by Graham Rawle
“But get this. You know the guy who drives the tractor?”
“Howard?”
“Yeah. Do you know what his last name is?”
George shook his head.
“Farmer!”
“Seriously? Wow. That is funny.”
“I know! Howard Farmer the farmer and Jimmy Shepherd the shepherd. Pretty neat, huh? I’ve been looking at the list of Residents on the work rota.” He took a pencil and a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. “There’s a Dorothy Cook who does general housewife activity … shopping, hanging out laundry and stuff. I figured you could put her in the diner as a cook. She’d replace Effie—whose surname turns out to be Driver—and Effie could have a job driving one of the buses.”
“Excellent. We could have a town based on the medieval system of occupational surnames where your name tells other folks what job you do. Hey. Maybe I could get my ex-wife a job here. Muriel Cheats-on-her-spouse.”
There was a moment before Jimmy decided this was a gag and laughed. He failed to notice the bitter note in George’s voice.
“Of course it doesn’t work with your surname, Mr Godfrey.” Jimmy thought it over for a moment. “Unless we shorten it to God.”
“God?”
“Sure. That would work, what with you being in charge of all creation.”
George rocked his head from side to side, mulling the suggestion over before nodding his approval.
Jimmy studied his list. “We’re out of luck with some of the names, especially the foreign ones … Rodriguez, Gustafsson, Schumacher.”
“Schumacher is a shoemaker, surely?”
“Oh, yeah. I guess.”
“I’m not sure we need a shoemaker in Overland just yet, but you could be onto something. Let me know how it pans out. In the meantime, tell the new kid, Danny Cleans-out-latrines, he’s got the job.”
Jimmy chuckled. “OK. I’ll tell him … Oh, Mr Godfrey, I almost forgot.” He delved into his pants pocket, and pulled out a knife. “Your switchblade. I found it on the grass by the lake. I’ve been using it; I hope you don’t mind.”
“No Jimmy, I don’t mind.”
“It’s a swell knife. The military issue ones like these to paratroopers, once you’ve made your qualifying jumps. The retractable blade means you only need one hand to use it. Very handy if you land in a tree or river and need to cut yourself out of your lines and harness.”
“Well then you’d better keep hold of it so you can practice. Get the jump on the other guys.”
“Really?” Jimmy offered it back to him, giving George the chance to change his mind. “But you might need it.”
George waved his hand dismissively, like it was nothing.
Jimmy looked down at the switchblade. “Thanks. I’ll make sure you get it back before I leave for special training.”
George shook his head. “Keep it. It’s a gift. Maybe it’ll be like a good-luck charm.”
They had reached the turning for the lake. George raised his hand as a parting wave and headed down Lakeside Steps.
Jimmy was beaming. He called after him. “Gee, thanks, Mr Godfrey.”
Left on the sidewalk, Jimmy weighed the knife in his hand, enjoying its comforting solidness. He thumbed the button that released the blade (as he had done a hundred times since it had been in his possession) then retracted it before slipping it back into his pocket.
A trolley car bound for George Street approached, moving steadily along the track. Jimmy trotted alongside and jumped aboard.
First Lieutenant Franks and Major Lund were on the move in their command car, the lieutenant at the wheel. They approached a roadblock with a manually operated rising arm barrier painted in red and white stripes like a candy cane. Attached to it was a sign: US Army. Restricted Area. Road Ahead Closed. Designated Cars Only. By Order of US Army. A youthful-looking army private, who had been sitting on an upturned crate, grabbed his rifle and jumped to his feet. He raised the barrier, allowing the major’s car to proceed. The private saluted smartly as the car passed; the major responded with a half-hearted hand gesture. He checked behind him in the side mirror and saw the private replacing the barrier and sitting down again.
“And that’s our security?”
“He was told to expect us, sir. No unauthorized vehicles would be allowed to get this far anyway. We’ve got the whole area cordoned off.”
The major let it go.
The road took a sharp bend between some hedgerows fabricated from painted burlap. Presently, the Lockheed factory came into view, though it was no longer recognizable as such; its shape had been skillfully transformed with wide, irregular patches of green, black and brown, interspersed with stippled areas of realistic-looking vegetation. Amongst it, set at varying heights from the ground, were the simple painted shapes of houses and buildings, white with red-brown colored roofs, and black shadows giving the illusion of three-dimensionality. The effect was evidently designed to be viewed from above, and from here it was difficult to make out what it was all supposed to be.
The road merged into a wooden ramp that climbed steeply to the flat roof of an adjoining building. Here it leveled out and then turned about-face, climbing steeply again up the sloping roof of the main building. Eventually the car made it to the flat surface where a sign greeted them: Welcome to Overland. Please drive carefully and then below it, No vehicles beyond this point.
The lieutenant parked alongside a row of other cars; the two men got out and wandered over to the perimeter fence to look out. There were sloping pastures intersected by neat, fence-lined walkways and clusters of evergreens. A meandering road with the occasional plywood car parked at its curb served a row of white bungalows, each with its own spacious garden. On a road running perpendicular to it, there was a gas station and a bank building, outside which, somewhat incongruously, was a putting green where a school bus driver and an Egyptian pharaoh smoking a cigar were tapping golf balls towards a flag sticking out of the ground. The community was moderately populated with shoppers, trades folk, cyclists and assorted pedestrians. The major took in the scene.
