Piece of Cake (16 page)

Barton had never heard him talk so much. Flash Gordon was the man who listened, who laughed at the joke (slightly later than everyone else), who was on the edge of the photograph, half-obscured by the man in front. He always looked neat and squared-off, his hair cleanly parted and his features regularly distributed, as if his face were ready for kit-inspection. When people thought of him (which was not often) they thought of a uniform rather than a personality.

“Who owns this place?” Barton asked.

“Some Paris banker, I think.”

They went onto a balcony. “Not bad countryside, is it? The aerodrome's on the other side of those trees. It's just an emergency field, really, but Lord Rex is having it extended.”

“
Lord
Rex?”

“Yes. Didn't you know? That's what we call him now. It suits him, don't you think? Some head waiter in Metz kept sucking up to him and saying ‘Yes milord' and ‘
Tout de suite
, milord,' so we just kept it going. The CO doesn't mind. In fact I think he rather likes it. He's a marvelous chap.”

Barton looked down at the wide, flatstoned terrace from which a flight of shallow steps led to a domino pattern of lily ponds. “Done much flying?” he asked.

“Bags. We haven't shot down any Jerries yet, but that's their fault. We never see them. Well, the odd Dornier stooges over at twenty thou but he always beats it before we can get near. We're not allowed to chase them into Germany, you see. D'you speak French?”

“Not much.”

“The frogs around here all gabble away like mad … Still, they seem to know what we want. And some of the French popsies are really smashing.
Très formidable.”

Barton glanced at him. “Where are you from, Flash? I forget.”

“North London. Hendon.”

“Oh, yes.” London: biggest village in the world. Barton realized what had happened: Gordon had finally left home. All his RAF training and service had been spent no more than a train-ride away from his parents in Hendon; now he was released, liberated, let off the leash in this wonderfully foreign country where everyone drove on the wrong side and drank wine night and day, and where sex was more than a technical possibility, it was a definite probability because it was a well-known fact that the French had virtually invented passion and they had definitely invented the brassiere, which meant that they knew how to get the bloody thing off, a problem that was often discussed in the mess, some saying that you could do it one-handed after a bit of practice and others claiming that they had encountered a species of safety-catch which obstinately defied all efforts, even using both hands and a pair of pliers. Flash Gordon listened to these discussions very carefully.

“Well,” Barton said, “I suppose popsies are much the same wherever you go.”

“Not these,” Gordon insisted. “These popsies are hot stuff. Just you—”

“Hello, Fanny.” Flip Moran stepped onto the balcony. “Did you get your ears repaired, then?”

“Yes, thanks.” Barton had rather dreaded meeting Moran again. “The doctors gave me some stuff for them.”

“Very clever people, doctors.” Moran leaned on the balustrade. It was impossible to tell if he was being sardonic; his Northern Irish accent put a heavy slant on every word he spoke. “You were away such a terribly long time,” he said, “we thought for sure the Air Ministry had given you a squadron of Spitfires all to yourself.”

“What? That'll be the day.” Barton was damned if he was going to apologize; on the other hand they all had to live together and he wasn't proud of his performance as acting squadron commander. “I don't think I'm cut out for that sort of job. No, they made me stick around over there for the inquiry.”

“What inquiry?” Gordon asked.

“Into the Battle of Southend Sands,” Moran said. “Isn't that what they're calling it?”

“Yes.” Barton didn't want to talk about it but Gordon still looked puzzled. “Where the Blenheim went down,” he said.

“I understand the man's name was MacArthur,” Moran said.

“MacArthy.” Barton turned and looked away. There was absolutely no need for Moran to go into this sort of detail.

“Is that right? MacArthy, was it? He might have been Irish, you see.”

“I've no idea.”

“Well, whatever he was, I'm sure they gave him a proper send-off, poor fellah.”

“He got a military funeral.”

“Of course he did. After all, he died on active service, defending his country.”

Barton clenched his teeth. He felt resentment boiling up inside him but he knew that he simply could not afford to have a row with Moran. It was going to be difficult enough to be accepted back into the squadron as things were. “The inquiry completely cleared everyone in this squadron,” he said. “It was not our fault.”

