Nor the Years Condemn

by Justin Sheedy

  Except resignation to the fact.

  For there was nothing else to be done.

  Only darkness to contemplate.

  And to inhabit.

  ‘Ready for you now, sir…’

  Quinn sprang to his feet, spun around, a little distance away, the silhouette of a man. The first glimmer of dawn behind him, a red lantern hung down from his arm.

  ‘Mister Kemp?’

  ‘Better look lively, sir.’

  ‘Flap on?’ put Quinn as he approached.

  ‘’Fraid it’s your brother, sir. Come on now, get in then.’

  Quinn hopped over the door of the MG and buckled up. The day brightening quickly, with some surprise he saw the old car had no steering wheel, instead, a control column, same as on the Spit: ring grip, gun button, everything. No time to think about it now: Must find Matt, must be at home, must get home and be sure, be sure he was alright.

  ‘Good luck, Daniel…’

  Potter’s face was close by for a moment, polishing the windscreen, Kemp at the starter wagon.

  ‘Contact…’

  The engine roared into life, Potter dragging the wheel-chocks away.

  Beside him on the passenger seat, Quinn noticed a glint of metal. Looking more closely, he saw it was the gold wings lapel pin – the one he got for volunteering, the one he gave to Matthew. Not like Matt to leave it just lying around; it had meant something to him. Ask him when he saw him, Quinn resolved. Right now he had some flying to do…

  Looking back to the controls, his eyes bulged wide with horror.

  It was flying ITSELF!

  He’d taken off without realising – a few hundred feet up already!

  Jesus! Hands on the controls! What if they SEE you?! Letting it fly by itself – they’ll SCRUB you! Concentrate on the controls!! Get it together, Danny, looking forward now: All okay, thank Christ, all okay. In control…

  Concentrating properly now. Good. Compass North, level and on course: Killara. Nice flowing right turn off the Pacific Highway, look out for landmarks, should be easy; know these streets well. Down Stanhope Road, cross the railway line, a sweeping left down Springdale and home. All those beautiful houses, gardens, trees – nice to see them from above for once, a picture in the afternoon light… Just a bit further now, here’s the old place – home! Made it home! Now up the drive, up the stairs, front door open, excellent. Nice flying, Danny, no, not so bad, not so bad at all… Throttling back now, throttle back… Line up for a nice landing… Just enough room for a three-pointer down the hall…

  Passing the archway of the parlour, Quinn saw a bandaged figure, cigarette in hand, reclining on the couch…

  ‘Yes-sir-ree, that’s one hart shart pilot, Ol’ Danny…’

  Good old Dean, Quinn smiled to himself. See! We’re doing okay .

  Beside him sat an older gentleman, white hair, Mr Reiser? Strange – Mr Reiser never wore medal ribbons… Nor trickled blood from his mouth…

  ‘…One hart shart pilot, Ol’ Danny…’

  Can’t stop to talk: We’re landing , and we’re doing okay, Matthew’s room coming up…

  DAMN.

  Flaps won’t come down.

  No green indicator lights either – Undercarriage fucked. Next time he saw Potter, Quinn would take out his Webley and shoot the rigger dead. Simple.

  Drawing level with the first right-hand doorway, he saw Mum sitting very still on the end of Matthew’s bed. She smoothed her hand gently over the eiderdown, all nice and neatly made. Quinn couldn’t see her face though: It was turned away from him, inwards toward the head of the empty bed. Quinn wanted to stop, put his arm around her. But he couldn’t; just a little too much airspeed. She’d understand, Mum would understand…

  But where was Matt?

  Then it came to Quinn…

  ‘Down the hall in my old room! They’ve given him my old room! ’

  Now he heard voices issuing from the doorway passing to the left – girls’ voices…

  ‘Matthew? Danny, where’s Matthew?!’

  As the sound of Kath’s voice faded behind Quinn, he sensed a younger one with her – Angie, starting to cry. Then nothing more.

