Tears of Autumn, The (4 page)

‘So it’s all right then?’

He smiled down at her. ‘If I was really worried I’d be pressing young Biff here to take you to the cottage in Gloucestershire and let me pick up the bill for the cancellations, I promise you.’

It was the last time Biff and Rosemary would spend an evening together. Biff’s posting had turned out to be good after all. The squadron was very friendly, a great bunch of chaps, and the CO had assigned him to a Flight Lieutenant Dickinson, a blunt no-nonsense Yorkshire man who was introducing him, via the squadron Anson, to multiengined flight. He was going to have a guard of honour, with ten fellow officers in dress uniforms holding their ceremonial swords to form an arch beneath which he and his new wife would walk on leaving the church.

But he had to get through his stag night first. Apparently
things could get pretty exciting in the mess – and cause further expense for him.

‘So, that’s all the details, then. Nothing left to chance.’

Her mother winced. ‘Rosemary, never say things like that.’

‘Oops, sorry Mummy.’

Rosemary bit her lower lip.

Just then their housekeeper and cook entered the room.

‘Dinner is ready when you are, Mrs Peacock.’

‘Right – let’s go in. I’m famished.’

Mr Peacock held his arm out for his wife who downed the last of her pink gin and slipped her arm through his.

‘Lead on, Macduff.’

Biff did the same for Rosemary who whispered: ‘Next time we do this we’ll be man and wife.’

His stag night was a riot. He ended up naked, with his balls painted with blacklead, and tied to the CO’s chair in the latter’s office.

Fortunately, although he was there all night – or for what was left of it, he was discovered by the adjutant’s clerk when he brought in some early-morning signals to put on the CO’s desk. He could hardly walk, he was so stiff, but the effects of an excess of beer and spirits had helped pass the night quite quickly.

The big worry was his privates. Despite repeated washing his anatomy remained a disgusting-looking grey colour. He worried about the wedding night. Would Rosemary actually get to see his tackle? He had no idea really what would happen. He consoled himself that, in the dark, he would get away with it.

He was not flying on his last day – in fact the MO would probably have had a fit if he had examined him, but Dicky Dickinson had made sure he was only occupied with ground school.

That evening he packed. They were having their first night at the Connaught in London. Next day they would go to Victoria Station and take the boat train to Paris. After a night there at the Ritz they were booked on the Rome Express. The final leg was to Naples and then a local train to Sorrento.

Rosemary was thrilled, and most of her packing was already done. She’d spent the morning riding, galloping her horse across the meadows, even taking a fence. It was as if she had so much energy pent up in every part of her body. Rosemary was a virgin, but it had been a struggle – especially after she had met Biff, and known he was the one for her. A few cads before him knew that she was very sensual and had tried their luck. At the last moment she had always backed out of going all the way. But she had done some naughty things.

Now she was in her bath, lying with foam bubbles all around her. She looked down at the pink tips that were her nipples. Rosemary had the idea that Biff was a bit slow in these matters – a typically British public-schoolboy who had healthy instincts, but who, having never socialized much with girls in his earlier years, was rather afraid of them – or at least of
hurting
them, and who was painfully shy at times.

She lifted her hand up from the water, second finger and thumb making a circle with a soapy film between. She brought it to her lips and blew very gently. For a moment it ballooned out, then burst with a faint dampness.

She giggled. Just like her hymen – tomorrow night.

Biff ate a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon in the mess, surrounded at various times by the ten brother officers who were forming the guard of honour. His best man was an old school-chum who had stayed in one of the guest bedrooms.

‘Well Biff, this is it.’

He nodded, his mouth full.

‘Any second thoughts?’

He swallowed. ‘I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life – except perhaps joining the Air Force.’

James, a man he’d first met in
The Inky
, their prep school, and had had a fight with, thus establishing a lifetime’s friendship, grinned, ‘That’s good because I don’t fancy making your apologies after you’ve absconded.’

