‘Indeed,’ said Disvan sagely, and then spoilt it, wiping the smile off Wiltshire’s face, by adding, ‘Or so they say. Anyhow, a gift’s a gift, Mr Oakley. It’d be churlish not to express your gratitude.’
Good manners, hard-wired into the circuit diagram of most Englishmen of my class, stronger than duty or faith or even patriotism. Mr Disvan had sounded the one trumpet call that could not be ignored.
‘Right, off we go,’ he said brightly, wringing the very last drop of relish from his little triumph over modern mores.
* * *
Our aviator-saviour had ploughed an impressive dead-straight mega-furrow across one of Senlac Farm’s broodingly winter-anonymous fields. His (or maybe, her) plane had come to rest, seemingly intact, at its end, just a few yards short of the vanguard trees of the dense woods climbing Binscombe Ridge.
‘It was clever stuff,’ commented Mr Disvan approvingly, as he swung his car to a no less alarming halt at the field boundary. ‘One fraction of a degree up or down, an ounce more speed, and he’d have been just tiny bits of history.’
The scene before us had been weakly illuminated by faint tongues of flame which flicked into life and then died just as abruptly, from within the plane’s interior. But then Disvan turned the Porsche’s lights on full beam and suddenly he was as transfixed as the plane.
‘Oh!’ he said, with bounteous surprise. We paused, Father Wiltshire, Doctor Bani-Sadr and I, on our way out of the car. I for one was glad of any cause to postpone the proposed encounter with our smoky, fiery friend.
‘What is it, Mr Disvan?’ I asked solicitously.
‘Nothing really,’ he replied, recovering full alignment with the world. ‘It’s just that, in a manner of speaking, I think we’ll find the pilot is history, after all.’
‘Pardon?’
Disvan dismissed my query with a wave as he clambered out.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘He’s still a human being; still needs help. Let’s go.’
By now, the rest of the motor convoy from the Argyll had caught up with us and were starting to unload. Even so, we were first away and, for form’s sake, I had to keep up with my companion’s surprisingly rapid dash over field-fence and then muddy field. As we went along, the notion grew on me that not all the yielding material I trod on was honest mud and that the oily moisture peculiar to old agricultural land was osmosis-ing like mad up the leg of my suit. It was, I thought, a wonderful way to spend Christmas Eve.
However, all that was almost forgotten when we neared the plane. There was something not right about the very sight of it, even to my untutored eyes. I’d not seen its like before, at least, not outside of books.
In my fascination, I even wandered closer than to the great craft than my natural prudence would have approved. Then, a gout of blue-black flame caught my attention and then, disappearing, directed it to the point of origin.
The roundel was charred and flaked but the red, white and blue colours were still discernible. And those neat black holes traversing it, stitching a drunken line along the plane’s length, what else could they be but...
‘Bullet holes,’ confirmed Mr Disvan, noting my trance-like gaze. ‘From a twenty millimetre cannon, by the look of them.’
I nodded, somewhat abstracted. Of course, on the one hand, that’s what they had to be. But on the other, in this context, in this day and age, time and place, they couldn't be, could they?
Meanwhile, Father Wiltshire had bravely scaled the side of the plane and, with one wrench of his brawny arm, torn back the cockpit cover.
‘He's alive,’ the priest announced from his precarious perch on the wing, ‘at least, I think so. Mind you, dear Jesus, the floor's awash with blood.’
Helping hands assisted Doctor Bani-Sadr up to join Wiltshire and he leaned into the cockpit.
‘On his way out,’ he concluded eventually. ‘Double “below the knee job”—not much I can do. Shouldn’t think there’s much pain now. Rather a gentle way to slip off, actually.’
So saying, he ‘slipped off’ in another way and rejoined us down on the ground.
‘It’s what I think it is, isn’t it?’ he said to Mr Disvan.
Disvan indicated the affirmative.
‘Looks like it,’ he said. ‘It’s certainly a Spitfire, all right—much developed and modified, I grant you, but the ancestry sticks out a mile. Fifth or sixth generation evolution, I’d say at a guess.’