“Of course it did,” Moran said. “Of course it wasn't. MacArthy, MacArthy … I used to know a MacArthy, we trained together, he had this flaming red hair, an awful funny fellow he was, kept us in fits of laughter all the time … David McArthy.”

Barton stared at him. Moran's broad black mustache hid any expression but Barton was sure Moran was lying. “Was he a small chap with big feet?” he asked.

“That's right. That's him.” Moran nodded vigorously. Flash Gordon smiled, just to make it unanimous.

“Couldn't have been the same man,” Barton said. “This MacArthy was a big chap with small feet.”

“Ah. Is that right? Well, now.”

“And his name wasn't David,” Barton said. “It was Henry.”

“Fancy that,” Moran said. “Well, we all make mistakes, I suppose, even the best of us.”

Rex was only a squadron leader but he knew his way around the Royal Air Force. He was a product of the RAF College at Cranwell. During the peacetime years, as he served in different squadrons on
various bases, and as he went about the country to attend courses here and there on this subject and that (eventually even giving an occasional lecture himself), and as he flew in Fighter Command's annual exercise, and took part in war games and ceremonial fly-pasts and official visits to aircraft factories—as he did his job, Rex kept in touch with his Cranwell contemporaries and his old instructors. He knew who was on the way up, who was on the way out, and who was too clever for his own good. He knew who could be flattered, who could be ignored, and who could be baffled with bullshit. It did him no harm that his father had been a Conservative MP who had served for a spell as PPS to the Secretary of State for Air; the old man still had a lot of contacts at the Air Ministry. “Some people say, usually somewhat bitterly,” he told his son, “that it's not what you know in this world, it's
who
you know. They're absolutely right, of course. Knowledge is useless without friends. It's an arrangement that's worked damn well for me. Apply yourself, and I see no earthly reason why it shouldn't work for you too.” Young Rex applied himself. By the time he took Hornet squadron to France he could manipulate the system more successfully than any other man of his age and rank.

In one respect he was lucky. He looked right. He looked just like a man who ought to command a squadron of fighters: taller than average, alert-looking, well-built, with a natural curl to his chestnut hair and a questing gleam to his eye. His mouth was wide and strong and ready to smile; his jaw had a tiny cleft; his nose was straight; his eyes were gray, and they expressed an unblinking self-confidence. Rex had worked hard and mastered everything the RAF could teach him about being a fighter pilot. He had the self-assurance that comes when you know there is no question you cannot answer. Rex knew his strength. When he arrived at RAF Kingsmere and dumped all Fanny Barton's paperwork in the waste bin—the farmers' complaints, the accident inquiry's questionnaire, and so on—he knew that he could get away with it. The raid on the spares depot was rather more of a calculated risk, but not much: in time of war a fighter leader was expected to show powers of initiative when carrying out orders. Rex had got his squadron airborne and over to France, as ordered. That was the only justification he needed.

And he was popular. “Everyone's been very chipper since he
took over,” the adjutant told Barton. “Even Mother Cox has stopped biting his nails. The thing is, he's such a tremendous wangled He wangler! our transfer down here when Pas-de-Calais got boring, and then he wangled a move to this drome, and he wangled the requisition of this lovely great house. He's even wangled us some decent cooks, would you believe. All the old sweats are being posted back to Blighty and we're getting some top-line civilian chefs instead, chaps who've just been called up. God knows how he wangled that, but he did.”

“That's nice,” Barton said.

“Well, it makes a pleasant change after the Ram, you must agree.”

“And after me,” Barton said.

“Oh, don't talk tosh, Fanny. I thought you coped magnificently under really very difficult circ—”

“Yes, yes, sure.” Barton, having picked at his scabs, regretted it already. He said: “The only thing the CO can't wangle, it seems, is a scrap with the foe.”

“True. Just before we came here, there was a spot of action, I believe, and half-a-dozen French bombers went to pot. Then some of our Battles trundled over to drop a few bombs and bumped into some Jerry fighters and had rather an unpleasant time. But now that Poland's down the drain, everyone's put up the shutters. Jerry doesn't bother us and we don't bother him.”