Biff grinned. ‘Don’t worry so much. Just make sure your
speech is up to scratch.’

His best man winced. They ate in silence for a while until James spoke again.

‘Have you any concerns about going abroad at the moment?’

‘You mean this Munich crisis?’

James buttered a piece of toast.

‘Yes. War could break out at any time.’

Biff shook his head.

‘With Halifax as foreign secretary and Chamberlain as PM, they’ll appease him – you can bet on that. Besides …’

James raised an eyebrow quizzically.

‘Besides what?’

Biff placed his knife and fork together.

‘Frankly, we are not in a fit state – at least the Air Force. We need all the time we can to get up to strength.’

‘Biff, Biff.’

A hand was shaking his arm.

‘Biff, do you want the lemon meringue pie?’

He took in the young woman at his side, then looked up at the waitress waiting expectantly with a plate ready to put down before him.

‘Oh, yes please.’

People were mostly back at their tables. He couldn’t remember saying goodbye to Peter, who wasn’t around.

He turned to his dining companion.

‘Could I have some water please?’

‘Yes, of course.’

She half stood up and reached out for the bottle of spring water. When she got it she poured some into his tumbler. He was feeling very thirsty.

‘Thank you, my dear.’

The pie was good, dissolving in his mouth which was just as well as he was beginning to feel full up.

He made some small talk for a while, then sat back as the coffee was poured and little dishes of mints were placed on the table.

He noticed the high sheriff had got up and was coming his way, albeit stopping to talk to people. Biff guessed what it was:
he was going to commiserate with him about the death of his wife; he hadn’t seen him since.

Bugger. He could do without that just now. The last thing he wanted was to blub in public, but it could easily happen, even after these weeks.

He took a sip of coffee, finding it already difficult to swallow. His mind wandered back again to 1938. It had been a great wedding, he could still remember that archway of swords, and the young fresh faces of the airmen bearing them, laughing as the bells pealed out with joy.

Even now he could recall their names, like a litany.

Dickinson, Knowles, Stillman, Ormerod, Bowker, Rose, Grace, Hicks, Clark and MacWilliams, the last two both called Paddy since they were Irish.

The reception had been brilliant, with James making a good fist of the best man’s speech, leaving him writhing in embarrassment at some of the schoolboy things he’d got up to, especially the time he’d put black soot on all the eyepieces of the binoculars and telescopes at the annual school regatta.

The thrashing he’d received from the headmaster who, an hour before, had looked like a panda, had been exceptional. Happily, in anticipation of what was coming, he’d slipped two slices of ham from the school kitchen under his shorts. It took some of the sting out of the cane, and still made the right noise – as did he.

The good news had been announced on the wireless while they were changing to catch the London train. Agreement had been reached at Munich – no details as yet.

As they stepped into the car taking them to the station, and rice was thrown over them in great handfuls, the whole wedding reception knew the good news. An air of almost hysterical jubilation permeated the gathering.

With loud cheers, and a final rejoinder from Mr Peacock to ‘Take care of her now Biff,’ they swept away.

Almost immediately the quietness descended and they were
left all on their own, the driver on the other side of the Rolls’s thick glass screen.

They looked at each other.

She was dressed in a pale silk coat, and wearing a tiny little hat with a net veil that covered her eyes.

Their hands met on the seat. He covered hers and squeezed.

‘Hello, Mrs Banks.’

She smiled, and put her head on his shoulder.

‘Hello, Mr Banks.’

Most of their luggage, including her trunk, was taken on to Victoria Station. They only retrieved an overnight bag each, which were placed in their room by a porter summoned by the concierge.

Biff tipped him ten bob – way, way, over the odds even by the Connaught’s standards, but he was feeling almost light-headed with expectancy.

They had a suite, so they had their own bathroom and separate lavatory.

In the elegantly decorated dining room they had a light supper; in fact, after the blow-out of the wedding breakfast he wasn’t hungry at all.

When the time came at last he coughed and said: ‘Perhaps you’d care to go up first? I’ll have a last cigar.’

