The English Air

by D. E. Stevenson

  “And what does your leader think of you?” inquired Harry. “I’ll tell you what he thinks in his own words. He said you were ‘a great stupid flock of easily driven sheep’.”

  Franz was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and began to explain how much better it was to have definite rules and to obey them and that no country could be happy and prosperous if everyone did exactly as he liked; but he was aware that his words were falling on stony ground.

  “Never mind, Franz, old boy,” said Roy at last, “we see your idea, but your ways wouldn’t suit us. We’re made differently or something. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “But if it was war,” said Franz in desperation, “if it was war and each one did as he pleased.”

  “Oh, war!” said Harry. “That’s different, isn’t it? You’d be on active service, you’d be straining every nerve to win. Nobody would mind being ordered about if it was war … By Jove!” exclaimed Harry with shining eyes, “by Jove, what fun it would be! Fancy firing real charges at a real ship and seeing her burst into flames!”

  “Oh don’t talk like that!” cried Wynne, who had been listening to the conversation in silence. “It would be ghastly—I can’t bear to think of it.”

  “There won’t be war,” declared Roy, patting her leg in a comforting manner. “There couldn’t be war, and Harry doesn’t mean that he really wants war. He only means that when you’ve practised and practised until you’re blue in the face with dummy targets it would be rather exciting to try the real thing.”

  Franz looked from one to the other as they spoke. Roy was trying to reassure Wynne—and was actually succeeding in his endeavour—but it was obvious that he, too, was of the opinion that it would be a pleasant change to fire one of his guns at a real ship … and, although the sun was still warm upon his back, Franz shuddered involuntarily.

  Chapter Nine

  “The moment has come,” said Harry, rising from the ground, “the absolutely perfect moment for bathing has arrived …” He waved his hand and began to climb along the reef.

  “I’ll show you,” cried Roy, leaping to his feet. “There’s a gorgeous place for diving …”

  Wynne and Franz followed more slowly. They saw Harry take a header into the sea and they saw Roy go after him in a neat dive, and when they reached the diving rock there were two heads bobbing about below.

  “It’s heavenly!” cried Roy, splashing about in the cool green water. “It’s marvellous … come on, chaps.”

  Franz stood for a moment on the rock, his hands above his head, and then he swung them outwards and backwards and soared into the air … his body seemed to float in the air … and then, curving downwards and straightening out, it entered the water without a splash.

  Wynne had never seen such a magnificent swan dive. She stood quite still for a few moments and her breath came hurriedly. It was a perfect thing, and so utterly unexpected … it had been over in a moment but somehow Wynne knew that it would last forever. She knew that whenever she liked she would be able to shut her eyes and see it happening—the green sea, the brilliant sunshine and that perfectly proportioned body soaring and floating and curving downwards, cutting into the green sea like a sharp white knife.

  Roy and Harry had been watching and they, too, had appreciated the performance.

  “You old dark horse!” exclaimed Roy—and although Franz did not know what the words meant, he could tell by the tone of voice that this must be the highest praise—“you old dark horse—you never said you could dive. I was hanging about underneath in case I should have to pick up the pieces.”

  “I have learnt to dive,” said Franz modestly.

  “By Jove, you have,” agreed Roy. “You’ve learnt to dive, all right. He’s learnt to dive, Harry!”

  “You’ve said it,” murmured Harry, who was lying on his back in the water and splashing with his legs, “he’s learnt to dive. What about us doing a spot of learning?”

  Franz was quite pleased to oblige his friends and the morning passed in demonstration and instruction. He was a very painstaking teacher and his pupils were intelligent and keen to learn. They had all made, a good deal of progress towards the perfect swan dive before cold and exhaustion compelled them to abandon the struggle.

  “You will soon be a dark horse, too,” declared Franz cheerfully as he and Roy came out of the water together. “Very soon, with just a little more practice, you will be a dark horse.”

  Roy gazed at him in surprise. “A dark horse!” he repeated.

  “Yes,” said Franz, “that was what you said to me. A dark horse is a sea animal perhaps—we call it Seekalb—it is very good at diving.”

  “Oh, a dark horse!” exclaimed Roy. “A dark horse—” and stifling an idiotic desire to giggle at the very natural mistake Roy proceeded to explain the meaning of the term.

  Wynne had been the first to give in, and she was sitting on the rocks combing her hair when the three young men emerged from their “dressing-room” with chattering teeth.

  “You’ve all been in too long,” she said reprovingly.

  “I know,” said Roy, as he rubbed his hair with his towel, “I know we have, but it was such a marvellous opportunity—having Franz I mean. Gosh, my hair is in a mess! Why didn’t I bring a comb?”

  Wynne took the hint. She proceeded to part his hair with her own comb and to dress it for him in his usual style. When she had finished the job to her own satisfaction she did Harry’s hair as well.

  “And now Franz,” said Roy.

  Franz wore his hair brushed back from his forehead in the continental manner, but Wynne decided to alter that. She did it like Roy’s, parting it at one side and combing it across. It had grown a good deal since he had come to England and it was very wet so the new style was easily accomplished.

