A Pair of Silver Wings

by James Holland

  As Nick peppered away, so Edward found it harder to maintain his normally flawless armour plating. After all, he did not want to snap at the boy – a grandson he saw far too infrequently. Fortunately, Nick seemed more interested in the aircraft his grandfather had flown than the circumstances in which he had flown them.

  The grilling only stopped with the children’s bedtime. As Katie took them upstairs, Edward pushed back his chair and began helping Simon clear away the table.

  ‘Leave that Dad, honestly,’ said Simon. ‘Can I get you anything else? A glass of wine? Coffee?’

  ‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ Edward replied. The kitchen had been extended from the back of house; the table stood under a glass roof. It was a light room – and large too. Brightly coloured plastic numbers covered the fridge. A battered dresser stood against one wall, its shelves crammed with cookery and dog-eared children’s books. Against the opposite wall was a food-stained sofa with crushed cushions and an inside-out sweater slung over its arm. Edward could remember when the children had been much younger and the kitchen – the whole house – had been in a far worse state: toys everywhere. It had been impossible to sit down without planting his backside on a piece of jigsaw or cobbled toy car.

  A sudden roar of jet engines made him look up. Overhead, a large airliner passed over west London.

  ‘How do you like it?’ said Simon. Edward looked up and watched his son stirring a tea bag into a mug.

  ‘Milk no sugar, please.’ Simon added milk, stirred the tea bag a bit more, then took it out, dripping, and dropped it into the bin.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, passing the mug.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Edward. He peered at the dark orange liquid.

  ‘Let’s go next door,’ said Simon, pouring himself a glass of wine. ‘It’ll be more comfortable.’ Edward followed obediently, sitting himself down stiffly against one end of another flat-cushioned sofa.

  ‘Relax, Dad, for God’s sake!’ said Simon, exasperation creeping into his voice once more.

  ‘I am, perfectly, thank you,’ said Edward.

  ‘You don’t look it. Honestly, I want you to feel at home here. We’re not a bloody hotel.’ But Edward didn’t feel at home. He couldn’t, not here. There was nothing familiar about Simon’s house. And he disliked sharing a bathroom with Nick and Lucy – more garish plastic and a lock that didn’t work. He dreaded having a shower in case one of them walked in on him. Sitting with his orange tea, he already wished he could be back at home, drinking proper tea, sitting on his own familiar chair and avoiding this current awkwardness with Simon.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Simon. ‘We thought just you, Nick and I would go tomorrow, and then Katie and Lucy would come with us to the Mall the following day. Sound OK?’ Edward nodded. ‘Really, Dad,’ Simon continued, ‘it’ll be fun. Nick’s terribly excited, you know.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  They were silent a moment, and then Simon said, ‘Perhaps you’ll see some of your old friends from the squadron.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. There’s a large veterans’ tent, you know. That’s where they’ve set up the Veterans’ Link to try and reunite old war comrades. You’d like to see some of them wouldn’t you?’

  Edward looked down at his tea. A scum was forming at the top. ‘Hmm,’ was all he said.

  ‘But I thought the best bit about war was the camaraderie. I know you don’t like talking about it, Dad, but surely you’d like to see some of your friends, if you could?’

  Edward sighed. ‘Simon, please,’ he said. ‘Drop it, will you? I’m happy to go along with you tomorrow because Nick wants me to, but don’t push it.’ Damn it, he thought. ‘Look, sorry Simon. I didn’t mean to snap. Really – it’s just . . .’ He let the sentence hang.

  Simon shook his head. ‘I want to understand, Dad, I really do. But you just won’t let me. Christ, what on earth happened to you back then? You survived, didn’t you? You were one of the lucky ones, for God’s sake. Why won’t you ever talk about it? Why won’t you ever tell me about what happened?’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I can’t really remember all that much, anyway.’

  ‘Rubbish. It was a huge part of your life – a huge part that I know nothing about. And I’m still none the wiser. If I knew just something, Dad, then maybe I could understand why you’re like you are – the closed book you’ve always been.’

  ‘Oh, Simon, now you’re just being melodramatic.’