“Not much of a war.”

Kellaway laughed. “Fanny, you remind me
exactly
of a young chap who joined our outfit in 1917, during a bit of a lull. ‘This is a feeble sort of fight,' he used to say. ‘Call this a war? It's a swindle. I want my money back.' Then all of a sudden the balloon went up again and he had all the war he wanted, and a bit more besides.
That
changed his tune in a hurry.” Kellaway stooped and tugged a frayed thread from the cuff of his trousers. “He was so keen! Keen as mustard. Trouble was, he didn't have the faintest idea what he was getting into, and by the time he found out, it was too late.”

“What happened to him?”

Kellaway spread his hands. “Who knows?”

Barton found Rex in the squash court, playing Cattermole. They were using tennis rackets and a red rubber ball as big as an apple.
It was too bouncy: the rallies went on and on and on, until the players collided, or tripped and fell. Sprawled on his back, Rex saw Barton watching from the gallery. “Welcome back!” he called, panting. “You've got ‘A' flight again, Fanny.”

“Right-ho, sir.”

“You saw this bastard trip me then, didn't you?”

“Afraid not, sir.”

“Treachery. I'm surrounded by treachery.” Rex got to his feet and found the ball. “My point,” he said.

Cattermole was squatting against a wall, wiping sweat from his eyes. “Balls,” he said. “You hit me on the leg.”

“Rubbish! You were trying to kick the ball.” Rex whacked it so that it ricocheted all around the court. “You're not fit, Moggy, that's your trouble.”

“I was quite fit until you smashed my ribs with that bloody great club you're holding.”

“What's the score?” Barton asked.

“Four-nil,” Rex said.

“Five-eight,” Cattermole said.

Barton left them to their game and went to the bar for a drink. Stickwell was there, playing liar dice with Patterson and Cox. “Hello,” he said. “I didn't expect to see you again. I thought they were going to cut your head off in the Tower of London.”

“Not a funny joke.” Barton pulled up a bar-stool.

“Certainly not. Treason is no laughing matter. Can't have chaps going around shooting down the king's Blenheims. I give you … oh … two pairs,” he said to Patterson.

“The inquiry cleared me,” Barton said. He was getting fed-up with telling people that.

“Did it? Good show,” Patterson said. “Two pairs, eh? All right.” He kept two dice and rolled three. “Let's face it, the Blenheim's a bloody awful fighter … I give you three queens.” He passed the leather cup to Cox.

“It's a bloody awful bomber, too,” Stickwell said.

“Not as bad as the Hampden,” Patterson said. Cox sat crouched over the dice, worrying. “At least the Blenheim looks like a plane. The Hampden looks like a frying-pan with wings on.”

“Bloody awful kite,” Stickwell agreed. “Not as useless as the Battle, but still bloody awful. Get your finger out, Mother.”

“They sent a dozen Hampdens to bomb some Jerry ships last week,” Barton said. “Shambles. Half of them bought it.”

“Flak or fighters?” Patterson asked.

“Fighters.”

Cox threw the dice. “Oh Christ,” he muttered.

“109's or 110's?” Patterson asked.

“Dunno.”

“Bet you they were 110's,” Stickwell said. “Stands to reason, doesn't it? Two engines are better than one. They make it go damn quick, and the nose is free to carry lots of dirty great guns. Trust the krauts to come up with a brute like that.”

“I bet they're turning out 110's by the score,” Patterson said. “By the hundred, probably.”

“Speak to me, Mother,” Stickwell said.

Cox agonized for a moment, and then passed the dice. “Four queens,” he said quickly, and chewed his lip.

Stickwell took them and rang the bell on the bar. “Want a beer? Four queens …” He looked under the cup. “By God, you're a dreadful rogue, Mother.” Cox smiled nervously.

“Thanks,” Barton said. They had been in no hurry to buy him a drink.

“Four queens is actually a very modest claim,” Stickwell said. “I myself can see five of the ladies, with one eye shut …” He rolled three dice. “My goodness: three more. Where
do
they come from? Beers all round, please,” he said to the steward. “Pip: I give you a full house, jacks on queens.”