  “There,” she said, “what do you think of that?”

  Franz was trying to see his hair in the tiny mirror which Wynne had given him; he turned his head first one way and then the other to get the effect. It was rather becoming, he decided, but it made him look quite different. The others evidently thought the same.

  “It makes you look more like us,” declared Harry gravely.

  “It suits you,” added Roy.

  “I knew it would suit you,” said Wynne with a satisfied air, “and of course it makes you look more like us. I don’t believe anyone would know that you weren’t all English.” She paused for a moment and then inquired, “Would you mind awfully if we called you Frank?”

  There was a short silence. It was Wynne’s question but Franz felt that the others were waiting for his answer just as eagerly. He felt that there was more importance in the issue than appeared on the surface.

  “Of course we won’t do it if you don’t like it,” continued Wynne, who had become aware of the tension. “We know you’re proud of being half German and we can understand it, but I thought perhaps, while you’re here with us, it might help you to feel at home. It might help you to feel that you really are one of us—that’s all.”

  “Yes,” said Franz slowly, “yes, it is quite a good idea. While I am here I will be Frank. That is settled.”

  All the young people in the neighbourhood received Wynne’s idea with acclamation, and even Dane thought that the change was for the better, but when Sophie Braithwaite was informed that, in future, she was to address her young cousin as Frank, her feelings were exceedingly complex. She would have liked to talk about them—this was her recipe for clearing the mind—but she was afraid of saying something which had better remain unsaid, so she was forced to endure the complexity of her feelings in silence. It was so very queer that Elsie’s name had been changed to Elsa and her son’s name changed back to Frank. There was a significance in this double change—so she felt—but she could not puzzle out its meaning. Quite apart from that, however, Sophie was sure that it was a dangerous thing to change your name. Your name was a part of yourself and had a direct influence upon your personality. She had always felt sorr
y that her parents had not chosen a more dignified name for her, and still regretted it. What a much more interesting and forceful personality she would have had if she had been christened differently—if she had been given the name of Eleanor, for instance, or Frances. Frances was the sort of name which might help one to rise high above the petty jars and discords of life. But Sophie was equally sure that, once your personality had been formed, no change of name could help you, and indeed who could tell what the result might be—the result of putting a new ingredient into your personality—it might upset the whole balance.

  Chapter Ten

  The Club to which Dane Worthington belonged, and to which he resorted when he visited London, was small, old-fashioned and exclusive. Dane liked it because it was tucked away in a backwater and was therefore extremely quiet. The club master knew Dane well and was always ready to oblige him and the servants were willing and discreet. Dane arrived at this club early one day and announced that he would stay the night. He was expecting a guest to dinner and would like a private sitting-room—could this be managed? Mr. Dowles said that it could be managed, it was not a very usual request, of course, but as it was Major Worthington …

  “A special dinner,” Major Worthington said. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want, and Hartley will wait on us.”

  “I can detail a waiter—” began Mr. Dowles.

  “No,” said Major Worthington, “Hartley will wait. You can send up the dishes to the landing and Hartley will take over from there. Let me see, what shall we have?”

  It was a warm day so the dinner was light and exceedingly well-chosen. Major Worthington was very particular. They would start with grapefruit—and on no account must it be tinned—they would proceed to Sole Mornay and then an Aylesbury duckling with green peas.

  “Pêche Melba to follow?” suggested Mr. Dowles with his pencil poised over his note book.

  “No, that won’t do at all.”

  “Chicken livers on toast?” suggested Hartley.

  “Yes,” said Major Worthington. “Yes, chicken livers and be sure they’re served really hot. The coffee must be hot, too—really hot, Dowles.”

  The wines to accompany this repast were chosen just as carefully and a box of Havanas was produced by Hartley and placed upon a side table. He was busy arranging the room when Major Worthington came in, dressed and ready to receive his guest. Hartley was smiling to himself.

  “What’s the joke?” inquired Dane, who was aware that Hartley did not smile unless the joke were fairly rich.

  “It’s the flowers, sir,” replied Hartley, pointing to the various vases of roses which were disposed about the room.

  “What’s funny about them?”

  “Flowers!” said Hartley. “Flowers! I believe Mr. Dowles thinks it’s a lady we’re expecting.”

  Dane smiled, too. “He couldn’t think that. Bless my soul, the dinner wouldn’t do for a lady.”

  “No, sir.”

  “No, indeed … and the wines, Hartley. Nobody in their senses would waste vintage port on a lady—I’m sure Dowles knows better than that.”

  “I could tell him a thing or two,” said Hartley, grinning broadly, “I could tell him about the dinner we gave in Rome to the Countess … it was oysters and champagne and iced strawberry mousse … and the little German actress, we gave her Escallopes de Veau à la Reine and Coupe Jacques. Then there was Mrs. Headlington at Cannes—”

  “Please!” cried Dane in mock distress. “Please, Hartley, consider my reputation.”

  “Yes, sir, perhaps I’d better not mention them.”

  They smiled at each other for they both knew that it was just a game—Hartley would have died rather than allow a single item of information to escape his lips—and he was well aware that, although Dane often extended the hospitality of his board to ladies of doubtful virtue, he did it, not for the usual reasons, but for reasons best known to himself.

