A Future Arrived

by Phillip Rock

  “Obviously you weren’t hurt,” Derek said.

  “No, but I can’t say the same for the taxi’s radiator.” She combed her hair with her fingers. “I must look an absolute mess.”

  “You look lovely,” Colin said, meaning it.

  After dinner, they had to hurry down the street to Charing Cross and Derek, waving at them over his shoulder, ran along the platform and caught his train just as it was pulling out.

  “Sorry to see him go,” Colin said.

  “Yes,” she said. “A sad place, railway stations.”

  They walked slowly through the cavernous structure. In front, arriving passengers were lined up waiting for the few available taxis.

  “It might be easier to get one at the Savoy,” Colin said.

  “Plenty of them in Soho this time of night. Shall we walk? It’s not too far, and I know a nice little coffee bar in Gerrard Street.”

  “Okay.” He held her hand as they crossed into Charing Cross Road, the traffic signals subdued spots of light, the headlamps on the cars shielded into mere slits. “Life in the blackout. If the war goes on too long people will develop the sensory structure of bats.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she said with a laugh. “Londoners are half batty as it is!”

  Colin continued to hold her hand all the way to Gerrard Street and she made no move to draw it away; did, in fact, give his fingers a little squeeze from time to time as though to emphasize something she was saying. She talked of how much she enjoyed living with her sister, and of how Jennifer was being assigned to the Crown Film Unit to do research for propaganda films. And she talked with a restrained excitement about entering Oxford.

  “Be a horrid amount of work, but I don’t mind. It’s in a field I’ve always loved. Did you go to college when you went back to America?”

  “For a little while, but got bored with it and dropped out. I got a job as a copilot with an air-freight line—a small outfit. We flew flowers mostly, to the eastern markets.”

  “That must have been interesting.”

  “Yeah, if you weren’t allergic to roses.”

  Kate hesitated in front of a door. “This is it, I think. Yes … it’s upstairs.”

  It was a smoky, crowded place that served Turkish coffee in small brass pots and Greek pastry. It was very popular with actors, she said. Vicky had introduced her to the place.

  “Didn’t she want to be an actress once?”

  She nodded. “Just for a lark. She had a walk-on in a Noel Coward play and was perfectly dreadful.”

  Colin watched her take tiny sips from her cup and pretended to drink from his own. He didn’t like Turkish coffee. It tasted like hot syrup. “Derek said you thought I’d changed.”

  “You seemed … oh, reserved. Not that I blame you. The fact is, Colin, I’m the one who’s changed. A year and a half makes a big difference. I’ll be eighteen next week. Not a girl any longer.” She looked down at the table and turned the cup between her fingers. “I acted foolishly that summer … especially the night in the car.”

  He cleared his throat and broke off a piece of baklava. “I certainly didn’t act very well, Kate.”

  “You did absolutely the right thing under the circumstances. You put the damper on and did your best to get my feet back on the ground. I was just carried away in a mad crush, a biologic urge, and confused that with love. I must have embarrassed you terribly.”

  “Not at all … really.”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives and it would be a pity if there were any uncomfortable feelings between us.” She leaned back in her chair. “Good. That’s off my chest.”

  He gave her his best Groucho Marx leer. “Some chest.”

  “That’s my Colin,” she said. “It was your wicked little grin that I missed most.”

  He walked her to Lower James Street and looked up at the building as she searched her handbag for the key.

  “So this is where Jenny lives.”

  “Not much from the outside, is it? But it’s a truly lovely flat. Full of antiques and things. I’d ask you up, but I’m sure she’s asleep by now.”

  “When I get back from training.”

  “Lots of luck on that.”

  “Piece of cake.” She had trouble with the lock and he opened the door for her. “They give you a couple of days’ leave when you finish. Maybe we could get together … have dinner and take in a show.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Swell.” He pressed her hand. “And happy birthday. I’m sorry I’ll miss it.”

  “You can give me a birthday kiss if you’d like.”

  “I would, Kate. I really would.” He kissed her briefly on the lips. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You do the same,” she said softly, then stepped inside and closed the door.