  ‘Am I? Am I, Dad? Well, I’m very sorry, but I’m just not like you. I don’t want to bury my head in the sand, living my life with this bloody great shell around me that no-one can penetrate.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Simon.’

  ‘Of course it is – you’re my father, for Christ’s sake. It’s affected me as well, you know. I’ve had to live my life with this shadow hanging over us all.’

  Edward was reprieved by the sound of Katie coming back downstairs. He’d known what was coming next – and Mum had to, as well. They both fell silent until she walked in. ‘That’s that done for another night,’ she said. ‘Will you go up and say goodnight to them, Edward?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stood up, smiling at Katie and deliberately avoiding his son’s eye. Taking the stairs slowly, anger burned within him. How dare Simon talk to him like that? Lecturing him about something he knew nothing about – the bloody nerve! I should never have come, he thought, then wondered whether he could feign some illness during the night and drive back to Somerset first thing the following morning.

  He went in to see Lucy first, then Nick. His grandson was lying on the floor reading a book. A large poster of a Spitfire was Blu-Tacked to the wall above his bed.

  ‘Just come in to say goodnight,’ said Edward. ‘What’s that you’re reading?’

  ‘Just a book about planes,’ he said. ‘Grandpa?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m really glad you’ve come.’

  Edward smiled. ‘See you in the morning, Nick.’

  Of course there had been no question of leaving. Simon had even apologised – no doubt, Edward thought, at Katie’s insistence. Over breakfast it was as though the conversation of the previous evening had never happened, any residual tension diffused by the children and by Nick’s mounting excitement. So it was that by just after ten o’clock, they were on the Underground and pulling into Hyde Park Corner station. With a screech the train came to a halt. As the doors of the train opened, a mass of people burst out and Edward almost lost his footing, stumbling onto the platform.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’ said Simon, offering a cramped arm of support.

  Edward nodded. Nick was ahead, but momentarily out of reach as the mass pushed towards the steps leading off the platform. Edward was amazed. Around him were other veterans, berets on their heads, their blazers jangling with rows of medals. But they were only part of the crowd; there were vast numbers of people of all ages swarming towards Hyde Park. Another mass of people had formed at the base of the escalator. Edward inched forward. He could feel a knot of pressure building up in his stomach. For a moment, he closed his eyes, and allowed the throng to lead him. This is ridiculous, he thought. Calm down.

  Nick was waiting at the top of the escalator and the three of them then pushed through the opened gates and out into the warm sunshine. They followed the stream of people through the gates of the park and towards the Serpentine Road. The sound of military bands playing their marches gradually increased the closer they got, and was joined by the reedy sounds of wartime songs. Through the trees, Edward glimpsed marquees, olive green vehicles, and flags – countless flags. Every other person appeared to be clutching a plastic Union Jack.

  Nick was almost skipping with anticipation. He pointed towards the display of modern tanks and military vehicles. ‘Can we have a look at those, Dad?’ he said, turning and tugging at Simon’s sleeve.

  ‘Of course we ca
n,’ said Edward, before Simon had answered. He smiled at his grandson. In appearance, Nick was so much like Katie: blond, tousled hair and the same deep brown eyes – but in character exactly as he remembered Simon had been at twelve. It was uncanny.

  Disinterested soldiers stood by the display of modern tanks and armoured personnel carriers. While Nick gawped at the tanks, Edward watched two old men walk over to one of the young soldiers. ‘We could have done with a few of these in Africa,’ one of them told him. The soldier nodded and smiled politely. ‘Reckon we could have seen off those bloody 88s all right with these, hey, Reg?’

  ‘Cor, I should say,’ said his friend.

  The sun was warming. Edward took out his handkerchief and wiping his brow, looked around. All these people, he thought. Fifty years on, the war had become a pantomime, a kind of travelling circus of tents and big band dances, of costumed women in ATS uniforms and bright red lipstick. There was little connection with the real war in this temporary theme park. And thank God for that. He smoothed his moustache. He felt the heaviness in his stomach ease.

  Simon and Nick rejoined him and together they walked past more stalls and more marquees. The smell of fried onions filled the air. Generators hummed above the beat of big bass drums. Ahead of them stood the largest tent of all, some two hundred yards long.