‘‘They’ve bumped up the size a fair bit,’ commented the doctor, as though this were the most natural conversation in the world, while blithely ignoring my obvious bogglement.
‘Yes. Scale-up of 1 to 2, I reckon. Can’t see the reason for that—more armour, poorer engines maybe. Certainly the workmanship’s shoddy. I mean, look at that cannon mount, it’s just tacked on. And there’s mismatched armament.’
‘Cannibalisation’ judged Doctor Bani-Sadr sadly. ‘Things are going downhill fast for them.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Disvan. ‘There’s a definite air of desperation about putting this thing up.’
There was finally a slight pause in their head nodding session where I could elbow my way in.
‘Hang on,’ I said brusquely. ‘I thought we came to see the pilot?’
‘Dying,’ replied Disvan, matter of factly. ‘Didn’t you catch Doctor Bani-Sadr’s prognosis?’
‘Well, yes. But you’re just standing here with your technical talk. What about getting help?’
The two of them had ‘thanks but no thanks for the suggestion’ expressions on.
‘Help, as you call it,’ said Disvan, ‘will be along in a matter of minutes, that I don’t doubt. There’s little we can do, one way or t’other.’
‘That’s right,’ chipped in Doctor Bani-Sadr, sounding almost aggrieved. ‘If you know of a way of saving a double-trauma amputee with stage four blood loss, medical science would be grateful for the illumination. And as for the “technical talk”, I reckon Mr Disvan’s entitled to that, seeing as he flew Spitfires through the best part of the War. And another thing...’
‘Best?’ interrupted Disvan, obviously embarrassed and anxious to press conversation on. ‘Hardly best.’
Doctor Bani-Sadr remained adamant.
‘It was supposed to be our finest hour, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Anyway, you know what I mean. Best, worst, hottest—it amounts to the same thing.’
‘Anyhow,’ said Disvan firmly, rendered just a little peevish by this unwelcome limelight, ‘perhaps you should go see the pilot after all, Mr Oakley. I think you’ll find the explanation you’re thirsting for up there with him.’
And thus saying, he turned his back on the doctor and me and, hands clasped behind his back, Duke of Edinburgh style, set off on a grumpy tour of inspection round the stricken craft. Eventually I lost sight of him in the surrounding dark and milling crowd.
‘To quote the King of rock n’ roll,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr, beckoning me towards the plane with mock courtesy, ‘it’s now or never.’
‘Now’ won by a photo-finish and I joined Father Wiltshire up near the cockpit just in time to see the light depart from the pilot’s eyes.
‘Too late,’ said Wiltshire calmly. ‘He’s gone on.’
My life was... well, modern and life-orientated. ‘Going on’ was the great unmentionable, akin to the topic of orgasms at a Victorian dinner party. I had no training or beliefs to enable me to say anything sensible about ‘going on’. So I said ‘oh’ instead.
‘He couldn’t speak,’ said the priest, divesting himself of his stole, ‘but if expression is anything to go by, he made a beautiful peace.’
I stared dully at the dead thing sitting before us. ‘A what?’ I said.
‘Peace,’ repeated Wiltshire. ‘You know, final confession.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
Father Wiltshire shook his head as though despairing of me and then jumped agilely down from the wing. The pilot and I were left alone.
He was, or had been, young. V
ery young—a freckled, strawheaded boy yet to reach (no, of course, never to reach) the prime of life. Pain had twisted his features but the end of struggle, the surrender to... whatever, had restored a degree of carefree calm.
The dying down of the sporadic flames prevented me from seeing the reported injuries and lent a softening, gentle light to otherwise harsh facts of the flesh. Doctor Bani-Sadr had talked about missing limbs and buckets of gore but I couldn’t see that. To me, the pilot looked as if he might at any minute awake from sleep and clamber out to fight another day.
But he wouldn’t of course, and the thought of why not prompted me to hurriedly consider other, lesser things. Why, for instance, was his uniform so old and faded and patched? Why were his RAF buttons and badge, for such they obviously were, mere crude tinplate cut-outs? In fact, everything on and around him had the look of long service or salvage, an air of being cobbled together from a dwindling store. All these features clashed and contrasted with the residual image of youthful enthusiasm that still lingered around the pilot, with the jaunty sprigs of holly pinned to his blouson and flying cap.
