miss them a bit. It was a pleasure to be in the comfortable old kitchen and eat and chat without any constraints. Laura would have felt the same, he knew. After an excellent pork casserole and apple tart, they had coffee and Geoffrey brought out some brandy and glasses.
‘Good health, Hugh.’
The Colonel raised his glass in response to his host and, as they drank, the front door bell jangled loudly.
‘It must be our last-minute guest,’ Heather said. ‘Will you go, Geoffrey?’
They waited and, after a while, Geoffrey came back with the new arrival.
‘This is Mr Wilson.’
He was another elderly man, quite short, with sparse grey hair and the lined and leathery face of someone who has spent many years under a hot sun. His suit was crumpled and he wore a brightly patterned tie and when he spoke the Australian accent was unmistakable.
‘Sorry to be so late, Mrs Cheetham. Like I was telling your husband here, I took some wrong turns and got lost. Thought I’d never get here. My word, everything’s changed since I was last over.’
Geoffrey said, ‘Mr Wilson’s our crew’s long lost mid-upper gunner. We’ve just been talking about it.’
‘I’d no idea they’d be staying here too, Mrs Cheetham. No idea at all.’
Heather said, ‘Well, they’ll be very pleased indeed to see you, Mr Wilson. And very surprised. They aren’t expecting you.’
‘I wasn’t expecting myself. I had a windfall on the horses and decided to blow it all on a last trip over here while I could still make it from Australia.’
‘The Colonel here is an old friend of my husband.’
‘Glad to meet you, Colonel.’
His handshake was firm; his look direct.
Geoffrey said, ‘Can I offer you a brandy, Mr Wilson?’
‘I never say no to a drink. And the name’s Don.’
He sat down at the table, looking round. ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Mrs Cheetham. I’d forgotten how English houses can be. In a class of their own, I reckon.’
‘Where do you come from, Don?’
‘Sydney. Have you ever been there, Mrs Cheetham.’
‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t. Geoffrey has spent a lot of time abroad but neither of us has ever been to Australia.’
‘How about you, Colonel?’
‘Unfortunately not.’
Don Wilson said, ‘When I first went back home in ’46, it seemed like going to the ends of the earth. Upside down at the bottom of the world – us and the Kiwis on our own together. We’d got the harbour bridge and Bondi beach in Sydney but that was about it. The rest was stuck in a ruddy time warp. Now, you’d never know the place. Skyscrapers, posh hotels, gourmet restaurants, great shopping, not to mention our opera house – though I can’t say I’ve ever been inside. It’s as good as any city in the world and a lot better than most. The weather’s better too.’ He smiled and picked up his glass of brandy. ‘But I reckon you’ve still got something we haven’t got – though I’m not too sure I can remember exactly what it is. Perhaps it’ll come back to me.’
The Colonel said, ‘How long is it since you’ve been in England?’
‘I haven’t been here since ’46. Couldn’t afford to. I couldn’t settle down after the war, you see. I bummed around for years. Spent time up in Queensland cutting sugar cane and working in a pineapple canning factory, got married, got divorced, went back to Sydney, tried a few more jobs, got married and divorced again … not what you’d call a successful life, Colonel.’
‘You had a very successful war.’
He smiled again. ‘Yeah, so they say.’ He swallowed some brandy. ‘Where’re my old mates, then?’
‘They went down to the local pub for supper,’ Heather told him.
‘The Fox and Grapes? I remember it all right. Not bad beer and the landlord cashed our cheques even though they bounced like kangaroos. We used to drink there all the time. Our nav and the skipper were officers, and the rest of us were sergeants but we stuck together off the station, as well as on it. All the RAF crews did. It was the way things were in Bomber Command. Not like the Yanks. They never mixed up the ranks, or the colours either.’
‘The Fox and Grapes has been done up, I’m afraid. I’m not sure you’d recognize it now.
‘Pity. We had some crazy times there. Writing our names on the ceiling, playing the boot game.’
‘The boot game?’
‘There was a glass boot behind the bar. They’d fill it up with beer and see who’d drink it the fastest. The record was fifty-nine seconds, if I remember rightly. And there was an old piano in the corner with half the notes missing. We stood round it yelling bawdy songs.’
>
Geoffrey said, ‘The glass boot’s gone, unfortunately. And the signatures. And the piano.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Heather looked at her watch. ‘I expect they’ll be back soon.’
‘Don’t you believe it! We used to stay till the landlord threw us out.’
But not long afterwards they heard them coming in. Things change inexorably as one gets older, the Colonel thought. No more long drinking sessions, no more late nights. He hadn’t actually started on the Horlicks or cocoa routine himself but it could happen.
Geoffrey went out into the hall and the Colonel could hear him asking the six men if they’d had a good evening, but he didn’t mention their long-lost mid-upper gunner.
‘Come and join us in a nightcap.’
They came into the kitchen and Geoffrey said, with irony, ‘I believe you’ve already met Mr Wilson.’
From his place at the end of the table, the Colonel could see the expressions registering on their faces: disbelief, doubt, amazement – shock, too, if he was not mistaken.
The pilot, Bill Steed, was the first to speak.
‘Don? Is that you?’
‘That’s right, Bill. It’s me.’
‘You’ve changed a bit. I wouldn’t have recognized you.’
‘You’ve changed a bit too, skip. All you Poms have. Good to see you again.’
‘We had no idea you’d be here. Why the hell didn’t you let us know?’
‘Like I was telling these folks, I didn’t know I was going to be. I won some money at the races and hopped straight on a plane.’
‘You knew about the reunion, then?’
‘Yes, I’d run into a bloke in Sydney who was ex-RAF. He lent me a Bomber Command magazine and I read all about it.’
‘But why haven’t you kept in touch all these years, you bastard? We wrote to you when you first went back.’
‘I’ve never been one for writing letters, Bill – you know that. And I’ve moved around a fair bit. No fixed address to speak of. Besides, the war was over. Not much sense looking back, was there? Not for us. That’s the way I see it.’
The Seventh Link Page 5