  It was a long walk to Regent’s Park, but he never gave a thought to hailing a cab. He walked with light steps and a joyous heart—thinking of her.

  THE VENERABLE SARO London flying boat winged majestically over Swanage Bay at five thousand feet, Colin keeping her steadily on course despite a vicious cross wind whipping in across the English Channel. Rain behind the wind, black sheets of it blotting out the distant line of the French coast. He fought back the urge to open the throttles on the twin Pegasus engines and scoot merrily for home, but his instructions had been exact—ninety miles per hour on a two-hundred-mile triangular course. He checked the airspeed indicator—ninety on the button—and glanced at his watch: two fifty-seven. Right on time and right on course. The gimlet-eyed flying instructor in the second seat was doing the same—and also glancing out the side window at the approaching squall. “If you goose the old girl up a bit, Ross, we might miss this muck.”

  Colin’s smile was inner. Not a muscle of his face so much as twitched. Silly bastard, he was thinking. “Chief Flying Instructor Bishop’s orders, sir. Keep the ship at nine-oh airspeed.”

  “Mr. Bishop did not anticipate a ruddy monsoon, Ross.”

  “One can never anticipate anything on a mapped-out patrol, sir. Unless the aircraft is in obvious danger I shall stick to the flight plan … sir.”

  The instructor cracked a smile. It was like watching granite split. “Good for you, lad. You’d be surprised how many get a tick on that one.”

  Not me, he mouthed soundlessly as he began a slow descent toward the Solent, the Isle of Wight off to his right, already wreathed with mist.

  Rain on the March wind pelted the seaplane base. The moored flying boats rocked in the bay; water sheeted off the Nissen huts and the old brick buildings. Colin, a raincoat wrapped around his white coveralls, sprinted across sloppy ground and into the Operations building. He hung the streaming raincoat on a rack and walked down a corridor to Wing Commander Jessop’s office.

  The portly little commander of the base rose from his desk, all smiles. “Sit down, Ross … sit down. Care for a sherry to dry out the bones?”

  “That would be nice, sir. Thank you.”

  “Called you in, Ross, because orders have come through for you while you were in flight. And may I say that the report on your exercise this afternoon was first rate.”

  “That’s good to know, sir.”

  “Not that you could possibly have doubted it, I’m sure. You’ve done splendidly here the past few weeks. Your pilot officer rings are secure on your sleeves.” He perched on the edge of his desk, feet dangling a long way from the floor. “A new squadron has been formed. Number Thirty-four, based at Thurne Mere in Norfolk. Seven Ross-Patterson Colorados. The boats you helped bring over, no doubt. They should prove useful with all this sudden activity in Norwegian waters. You’re to report to it as soon as you’re qualified—which is now. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Did I say as soon as you are qualified? Let me clarify that. You are entitled to three days’ leave starting, officially, tomorrow. Report to RAF Thurne Mere first thing Monday morning. However, I won’t keep you here unnecessarily
. If you can pack up your gear in a hurry you should be able to catch the ferry to Gosport and be in London by nightfall.” He stuck out a small, pudgy hand. “Goodbye and Godspeed.”

  GOSPORT TO SOUTHAMPTON. Train to London. Taxi from Waterloo in swirling rain through blacked-out streets, the driver cursing softly over the tick tick tick of the windshield blades.

  “My goodness, Mister Colin,” Dodds said in surprise. “You were not expected.” He closed the front door and helped him out of his raincoat. “Lord and Lady Stanmore are in Derbyshire staying with Mr. William. We don’t expect them back until Wednesday.”

  “Sorry I missed them. I only have a three-day leave … have to be in Norfolk on Monday.”

  “That is a shame. May I say, sir, you look splendid in uniform.”

  “Thank you, Dodds.”

  A maid had brought a ham sandwich and a glass of Guinness to his room while he had been taking a bath, the first really hot soak he had had in weeks. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he wolfed the sandwich and wondered if he should phone Kate now or just roll over on the luxurious bed. Derek had been oh, so right. Sleep was not an abundant commodity in the RAF. The bath and the beer, the softness of sheets and the warmth of blankets made up his mind for him.