It was a puzzle, a deep puzzle. A puzzle I found instantly, totally forgettable when someone started shooting at us.
I was off the plane and away in less time than my mind took to form the word ‘bullets’ but, ten paces on, I was brought to a sudden halt. A powerful spotlight had skewered me and the others round the plane. Like a rabbit before a juggernaut, I was rooted to the spot, awaiting developments—with just as much optimism.
We weren’t kept waiting long. A bullhorn enhanced voice from the field edge soon put us in the picture.
‘Please stay where you are,’ it said. ‘You are in no danger if you stay where you are. Our shots were directed in the air. We are grateful for your cooperation.’
That was as may be but, correctly discerning that we had the pleasure of being addressed by the authorities, many of the Binscomites on the fringes of the light-beam promptly scattered in all directions, disappearing into the night and trees. Given their intimate knowledge of obscure woodland tracks and short cuts, it was highly unlikely that anything short of a helicopter assisted dragnet would fetch them back. In fact, considering some of the personalities involved, the authorities should have been grateful their fire wasn’t returned with interest. However, they didn’t see it that way. The bullhorn voiced impotent displeasure and polite threats at the receding villagers, but to no avail.
A fair few of us were left, even so—the more timid, less paranoid, bang-slap centre beam types. We stood and watched as a flood of figures issued from the direction of the God-like voice and headed in our direction.
It was a very efficient operation. Within a few moments the troops had roped off the plane and shrouded it from sight in khaki canvas. Other soldiers, civil but no-nonsense, herded us out of the field to where their trucks and APCs were parked.
‘Thank you so much,’ said their head man, perched up alongside the spotlight mounted on a huge tracked beast of a vehicle. His voice lacked the slightest trace of the gratitude expressed. ‘You will not be delayed any longer than necessary. Please form an orderly queue by the side of this carrier and sign the document presented to you. Thank you so much.’
Any of the more interesting alternatives to obedience were blocked by gun wielding men, so we did as was ‘asked’.
‘What’s this?’ I said to the brutish looking sergeant who proffered pad and pen to me. ‘Do you expect me to...’
‘It’s all the same to me,’ he replied with all the sad weariness of a philosopher. ‘You can sign it now or else peruse it at your leisure in a secret, high security detention cell with loud white-noise being played at you.’
‘Oh.’
‘So given the choice, son, if you want my personal advice, I’d sign now.’
There was a lot to be said for his argument, but I resisted the temptation to say it and signed instead.
Mr Disvan followed on and scrawled his name without demur. We were then allowed to walk away, shambling off with all the rest, clutching the carbon-copy document provided to us.
‘Official Secrets Act,’ said Disvan calmly, saving me the trouble of finding a light to read it by. ‘Merely a token gesture really, something to cow the more modern-minded. I need hardly tell you, of all people, that in contract law, an agreement entered into under duress is null and void.’
‘Exactly so,’ said a gentle, cultured voice from beside us, ‘and in understanding all, perhaps you will find it in yourself to also forgive all.’
We turned to see a slim middle-aged man, exquisitely dressed in three-piece suit complete with handkerchief and discreet white rose buttonhole, regarding us from a few yards away.
‘Yes, I should think so,’ said Mr Disvan, entirely unfazed by this vision of urbanity. ‘My curiosity has been satisfied and I’ve no real demands beyond that.’
‘That’s so good to hear,’ said the suited man, plainly delighted to encounter someone within visible distance of his own intellectual level. ‘One regrets the necessity for ordering these rather savage swoops, but...’
‘ “A prince has not the privilege of his private heart in affairs of state”,’ interrupted Mr Disvan.
‘Not Machiavelli, surely?’ drawled the man with decently concealed glee. Disvan nodded modestly.
‘A much misunderstood man,’ said the suited one, suddenly saddened and yet animated by his subject. ‘A reputation overlaid by centuries of misdirected ethical critiques.’
‘Indeed,’ said Disvan in his neutral agreeing tone. ‘So you’re in overall charge here, are you?’