  Must find him. Must find Matthew. Have to belly land it, yes. Jesus, can’t slow down, no, it’s no good, have to go round again. Getting faster down hall now… Faster… 300… 340… Faster! 400, 450…

  All was dark ahead now, except for flashes of light overtaking now and then…

  What?! Something hitting us from behind… Fire… Fire in the cockpit… FIRE!! Drops of sweat hit the end of the bed as Quinn wrenched bolt upright, eyes wide open, wide awake with the noise.

  Had he yelled it?!

  He listened out hard towards the door of his quarters…

  No. No, thank Christ: No fire alarm. And no one coming down the hall.

  *

  A sunny morning, Quinn had walked by himself down The Strand, across Trafalgar Square, beneath Admiralty Arch and down The Mall. The long, tree-lined avenue opened out onto beds of red and violet lupins, beyond them, the gold and white statue forms of the Queen Victoria Memorial. And there the great building stood before him.

  ‘Do you have business here today, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I do, officer.’

  ‘Name, sir?’

  ‘Flight Lieutenant Quinn, D. Royal Australian Air Force.’

  The policeman checked down his list. ‘Ah, yes, sir. Welcome to the Palace, sir.’

  *

  Quinn hadn’t expected the sense of awe he felt when the King of England and the British Empire was brought into the room, nor that the monarch would be wearing Royal Air Force uniform himself.

  With the ribboned cross of the DFC pinned to his chest, Quinn took one step back and saluted. Speak only when spoken to, the equerry had instructed. If and when you are, address him as Your Majesty in the first place, thereafter as Sir.

  The King put out his hand. Quinn shook it.

  ‘I see you are from Australia, Flight Lieutenant.’

  Quinn caught the King’s “fwom”. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You’re very fortunate. I had the great pleasure of visiting it when opening your new Parliament House.’

  There was something striking to Quinn about the way the man spoke: as if each word had been specially chosen the moment before use. ‘Yes, sir. We all heard you on the wireless. I thought your speech was very impressive, sir.’

  ‘I am most relieved you found it so.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘If there is any one duty I perform in a state of abject terror, Flight Lieutenant, it is public speaking. In this, the only greater aid to me than my wife’s daily coaching is the work of my Australian speech therapist.’

  Quinn returned the King’s smile, noticing he wore on his tunic not only the five rank bands of Marshal of the Royal Air Force, the ultimate rank of the service, but also a pair of wings on his chest.

  ‘I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I wasn’t aware that you’re a pilot.’

  ‘I was… Though not a very good one. I flew at the end of the last war, although not in combat, and not in your class.’

  ‘Surely you’re being modest, sir.’

  ‘No, Flight Lieutenant. I read the citation accompanying your award. And it is no exaggeration when I say it is young men like yourself upon whom the success of our fight against Herr Hitler directly depends. We are m-most proud of you. And in your debt.

  Once again, congratulations to you, and our thanks.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The King put out his hand again, Quinn shook it, stepped back a pace, saluted, about-faced, and the next recipient’s name was called.

  *

  It was surrounded by young Australians in Cogers Inn that Jillian Brown came to her decision.

  She would apply for a transfer somewhere far from Daniel Quinn.

  She’d have to: Her new work might hand her another assignment involving him. If it did, she now admitted to herself, she might not be able to perform it
with the professional detachment required.

  She studied Quinn’s face as he spoke to Maddox, then other faces in the room. What breed were they, these young men so cheerfully here to fight for a ‘mother’ country that had abandoned them after Singapore?

  Fools?

  Or bona fide heroes? These students, bank clerks, these farmers’ sons permanently smiling…

  She looked back at Quinn. She’d found him attractive from the first moment she’d seen him. But she had to face it now: Her attraction to him was growing. And that meant steps had to be taken. She mustn’t see him anymore. She would apply for the transfer. Surely her work had to be more important to her than Daniel Quinn.

  All Jillian Brown had to do now was convince herself of this.

  ‘Congratulations, Daniel.’

  ‘Thanks, Jill. Really nice of you both to be here.’

  ‘W-wouldn’t m-miss it, Daniel.’ Maddox motioned slightly with his pint glass to the strip of coloured silk now positioned beneath Quinn’s wings. ‘L-looks good on you, mate.’