  “Tomorrow,” he muttered—getting into bed and turning out the light—and was instantly asleep.

  The storm had blown over by morning, and the weather report called for a windy but clear weekend. He spent it with Kate, playing the tourist: Kew Gardens, the Tower, Madame Tussauds—the wax image of Hitler being the biggest attraction. There were dinners and the theater.

  “The nicest weekend I’ve ever had,” she said.

  Colin, standing by the window and looking down on Lower James Street, smiled and turned away. “Certainly the best I’ve had. I wish it wasn’t Sunday, and Sunday evening at that.”

  Jennifer came out of her bedroom in a cocktail dress, the back of it undone. “What time do you have to be at that awful place, Colin?”

  “I take the six-fifteen train to Norwich and someone from the base meets me there. God knows where Thurne Mere is. I couldn’t find it on the map. A lot of water in Norfolk. It’s probably the name of a swamp.”

  “Do me up, will you, Kate?” She sat on the couch next to her. “You two are certainly welcome to come along. Jacob would love to see you.”

  “Cocktail parties bore me,” Kate said, pulling up the zipper. “Besides, I thought I’d show off my cooking skills. Lamb chops, mashed potatoes, and peas.”

  Jennifer smiled to herself as she stood up. “Have a pleasant time. I won’t be in before ten thirty.”

  Colin straddled a chair in the kitchen and watched Kate as she fixed the meal, smiling at her obvious anxiety as she checked the potatoes and peered for the fourth time at the chops sizzling under the gas broiler.

  “Need any help?” he asked. “I know how to boil spuds.”

  “They’re about done—I think. You can mash them if you’d like. That is, if it’s not beneath the dignity of a Royal Air Force officer.”

  “Nothing is beneath my dignity where food is concerned.”

  Kate had set the table with care, using china, Georgian silver, and crystal wine glasses that Jennifer had brought from Lulworth Manor. The effect was not lost on Colin.

  “Elegant.”

  “It’s the food that counts. I hope everything is all right.”

  Colin cut into a chop. “Soft as butter.” He looked at her across the table, the candlelight imparting an ivory warmth to her face. “Lovely dinner and a beautiful hostess. My cup runneth over.”

  “So does mine,” she murmured.

  COLIN CLOSED HIS eyes to fix the moment forever in his mind. The utter tranquillity and rightness of it all, with the fire glowing in the grate and Kate snuggled against him on the couch. She had suggested a game of cards after dinner, but he had preferred just to sit beside her, content with her closeness.

  He stroked her hair, and she murmured something against his chest, a tiny sound of happiness and contentment.

  “I’d better be off soon,” he said. “Have to get up with the hens.”

  She raised her head and kissed him on the throat. “I’ll get up, too, and meet you at the station.”

  “No. Please. That’s an image I could do without. You alone on a platform, waving goodbye. This is all I care to remember.”

  A FLAT AND watery country. Canals and lazy rivers and broad inlets of the sea. A cold and windswept landscape with the North Sea beyond. The little Austin, painted RAF blue, turned off a narrow road and along a wheel-rutted track leading to RAF Thurne Mere—a new base, still under construction, an untidy scattering of huts, tents, and workshops. A long wooden jetty ran out into the wide, brackish reach of a lake, kept from the sea by a distant line of dunes. It was the most depressing place Colin had ever seen, or hoped to see again.

  A tall radio aerial jutting up from the curved roof of a Nissen hut marked the squadron operations center, and the car pulled up in front of it. The commanding officer’s office was a desk at the far end of the cluttered hut. The commander stood up as he approached and Colin realized that he had seen the slim, sandy-haired man with the icy blue eyes before.

  “Flight Lieutenant Allison?”

  “Squadron leader now. Promotions come rather quickly these days. Nice to have you with us, Ross.”

  “Quite a coincidence, sir.”

  “Is it? I spotted your name on the men-in-training list and put in a request for you. I’ve seen you fly, remember?”

  “You’ll find me a bit less free with the controls now.”