  There was no time to discuss the subject further for at this moment the door opened and Major Worthington’s guest was shown in. He was a tall, broadshouldered man with greying hair and a brown, wrinkled face. It was a remarkable face, strong and rugged, with jutting eyebrows and a jutting jaw.

  “Well, Dane, here I am,” he said, as he shook hands with his host, “you refused to come to me so I had to come to you.”

  “You’re too well known,” replied Dane, smiling. “I don’t like being seen in your company.”

  “You could have come to the side door.”

  “No, not even the side door. You know as well as I do that I can only be of use because everyone thinks I’m a harmless sort of fellow—a gentleman at large.”

  “I’m not complaining. You’re probably right. I’ve noticed that you often are.”

  “I’m glad you’ve come,” said Dane. “We can talk comfortably here … Hartley, you can take Colonel Carter’s coat and tell them we’re ready when they are … and make sure we’re private, won’t you.”

  Hartley nodded. He took the coat and hat and disappeared.

  “Good man, that,” said Colonel Carter, sitting down and accepting a glass of sherry, “I’ve always envied you that man. He’d be invaluable to me.”

  “He’s invaluable to me.”

  The Colonel nodded. “Discreet, intelligent, loyal to the bone—you’re a lucky devil, you know.”

  “I know. Hartley is all that, and more. He’s clever and has initiative, he can speak German like a native, and he’s as brave as a lion. I owe my life to Hartley half a dozen times at least.”

  For a little while the two men discussed the affairs of the day in a general sort of fashion, but once they were seated at the table they got down to the business which had brought them together.

  “Well,” said Colonel Carter, “well, Dane, what about it? What about this Franz von Heiden?”

  “He isn’t what we thought. He has no connection with the Secret Service.”

  “Sure of that?”

  “Perfectly certain. He’s here to look at us and to report to his father upon our morale.”

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  “What does he make of us?” inquired Colonel Carter.

  Dane took a sheet of paper from his pocket and spread it out on the table. “There you are,” he said, “that’s what he makes of us.”

  “A letter to his father!” remarked the Colonel, taking it up.

  “A copy,” amended Dane. “As a matter of fact, that’s the third letter he’s written to his father since he arrived. The other two weren’t worth bothering about. They amused me, I confess, for they contained word portraits of practically everyone in the household—myself included.”

  “I should have liked to see what he made of you.”

  “Oh yes, I daresay—but you know enough about me already,” declared Dane with a laugh.

  “Did you send on the original letters?”

  “Yes, I did. I thought it better that they should go through and, as a matter of fact, I thought they would do more good than harm. Read it and see what you think.”

  The letter was in German of course but that presented no difficulties to the Colonel; he took it up and read it carefully and there was the suspicion of a smile hovering about his mouth.

  Dear Father,

  Thank you for your kind letter which I have read with great attention. I am sorry you are displeased with me but I assure you that I am doing my best. The difficulties have been more serious than I expected, but I am gradually overcoming them and you will find that there is more useful information in this letter than in the others that I have written. I shall send this letter to Herr Müller in London and he will forward it to you in the way you arranged. I shall post it myself to be quite safe and sure though I do not think there is any real need for caution. You say that I am wasting my time but I assure you that I am not. I am studying for two hours in the morning and I listen closely to all that is said. At first I found great difficulty in understanding the English people and in fact I was e
ntirely mistaken about them. I believed them to be lazy and effete and pleasure loving, and much too comfortable in their homes, but now that I am beginning to know them better I have reversed my opinion of them. You will be surprised to hear this I know, but it is true and I cannot say otherwise. I have observed Major Worthington very closely. I still have a feeling that I have seen him before. Do you know whether I met him at any time when I was a child? It is very difficult to discover how the English people are disposed towards our country because they avoid discussions when I am present, but they are exceedingly kind to me and there is no antagonism in them. There was one discussion on the subject of encirclement but it led nowhere. I have told them about our Youth Movement and have tried to interest them in the Nazi doctrine but they hold different views. They are very content and do not want war but if war should come I believe they would fight well. They are stronger than they look. I have met a young officer of the British Army who has won a decoration for courage—a decoration which is equal to the Iron Cross—and I have met a number of officers of the British Navy. I find them intolerant of discipline and jealous of their freedom but I believe that when they are on duty they obey their superior officers. We are going to lunch on board the Majestic next week—my cousin Sophie’s brother is the Admiral and he has invited us—so perhaps there will be more of interest to report in my next letter.…

  “Very funny!” said Colonel Carter looking up. “Very illuminating in its way.”

  “Very illuminating,” agreed Dane.

  “I like that young man, I’d like to meet him.”

  “You can’t, I’m afraid.”

  “Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise.”

  “It would be the height of folly,” said Dane firmly.

  Colonel Carter left that. He returned to the letter. “What will Herr von Heiden make of it?” he inquired.

  “He won’t like it, so he won’t believe it,” Dane replied. “He will reject the whole thing. It isn’t what he expected to hear.”