“Jesus. This is incredible.”
The lieutenant was obviously excited by the prospect of showing the major around. “This is the only section of road we can drive on. The other roads aren’t strong enough to take the weight of a real car. We’ll park here and take the trolley car up to Shangri-La Cottage—that’s just a nickname they give to the site office.”
“Trolley car?”
“Mr Godfrey will meet us there. The model’s there too so you can see the additional plans he has for the runway. It’s pretty ingenious. I think you’ll be amazed, sir.”
The major seemed unable to get past the idea of public transport. “Trolley car?”
“Takes us right to his door, sir. He’s got a whole traffic system working off a network of electric track. Most if it comes from fairground scenic railways. They just modify the mechanism and remodel the vehicles by adding new lightweight carcasses—instead of little carriages they’ve got full-sized automobiles, trucks and buses. Should be along any minute now.”
“What in sweet Jesus …? Who authorized all this?”
“Well, you did sir. You said—”
“I didn’t say anything about …” he struggled to find the words to describe the transport system “… this. And where have all these people come from?”
“They’re the Residents, sir.”
“Residents?”
“They come up from the factory after their shift or on their lunch break. Mr Godfrey feels it’s important to populate Overland with real people to bring the town to life.”
“Residents? What are you talking about, Residents? Are they being paid extra to do this?”
“No, sir. All volunteers. They like it up here. Mr Godfrey has built quite a community.”
“Community? Why the hell …? I don’t like this, Lieutenant. I don’t like this at all. This is supposed to be highly secret.”
“No one
else knows about it, sir. The Residents have all been through strict security checks.”
Disgruntled, the major was shaking his head as, round the corner of George Street, came one of the red and white Overland trolley cars.
“Here she comes. Right on time.” The lieutenant hailed its arrival like an enthusiastic commuter.
The major stared, incredulous. “I’m not taking any goddamn kiddie car ride.”
“It’s much quicker, sir. It’s a long walk otherwise.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“Just hang onto the rail, sir. It’ll set off again in a few—”
The car started to move again. The major reluctantly stepped aboard.
George was sitting by the edge of the lake, his fishing rod in his hand. As on most days no one was around to disturb him. Though the lakeside area was locally considered one of the town’s foremost beauty spots, the Residents respectfully kept their distance. They seemed to regard it as George’s own private place, especially now that he had moved into the waterside cottage, and were loath to intrude. And while George liked to think of Overland as belonging to all the Residents, he was grateful for the chance to spend time alone there.
The cottage interior had been coming along nicely. Here, he was able to make his own decorating and furnishing choices, which in his “underworld” home had always been blighted by Muriel’s gimcrack aesthetic. For her, a home was not a home without goggle-eyed ceramic chipmunks, flamingos in top hats and cutesy swollen-faced children. It wasn’t until shortly before their marriage, when they began decorating the apartment they’d rented, that he first became aware of her poor taste. By then it was too late; he was committed to matrimony and he wrongly imagined that once they’d settled into it he would be able to educate her, persuade her to defer to him as a professional and learn to trust his artistic judgement over her own. It didn’t happen.
According to Muriel everything he suggested was stuffy, boring or just plain wrong. Don’t you know anything about home decor, George? Her face soured at his suggestion of ivory, pale ochre and oatmeal soft furnishings; dark lacquered furniture featuring elegantly designed Blanc de Chine porcelain pieces; subtle garland-print wallpaper, and magnificent Greek key motif doors in light maple like the ones he’d designed for the city apartment set of The Women. He tried to explain how the classic simplicity would maximize the space in their small apartment, but Muriel would have none of it.
“It’s boring, George. Bland. Everything’s the same. Beige, beige, beige. I need more color, more vibrancy, more excitement.”
Naturally, she’d got what she wanted in the end.
Over on George Street, the trolley car trundled along. The major took in the rows of houses, noting how each of their chimney tops was billowing smoke.
“What’s with the smoke, Lieutenant? Californian residences burning coal fires in the middle of spring?”
“You’d be surprised how many do, sir.”
“Even so. Was it really necessary to go to all this trouble?”
“No trouble, sir. The chimneys on the houses provide a plausible outlet for the emissions generated in the factory. We have to monitor levels, of course; we don’t want it to look like the burning of Atlanta. Lockheed produces a great deal of smoke and steam which has to be vented somewhere. It’s less noticeable if we break it down into as many outlets as possible. Mr Godfrey has found a solution that also adds a level of credibility to the residential buildings. Smoke equals movement, and movement equals reality.”
Irked by the lieutenant’s fawning enthusiasm the major muttered the words to himself with cynical disdain: “Movement equals reality.”