  In the crush of the pub, a black uniform was jostled against them. The young officer apologised, though seemed focused primarily on not spilling his entire beer if at all possible. Quinn registered the twin gold bands of naval rank, then the face…

  ‘David Finlay…’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t a drip-dry Daniel Quinn.’

  Finlay was bright-eyed, though from his stance Quinn could tell he’d had a few beers already, as was Quinn’s own intention in any case.

  Finlay’s eyes darted to Quinn’s twin bands and medal ribbon. ‘…A drip-dry Flight Lieutenant with a gong, no less. Congratulations, Daniel.’

  ‘No, thank you, David,’ countered Quinn. ‘I’d be at the bottom of the Channel right now if it hadn’t been for you.’

  ‘All part of the service,’ Finlay smiled, for an instant surveying the left side of Quinn’s face. ‘You’ve mended very well by the looks of things…’

  Though Quinn did the introductions all round, Brown already knew of this officer of the Royal Australian Navy. She knew his connection with Quinn; she’d read the report of the rescue. ‘I see the Lieutenant has a gong of his own,’ she offered, peering more closely at the ribbon on Finlay’s tunic, a white vertical bar on dark blue. ‘Distinguished Service Cross, unless I’m mistaken…’ Apt, given his turn of phrase, she thought. ‘Navy equivalent of the DFC, isn’t it?’

  ‘That it is, Miss.’ Finlay raised his glass to her.

  ‘So what p-part of Australia are you from, David?’ weighed in Maddox.

  As the group around him got better acquainted, Quinn reflected on the parallel nature of his and Finlay’s paths, promotion level and decoration: They had arrived in England at the same time, since which the British, though employing them in wholly different capacities, had promoted them identically to Lieutenant, then awarded them the same medal. When he remarked on this to Finlay, it was clear the thought had already occurred to the naval officer…

  ‘Well they have to, really, don’t they,’ ventured Finlay. ‘Call it Advancement by Numbers.’

  Though Quinn had a ‘48’ – two days’ London Leave – after a few rounds of drinks it was time for Brown and Maddox to head back to Hornchurch. As farewells were said, Jillian Brown took a last look at Quinn: She knew she’d see him again, but not for much longer. Already she knew she’d miss him, perhaps even yearn for him, until, with time, she’d manage to forget him. She’d have to, she told herself again as she stepped out onto the busy London street: She had a job to do. They all did.

  Until recently, hers had been to report on young men like Quinn – on their talk, morale and disposition, their personal associations – to an obscure intelligence section at Fighter Command HQ. It was there that she had been recruited for a new job. An oddly named new department, she’d thought at first, until she was briefed as to its purpose. It then became clear that the ‘London Controlling Section’ had been named to mask any hint of its purpose. Now, in all probability, Brown calculated, she would have to manipulate, yes, even deceive young men of Quinn’s ilk. For the mission of the L.C.S. was Strategic Deception, specifically, in the lead up to the Allied Invasion of Western Europe, the plans for which were currently being drawn up.

  Brown assumed the Invasion, like any operation, had a code-name. She wasn’t security-cleared to know it yet.

  It seemed nobody was.

  Maybe in time she would be, her new boss had hinted. Also that such an eventuality would be contingent upon Brown’s level of performance for her new masters.

  *

  In the snack bar of the Boomerang Club the next day, Quinn saw the ‘Panel of Fame’, with all its signatures, was really now no longer a ‘panel’. More of an entire wall.

  He took his cup of tea out to the recreation room and towards the table by the window he’d shared with Finlay back on their first morning in London. It had been ten months since they’d left their tin trunks with the old porter. He was still downstairs – Quinn had seen him on the way in. His basement, Quinn could only assume, must be overflowing.

  Two young Sergeants were seated at the window table, looking down onto St Clement Dane’s Church and east up The Strand. Peering over them into the distance beyond Fleet Street, Quinn could see the dome of St Paul’s on the horizon. As he remembered the small boy he’d tried to help there, Quinn realised one of the Sergeants was addressing him.

  ‘Like a seat, sir?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘A seat, sir. …Would you like one?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘No worries, sir.’

  Quinn sat and they introduced themselves. One was from Adelaide, one from rural Tasmania. They were Air Gunners, just arrived, off to Bomber Command the next day.