  ‘What’s in there?’ said Nick. ‘Can we go and look?’

  ‘I think it must be the Veterans’ Centre,’ said Simon. ‘Dad – do you want to go in?’

  Edward looked at him for a moment, then found himself saying, ‘Yes – just a quick look.’ What are you thinking? he told himself. The feeling of nausea returned, yet despite his fears, despite his determination not to have his life turned on its head, there was an even stronger force that was tugging at him, urging him to look back. Like Orpheus, he thought, as he signed the register at the entrance.

  ‘RAF on the left,’ said the official, pointing vaguely.

  Inside the tent was teeming with veterans and their families. He watched three men hug one another, their medals chinking together as they embraced. They had been so young then, Edward reflected. Boys, really. And now look at them: white-haired, and sallow-skinned, with bony knuckles and enlarged ears. Old men. What had they got in common with the men they had once been? Nothing but memories, memories it seemed they now wanted to share, after years of keeping them bottled in a long-forgotten trunk. Laughter rang out above the low murmur. It was hot in the marquee, the smell of grass and the plastic tenting cloying. It added to Edward’s renewed sense of mounting unease.

  ‘Did you win any medals, Grandpa?’ asked Nick, walking close beside him.

  ‘What? Yes, one or two,’ Edward told him as his eyes darted around the vast white pavilion.

  ‘What were they?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Edward.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ said Simon. ‘What did you get?’

  Edward sighed. ‘It was a long time ago – I barely remember.’

  ‘But you do remember.’

  Edward said nothing.

  ‘Come on, Dad.’

  Edward began toying with his signet ring, then glanced at Nick, looking up at him expectantly.

  ‘Well, if you must know, they gave me the DFC twice over. But they’re meaningless. Plenty of people more deserving than me got nothing at all.’

  ‘What’s a DFC?’ Nick asked him.

  ‘A Distinguished Flying Cross,’ Simon told him, then said, ‘Dad, I had no idea. Jesus.’

  ‘Really it’s nothing,’ Edward said more sharply than he’d intended. ‘As I said. Just a bit of bronze and silk. Anyway,’ he added, ‘I’ve seen what they do to people’s jackets. They weigh a ton.’

  Notice boards stretched for hundreds of yards around the inside of the tent. They found the RAF area, the crest and number of each squadron heading a section. Every one included notes from former members trying to make contact once again.

  ‘Here’s 324 Squadron,’ said Nick. He had hurried on ahead and was now standing in front of the board, his finger pointing to the emblem. Edward breathed in heavily, then began looking at the messages. Most were from ground crew, although there were a couple from former pilots.

  ‘Recognise anyone?’ asked Simon.

  ‘No, not yet,’ said Edward, ‘but I was only in the squadron six months in nearly six years. People came and went throughout the war, you know.’

  Suddenly he froze. Near the bottom of the board was a simple typed message. ‘BARCLAY’ was the heading, bold and underlined. Underneath was a neat and succinct note: ‘I am trying to find out about my uncle Harry Barclay, and would love to hear from anyone who knew him. Many thanks. Andrew Fisher.’ Finally, at the bottom of the card was an address and telephone number in Beaconsfield.

  ‘No, nothing here,’ said Edward, moving quickly on. He could feel his heart pounding. Nick was following behind him, oblivious to his grandfather’s turmoil, calling out numbers of squadrons as they passed along the wall of messages. He hurried past, running ahead. ‘Six hundred,’ called out Nick eventually, ‘Six-oh-nine, six-twenty, six-thirty, six-three-six. Here we are, Grandpa.’

  Breathlessly, Edward scanned the board – a couple of names he remembered: Michael Lindsay, a pilot, and Pete Summersby, one of the erks, as the ground crew were known; yes, he remembered them all right. Then he saw it again: the same notice, in the same neat type. ‘BARCLAY’.

  ‘My God,’ muttered Edward.

  ‘Dad? You all right?’ It was Simon, standing beside him. ‘Dad?’