  “I hope so. Duty isn’t easy here, Ross. Long, tedious patrols. Jerry’s shipping iron ore from Sweden down the coast of Norway, keeping within neutral waters. Our job is to shadow their ore convoys. If any ships stray past the three-mile limit we alert our destroyer patrols. So far, the Jerry ships have not strayed an inch. We are also prepared to depth bomb any U-boats we come across, but we haven’t seen one yet. Our biggest enemy is boredom and fatigue. So, you can see, I hardly did you a favor by picking you out of the crowd.”

  “I think you did. When do I begin flying?”

  “Tomorrow morning. The only consolation here, by the way, is that the food in the mess is top hole. Our sergeant-cook once worked at the Savoy Grill.”

  He had been right about the food and right about everything else. It was the only consolation. He lay on a hard cot under rough blankets and his greatcoat feeling the deathly cold seep through the plywood walls of the barracks. He shut his eyes tightly, recalling the warmth of that room … the exquisite warmth of her against his chest. He could smile. He could sleep.

  12

  ALBERT THAXTON HEARD the rumor on the morning of April 9. He had been spending a few days in the small town of Quesnoy near the Belgian frontier as guest of the second Battalion, Durham Light Infantry. The battalion HQ was located in the basement of the town hall and when he entered it the duty officer, a thin, pink-cheeked lieutenant, said: “Old Adolf just invaded Denmark and Norway.”

  “Are you sure?” Albert asked.

  “It just came over the blower from division. Think the real balloon’s going up now, Mr. Thaxton?”

  “Maybe. If that’s true.”

  There had been many exaggerated reports of German actions during the past weeks. A six-man patrol probing French defenses in Moselle would cause wild tales of “massive” assaults and “heavy” cannonading. If a reporter took all of his news from what came over the field telephones he would find himself writing a story one day and retracting it the next.

  The elderly lieutenant colonel commanding the battalion said the same at breakfast. “Everyone has the wind up. Bound to be some sort of move in the works. The Boche like the spring. Make sense if they went into Denmark and Norway, come to think of it. They’ll need coastline bases. Still, I’d not take it as gospel on the basis of one call from some rabbity chap at HQ.”

  By noon it was official. The Nazis had mar
ched into Denmark with hardly a shot being fired at them, and they had landed troops in half a dozen Norwegian cities and ports, from Oslo to Narvik in the far north. The news was stupefying.

  “My guess as to how they pulled it off is as good as yours,” the colonel remarked. “Rather clever, these chaps. I wonder if Mr. Chamberlain is wondering who missed the bus now? Hitler or him?”

  Albert wondered the same thing as he walked beside the colonel on an inspection of his lines in the fields and woods west of the town. The men, loosely strung out beside the rusting tracks of a narrow-gauge railway, were in high spirits.

  “This news is a tonic to the lads, Thaxton. The possibility of action for a change. Been a ruddy long winter with not a bloody thing to do. Kept them in shape by digging holes. Dig them in the morning and then fill them up in the afternoon. Dig and fill since November. Bloody boring for them, but it kept them fit. Not like the French army. Half drunk most of the time.”

  Albert left the battalion after lunch, seated in the back of a staff car compiling his notes …

  With the BEF on Belgian frontier … Spirit of troops “superb,” says A. E. Thaxton.

  There was British transport on the road moving north from Lille, infantry on the march or crowded into the back of trucks. Bren gun carriers and a few light tanks clattered along the pave. The men cheered and gave the thumbs-up sign as the staff car passed them. On the move at last. It had been a long winter for everybody.

  Major General Wood-Lacy’s HQ was in a roadside inn five miles from Armentières.

  “A lovers’ inn, Albert,” he said as he ushered him into the small bar that served as his office. “Designs of hearts and cupids on the bedroom walls. Would have been a nice place to bring Jenny for a holiday. Not a time for lovers now, is it?”

  “I’m afraid not. Are you moving your division to the frontier?”

  “Not at present. It’s a wait-and-see situation for us. They’re shifting half the corps up, though. If Fritz moves west we’re to scurry into Belgium … take positions along the Dyle from Louvain to Wavre. Don’t try to print that. All very hush-hush. Only about half the Paris taxi drivers know of it yet. Bloody silly strategy if you ask me. The high command have their heads in the sand.”