The man diffidently signified he was—which was the volatile Mr Bretwalda’s cue to rocket, warp factor nine style, out of the darkness and bear down on him. A dozen or so other villagers were mere seconds behind Bretwalda’s towering bulk. It was a neat little ambush.
However, just as swiftly, the suited man’s hitherto unsuspected minder, a burly NCO, appeared from nowhere and wrestled with Mr Bretwalda. Then, finding himself unequal to the task, one, two, three, four, finally five supporters were called on to assist. Reinforcements piled in from either side and a bloody battle briefly flared.
Across the fray, the suited man studied Mr Disvan with renewed interest and, from my position behind a convenient tree, I could see that some form of silent communication was passing between the two respective ‘generals’ and agreement was being reached. Then, by their joint intervention, the fighting was (with difficulty) brought to a halt.
‘Apology, no arrests, no repercussions?’ said Mr Disvan to the suited man.
‘Dispersal, no press-leaks, no reprisals?’ he countered.
They nodded simultaneously and set about fulfilling their sides of the bargain. Within five minutes we had received a witty but fulsome apology from the suited man and Disvan had arranged the Binscomites’ departure. Mr Disvan’s credit was so good, there was even a fair chance that they would not return later on, guerrilla (or poacher) style, to satisfy honour with a bit of sabotage.
Once peace was achieved, I emerged from cover and rejoined Disvan and the suited man. They were shaking hands.
‘Mr Disvan,’ said Disvan, by way of introduction.
‘Mr X,’ replied the suited man, ‘or so I must be for the duration of the exercise, I’m afraid.’
‘You security lot usually sign yourself “Mr Densham”, don’t you?’ said Disvan, causing Mr X to raise one elegant eyebrow.
‘Oh, you know about that, I see,’ he said. ‘Well, Densham or X, just as you wish.’
Mr Disvan smiled his understanding of the dilemma.
‘I’m sorry about all the... unpleasantness,’ he said obligingly. ‘But, well, we just don’t like being mucked about; do we, Mr Oakley?’
‘Er... no, not really.’
‘Absolutely not,’ agreed Mr X enthusiastically. ‘One deprecates the necessity entirely. There was no primary desire to incommode, I can assure you.’
Mr Disvan put on his �
�elder-statesman, experience breeds tolerance’ look.
‘Think nothing of it,’ he said. ‘We understand the need.’
‘I don’t,’ I said, breaking up the old pals act.
‘You don’t?’ gasped Mr X incredulously, studying me properly for the first time. ‘Is this a friend of yours, Mr Disvan?’
‘Um... yes,’ said Disvan, souring the vote of confidence with insulting hesitation.
‘I see,’ said Mr X dubiously. ‘Well, that notwithstanding, he appears to be unfamiliar with the Many Worlds Theorum, far from au fait with the concept of the multiverse...’
‘More than likely,’ agreed Disvan sadly, ‘but, myself, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Let’s just say he’s failed to think through the consequences.’
It was bad enough being patronised, let alone being spoken of as if I was a moderately clever doggie.
‘‘Hang on!’ I barked. ‘Just a minute.’
‘The thing is,’ interrupted Mr X, in a way that was somehow terribly polite and yet very compelling, ‘that if there is an infinite multiplicity of parallel worlds; if each event and decision does create two separate, ongoing, universes, and if those continuums do, on occasion, interact, there are profound consequences. Surely you can appreciate that?’
I was taken aback. He looked like an exceptionally depraved or dismal—and therefore successful—accountant or lawyer. Such people, predictability being their stock in trade, did not normally offer metaphysical speculations. All I could offer by way of a parry was ‘um’.
‘Um...’
‘Imagine, if you can my dear fellow,’ continued Mr X, warming to the topic, ‘maintaining normal international relations if it should become generally known that, in a closely adjacent continuum, World War Two is still under way.’ And here he waved one languid hand towards the ‘Spitfire’ in the field beyond. ‘How does her Majesty receive the present German ambassador in those circumstances? With what feelings should HMG welcome Japanese investment in South Wales? What sort of reception would their much valued tourists find waiting?’
Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series Page 46