Down at the lake, George stood up to recast his line, flashing the rod and flicking the line out towards the center of the lake. The float went skittering across the surface of the canvas tarpaulin. Dissatisfied with his cast, he reeled in the line and tried again. This was all new to him; he’d only recently taken an interest in the sport. This one went farther, but as the float landed on the surface it sank into a small hole in the tarp and fell straight through. The line paid out from George’s reel.
First Lieutenant Franks knocked loudly on the door of George’s house. No answer. He opened the door and put his head inside. “Mr Godfrey! Hello? Mr Godfrey.”
The major made a show of looking at his watch. He stood with his hands on his hips, clearly frustrated.
“I don’t have all day, Lieutenant.”
“He said he’d be here, sir. He’s usually …”
The lieutenant went check the rear of the house. The vexed major stared up at the Shangri-La Cottage sign, shaking his head.
Jimmy had been on the same bus as the two military men, keeping his distance, but curious to know where they were going. They got off at the same stop and he saw them heading for Shangri-La. He’d fetched a broom and was now sweeping his front garden path so that he could covertly observe their movements next door. The lieutenant spotted him and called out.
“Hey, son. Do you know where Mr Godfrey is?”
“Yes, sir. He’s down by the lake, doing a bit of fishing.”
The major was not sure he had heard right. “Fishing?”
“Well … pretending.”
“Pretending? To fish?” The major was quietly fuming.
Jimmy was innocently accommodating. “Was he expecting you?”
The lieutenant upped his game to fall in line with the major’s outrage. “He most certainly was. And he’s keeping the major waiting.”
“Oh. Should I go tell him you’re here?”
Major Lund sighed with frustration. “Go with him, Lieutenant. Bring him back here. Pronto.”
TWELVE
THE FACTORY YARD was canopied by a vast turquoise tarpaulin that stretched between the roofs of two hangar buildings. A few feet below its surface an inspection gantry was supported by a pair of portable scaffolding towers. Sunlight filtering through the semi-opaque surface of the tarp lent a strange blueish tint to the area below, making it look a little like it was under water.
Kay had temporarily freed herself from the upper half of her coveralls, which she now wore hanging down from her waist. She and Queenie wandered out into the yard and joined a group of women from Section D sitting on the ground with their backs against the high outside wall of one of the buildings. Stenciled on the concrete above them was a large number 80 and the words Keep Clear. On the other side of the yard were a couple of lean-to work sheds, some caged carts full of scrap metal, and an assorted row of trucks and forklifts.
The women were dressed for the workplace: dungarees with sturdy shoes, hair tied up with hairnets or headscarves, shirtsleeves rolled high on their greasy arms. They looked heroic and tough. All had open lunch pails and were eating sandwiches, drinking from thermoses or soda cans as they chattered loudly. It was only Kay’s second day, but already she’d been accepted among them. This would not have happened had Queenie not held such sway with the group. She had stuck by her, making it clear that Kay was her friend and by association should be considered one of the gang. Some of the women were chary of Kay’s “Chinese” ethnicity, as they were of anyone foreign, but kept their prejudices to themselves.
Unseen, high above them, a fishing float broke through a small hole in the surface of the tarp and began its slow descent.
At the lakeside, George, bemused, watched the reel of his rod spinning round.
On his way from the factory hangar, Donaldson, the Section D foreman, passed through the yard and saw the untidy straggle of girls littering the foot of the wall.
“What are you lot doing out here again? You know there’s a perfectly good canteen.”
“Too far. All those tunnels. By the time we get ourselves over there and get served, it’s time to start back again. Besides, we like it here.”
Donaldson shook his head and continued towards the canteen.
Kay had taken Mrs Ishi’s tin of sardines from her bag.
“Would anyone care for a
sardine if I open them?”
Queenie turned up her nose. “Peoria. No thanks. Put them away.”
Sour faces. There were no other takers.
Something red and white entered Kay’s peripheral vision. Unable to identify exactly what it was, she watched, somewhat mesmerized by its steady descent. The mysterious object seemed to hover like a hummingbird. One by one, the girls looked up, curious to see what she was looking at. Eventually it settled, just a foot or two from Kay’s eye level, as though the sole purpose of its journey had been to come face to face with her.
Queenie was first to identify it.
“It’s a fishing bobber with a hook. Where the hell did that come from?”
“Must be some schmuck on the roof,” suggested one woman.
“What do you think he was hoping to catch down here?”
Queenie was ahead of them. She had made a grab for Kay’s shoulder purse and was rummaging through it.
Kay looked a little ruffled. “What are you doing?”
She didn’t answer; Kay would see soon enough.
Grabbing the bobber and bringing it towards her, Queenie attached the sardine tin by hooking it through the head of the key attached to the lid. She gave the line a couple of yanks before releasing it.
George, rod in hand, was puzzled to feel the pull on his line. He began to reel it in.
The girls cracked up laughing as the sardine can began its determined climb towards the canopy overhead. The light intermittently caught its silvery surface as it twirled gently on the line.
George continued to wind the reel until the can appeared through the hole and slithered towards him along the surface of the lake and was finally lifted into the air. Unable to understand how this had happened, he brought it in, swinging the line towards him and grabbing the catch on the end of it. He stared at the hooked sardines, turning the can over in his hand.