  ‘That’s a DFC, isn’t it, sir?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Are they very difficult to get?’

  ‘Well they’re…’ Quinn paused, reflecting that his Distinguished Flying Cross had not been awarded for flying. ‘…I was just lucky.’

  ‘It must be bonzer flying a Spitfire, sir,’ the Tasmanian chimed in.

  Looking into the young man’s face, Quinn saw he couldn’t have been twenty. Even if he was, it would almost certainly be the oldest he’d ever get. ‘You’ll probably be on Lancasters,’ said Quinn. ‘Might even make the Pathfinders. Lots of Australians do, it would seem.’ Unthinkable to mention their statistical chance of survival, according to Giroux back at East Grinstead…

  One in Three.

  ‘Yes, sir. But it won’t be the same as being a pilot. That’s what we wanted to be. I mean, what we joined for…’

  ‘We all did,’ said Quinn.

  ‘But you’d have to be a beaut pilot, sir. T’get a decoration like that…’

  ‘You would have been too, Sergeant. No difference between you and me. I joined a list, did what I was told, filled a quota that sent me where I was sent. And here I am. …I was just lucky.’ Quinn stared out the window to the horizon. As he did so, he spoke up again. ‘See St Paul’s?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘…Right before that, there’s a bombed-out lot. There was a kid there. Lost everything: family, home… nothing left. If you blokes are heading out that way, you might do some good.’

  ‘We will, sir,’ said the Adelaide boy.

  ‘Good.’ Quinn stood, hesistated for a moment, then spoke quickly, quietly. ‘I strongly advise you both to do a navigators’ course, then apply to fly on Mosquitos. Do anything you have to, but do it. You’ll have a better chance that way.’

  *

  On the inner lawns of the Tower of London, Quinn was saluted by a ‘Yeoman Warder’, one of the famous ‘Beefeaters’ of the Tower. Quinn returned the salute and bid him a good afternoon.

  The man had a white beard against the blue of his archaic robe, scarlet braid and crown of the King large on the chest, matching hat. Against the simple dark of Quinn’s uniform, th
e warder’s garb lent surprising colour to the sullen afternoon. Over his left chest were many medal ribbons, on his arm the crest of a Warrant Officer – of the last war.

  ‘And a good afternoon to you, young sir. I see you’ve met our young Grip there.’

  A black bird had stalked up the lawn on Quinn’s blind side as the warder had sedately approached. Quinn now turned and saw it – He’d read about them as a child…

  ‘Ah yes. The Tower’s famous ‘murder’ of ravens…’

  ‘Beggin’ sir’s pardon, but it’s an ‘unkindness’ of ravens… a murder of crows.’

  ‘I stand corrected,’ Quinn smiled. ‘Peculiar language, English, isn’t it.’

  ‘Whall, it’s a peculiar place, sir.’ The man looked at Quinn’s shoulder patches. ‘I see you’ve come a long way…’

  They chatted for a time, during which Quinn noticed, amongst the warder’s medal ribbons, the purple vertical bar on white he knew stood for the Military Cross. The man confirmed he had fought in the last war, and had indeed known many Australians. With a smile he remembered to Quinn their cheerful refusal to salute British officers, though his face clouded as he reflected how it so quickly ended up not mattering. Returning his eyes to Quinn’s, he ventured his admiration for a particular Australian, a General called Monash, who, he quietly swore, saved untold lives in the trenches through his careful tactics.

  Quinn enquired as to the man’s current role at the Tower, only to discover he was talking with no less than the ‘Raven-Master’. Quinn knew the legend…

  ‘You keep the birds in the Tower or it falls, right?’

  ‘Along with England and the Kingdom, sir… Some are very old, I know ’em all by name, but my favourite mate’s young Grip here.’

  The bird actually croaked when he said it, a sound, Quinn noticed, uncannily like its own name.

  ‘What do you feed them on?’ Quinn asked.

  ‘Raw meat and biscuits soaked in blood.’

  For no apparent reason, the raven turned tail and stalked away.

  Quinn called after it. ‘See ya, Grip…’

  The bird croaked its name again, only this time away from them. As its track lengthened, the warder continued.