by Alan Judd
It was a basement flat in one of Pimlico’s stucco-fronted nineteenth-century streets. Frank had spent the afternoon wandering around central London, looking for famous sights but recognising only Big Ben and Buckingham Palace. The rest, though busy, was tired, drab and colourless apart from the willow herb that colonised the bomb sites and the uniformed servicemen of various nationalities without whom no street scene seemed complete. The civilians looked pale, preoccupied and indifferent.
Later, he took himself to a cinema in Leicester Square and watched a film about eighteenth-century pirates, smoking four cigarettes and paying attention only when Pathé news came on with scenes of jubilant French civilians greeting Allied forces in Europe and reports of heavy fighting in Holland. Most of the time he fantasised about what was going to happen in her flat but without being able to imagine anything convincing, or even specific.
The flat was small and shabbily furnished but the dim yellow light bulbs and the smell of cooking lent it the illusion of homeliness. She wore a dark skirt and white blouse and began apologising before he was properly through the door. ‘Margaret’s away in Portsmouth yet again – she works for the Navy and is up and down like a yo-yo – and since I arrived there hasn’t been time to sort anything out, hence the mess, I’m afraid. It’s also damp – can you smell it? – but the landlady lives in Worcester and isn’t interested so long as she gets her rent. Dinner will be pretty awful, too – just a morsel of ancient mince and even older potatoes with, if they haven’t rotted, some runner beans I brought up from Kent. Rationing bites – if that’s the word – harder in London than elsewhere.’ She laughed. ‘And no wine or beer. Well, there is a bottle of red in the kitchen but it’s Margaret’s and I think she’s saving it for some special occasion like the end of the war or marrying her admiral.’
‘I should have got one. I saw a – an off-licence, is that what they’re called? It was quite near, I’ll go back and—’
‘No you won’t, it won’t be open yet and anything they’ve got is bound to be hideously expensive and bad. That’s if they’ve got it at all. We’ll make do with tea. There’s masses of that because Margaret doesn’t drink it so she just saves up her rations and gives it away.’
‘I didn’t know anyone in England didn’t drink tea.’
‘You don’t know the English yet.’ She smiled. ‘You can put your cap and gas mask down, you know, we’re not about to be inspected.’
The kitchen was a narrow galley with barely enough room for two. Beyond it was an equally narrow bathroom that felt and smelt damp. There was one bedroom – Margaret’s – which he didn’t see. She cooked on an oven with two gas rings, both of which were feeble. ‘Pressure must be down,’ she said. ‘This may take some time.’
They ate at the table in the living room. ‘Where do you sleep?’ he asked.
‘There.’ She nodded at the sofa. ‘It unfolds into a bed. It’s not bad, quite comfortable. I thought about using Margaret’s, which is a proper double, but I don’t think we should. I couldn’t relax.’ She smiled. ‘If you want to stay, that is.’
He looked at her. ‘I thought you – no more pilots, you said—’
‘I know. And I meant it when I said it. And it’s no good falling in love with me, I still mean that. But—’
‘You think I need it? You’re taking pity on me?’
‘Doing my bit for the war effort.’ Her eyes were still smiling. ‘But only if you really want to.’
Frank felt suddenly nervous, almost like a take-off, but he smiled. ‘I do want to, I really do.’
Later, in the early hours, he lay awake while she dozed. It was done; he was qualified, part of wider mankind at last. But he didn’t feel any different. There was none of the euphoria he had felt on getting his wings or completing his Spitfire training. Only this woman by his side who had accepted him, generously, mysteriously. He sensed already that he might never really know why, but he was grateful.
At about three o’clock they got up and made tea. She showed him how. ‘It’s so important to warm the pot first, then one spoonful for each drinker and one for the pot. Then you must – must – let it make.’
‘Let it make?’
‘Leave it to stew for a few minutes.’ She held up her hand. ‘Mind – careful with the kettle, it’s spitting boiling water.’ They were both naked.
‘I’m learning a lot tonight.’
She kissed his neck. ‘You’re learning fast.’
‘Did you know I’d never—’
‘I guessed.’
Breakfast was more tea accompanied by stale bread toasted under the grill. ‘Only margarine, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Nothing else here. You live better in your mess.’
They talked about practicalities – what would become of the ruined manor, the colonel’s will, her prospect of another job in the War Office which would make greater use of her French. He walked back to Whitehall with her in a thin rain, the pavements teeming with people doing the same. Big Ben was showing ten to nine as they crossed Parliament Square. He slowed. ‘Thank you for doing your bit for the war effort.’ He wanted to say more but didn’t know how to put it. It was easier, less embarrassing, to affect an off-handedness which she would recognise as affected, therefore not meant. He must be catching the English disease, he thought, playing the English game.
‘It was my pleasure too, you know.’
‘May I come up and see you again?’
‘I hope you will.’
‘Even though I’m a pilot?’
‘Especially.’ She stopped, raised her hand to his cheek and kissed him briefly on the lips. ‘Goodbye, Frank.’
He levelled off at 150 feet, having just led his flight of three in a wide descending turn away from the train. They had spotted it through a gap in the cloud and, with luck, it might not realise it had been seen. Even if it had, their leisurely turn out of sight from 10,000 feet might tempt it to assume the marauding Tempests had other business. But such trains were very much their business. Briefed primarily to sweep for German fighters, they had been told that targets of opportunity such as goods trains were just as important, especially trains such as this with mysterious long canvas-covered loads that might be rockets or rocket parts. There were anti-aircraft guns mounted on every other truck.
He called to his flight, ‘Going down in ten seconds,’ and led them on a gentle descent through the cloud until they came out over flat, featureless heathland. Since his unexpected promotion to flight lieutenant, every mission seemed busier. Having to think of and for others left no time for daydreaming nor even for his old familiar, his fear. It was still there but feeling it, indulging it, had become a luxury he no longer had time for. Reckoning they must be six or seven miles from the train, he called out, ‘Target ahead. Going down. Form echelon to starboard behind me.’ He tightened his harness straps, lowered his seat a notch for gunsight vision and switched on the sight. He would take the engine end, which had the most flak, and force the German gunners to divide their fire to cover them all.
Very soon the train was in sight, still some miles ahead. It was a long one, almost the length of the embankment and going very slowly from right to left ahead of them, suggesting it was prepared for attack. They had to go for it now or not at all. Frank no longer hesitated over anything. After a quick check that the others were lined up behind, he opened up to 450 mph and took his Tempest down to 50 feet, almost level with the train. As soon as he was in range he pressed the firing button. His cannon shells kicked up stones and sparks from the railway, then, gratifyingly, spurts of flame and jets of steam from the engine itself. At the same time the ack-ack lit up, blinding white flashes running the length of the train. For an instant, no more, Frank saw again the flash of sunlight on the colonel’s river.
THE END
POSTSCRIPT
This story of friendship through fishing is an imagined elaboration of a real incident described by Pierre Clostermann in his memoir, The Big Show. Clostermann was a Frenchman w
ho flew with the RAF during the Second World War, becoming one of the RAF’s top-scoring fighter aces and eventually France’s most highly decorated citizen. His book is an outstanding account of aerial warfare and should be read by anyone with an interest in that war.
I have drawn on it and on other accounts by pilots of the period for my attempted evocation of what it was like to fly and fight in those planes. Naturally, any errors or lapses are entirely my doing. The characters of the colonel, Vanessa and Frank Foucham himself are imaginary, though the story of Frank’s father and the woman he wanted to marry originates within my own family.