  ‘What? Oh yes – yes, thank you. Fine. Just, um –’ He took out his handkerchief, dabbed his brow, and stroked his chin for a moment. Then, forcing a smile, turned to Simon, and said, ‘Yes, I remember these two.’ He pointed at the names. ‘Mike Lindsay. A good pilot. Not what I’d call a close friend, but a friend all the same. Well, I suppose we all were on Malta. You had to get on, or else you’d go mad.’ Simon looked at the board and nodded slowly. ‘Look,’ Edward continued. ‘It’s stifling in here. Why don’t we go back out for a bit? Have a drink. You could do with a Coke or something, couldn’t you, Nick?’

  ‘All right,’ said Simon. ‘But are you going to try and find these two? I mean, they must be here if they left their names.’

  ‘Let’s just get a drink first,’ said Edward.

  They found a table near the dance floor and bandstand. The military band was now playing the themes from a number of war movies, and Simon began whistling along as he piled up the debris of gnawed chicken bones, smeared ketchup, cold chips and cardboard plates, and pushed it to one side. Then he disappeared to join one of the many queues snaking from the food and drink stalls. Edward closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the bright sun gently warm his face. A vision came into his mind and he immediately opened them again and sat bolt upright. Nick seemed not to have noticed because he said, ‘Grandpa, do you think we could go to an air show one day? At Duxford they actually fly Spitfires.’

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ said Edward.

  ‘Can you remember the last time you flew a Spitfire?’

  He could. Distinctly. ‘In 1946,’ he said. ‘After the war. It was a Mk 24 – an almost completely different aircraft to the early models. Very quick. Really, it had unbelievable power – for a piston engine, at any rate.’ He was finding talking to his grandson about the various types of Spitfire – in particular – easier than he’d expected. And safer too; he was still explaining the difference between the Griffon and Merlin engines when Simon returned with the drinks.

  Since his discovery in the Veterans’ Centre, Edward had been wondering how he could get back inside the tent without Simon and Nick. Now it dawned on him. Nick had soon finished his drink and was beginning to get restless. Glimpses of various sites were catching his attention. It was all too obvious that he wanted to be off again, and so when he suggested they look at the displays put on by the reenactors, Edward said, ‘You two go. I could do with another ten minutes’ pause.’

 
‘We can wait,’ said Simon.

  Edward waved his hand at them. ‘No, no. Nick’s itching to be off again. You two go and I’ll meet you back here by the bandstand.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  ‘Go on, off you go.’

  He watched them disappear amongst the crowds of people, then hurried off himself, back into the Veterans’ Centre. Briskly, he walked back to the 324 Squadron message board and carefully, in block capital letters, wrote down Andrew Fisher’s name and address, then slid the paper back into his inside jacket pocket. He looked furtively about him, then headed for the exit once more.

  ‘Squadron Leader Enderby!’ said a small man with slicked-back greying hair. Edward stopped and looked at him. The man wore an RAF blazer and tie, and was holding out his hand. Edward took it and shook it vigorously. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘You don’t remember me. Pete Summersby,’ said the man.

  ‘Pete Summersby – of course I do,’ said Edward. ‘Good Lord! How are you?’

  ‘Oh, can’t complain. How about you, sir?’

  ‘You can drop the “sir” now, Pete, for goodness sake. Edward, please. But very well, thank you. Very well. Keeping busy, you know.’

  ‘I remember looking after your Spit many times,’ said Pete.

  ‘Mine and others,’ said Edward. ‘You were quite brilliant – you and all the ground crew on Malta. Wouldn’t have done it without you.’

  Pete smiled appreciatively. ‘Good of you to say so.’ He looked around him, and said, ‘This is quite a carry-on, isn’t it?’ then added, ‘Have you seen the message board?’

  ‘What, for 636 Squadron? Yes, I have. Noticed Mike Lindsay’s been here. Haven’t seen him since the war.’

  ‘Yes, Mike’s here somewhere. He’s just the same – amazing, really. Actually, I’m meeting him later. Will you come along?’

  ‘Well, I’m rather in the hands of my son and grandson, to be honest. But tell me where and when, and I’ll try.’

  ‘Three-thirty in the bar here. It would be good if you could make it. Good to catch up on old times.’

  Edward nodded, then looked at his watch. ‘Gosh, I must be going – my son will be wondering where I’ve got to.’