She flashed him a coy look.

‘Don’t be too long now. Fifteen minutes will be quite enough, or you might find me asleep. It’s been a long day.’

With that she pushed back her chair, picked up the keys, gave a little wave of her fingers and left.

Biff went out into the lounge, ordered a brandy and selected a cigar from the humidor held by a waiter.

He stepped out on to the hotel’s terrace. Somewhere he could hear music and a crooner softly singing of love.

All of a sudden he felt very happy. He was married to a beautiful girl, he was a pilot in the Royal Air Force, and he was about to go on honeymoon in a world that at least for the foreseeable
future was at peace.

‘What more could a man ask for?’

He tapped lightly on the door, but found it was not locked. When he entered the lights were down low, and there was a lovely smell of Chanel No. 5 in the air.

‘Rosemary?’

‘Come in, darling.’

He closed the door and locked it. Through the half-open bedroom door he could see the bed, but it was only when he eased the door gently open that Rosemary was revealed, sitting up, her creamy white shoulders and neck in contrast to the dark mahogany headboard and the straps of her black-silk nightdress.

Biff took a step towards her.

‘Hello Biff, old chap, how are you getting along?’

It was the high sheriff in all his finery, black velvet jacket, white shirt with ruffles and cravat, silken breeches and black hose. Each holder of the office had to buy his own formal dress at a cost of several thousands of pounds. His was still in a back bedroom somewhere, together with his sword.

Biff smiled back at him and started to get up to shake hands. ‘High Sheriff….’

‘No, no.’ The high sheriff crouched down beside him. ‘Just came over to see how you are getting on. Glad you could make it today.’

‘Thank you for including me, Richard.’

It was customary for past high sheriffs to be involved, but it was nice to be invited; after all, it had been a good many years since he had held the office.

‘I meant to come round but I’ve been so busy….’

Biff nodded. ‘I understand.’

The high sheriff and his friends were all one generation, so it was not as if he saw them regularly on a social basis – those days were now long gone. Although he was well known, he was now
a lonely old man, left behind really.

They chatted for several minutes before the high sheriff straightened up. ‘Right, I’m going off to get comfortable before the speeches. These button flies bring back memories, eh, Biff? Wish I’d gone for the zip option.’

Left on his own again he nodded. Yes, he remembered when his hands were freezing in the war, and it was bloody impossible to do them back up in a hurry, the fingers just didn’t work.

Fingers
. He remembered cool soft fingers, doing things to him that nobody had ever done before. Rosemary had certainly been a shock. Unfortunately he’d disgraced himself, unable to control his own body. Fortunately, and with the vigour of youth, later in the night he had at last managed to hang on long enough for Rosemary to get involved.

He shook his head in wonder. Nobody ever talked about difficulties in those days. It was all supposed to happen just like that, and also it was the
girl
who was supposed to be apprehensive. He grinned inwardly. In their case it was Rosemary who had certainly taught him a thing or two.

He was aware of the room settling down again and of some of the diners turning their chairs towards the top table. He glanced at the menu card. The judges always spoke first, in this case it was his Honour Judge Richard Gordon.

Biff knew him to be a soft-spoken man, but he had a wicked sense of humour, not always appreciated by the miscreants before him on the bench.

Somewhere, somebody banged a table several times and a loud voice carried in the quietening room.

‘Your Grace, lords, ladies and gentlemen, His Honour, Judge Richard Gordon, QC, who will propose the toast to the high sheriff.’

The clapping started all around him.

Biff shouldered through the crowds on the platform at Victoria Station, searching the windows of the yellow and brown
Pullman cars of the
Golden Arrow
express.

After they had settled into their first class seats he had, much to Rosemary’s annoyance, insisted on getting off again to get the papers, the
Daily Telegraph
for him and
Daily Express
for her. She didn’t seem to care much about the momentous news scrawled in black on all the newstands:
Peace in Our Time
.

He’d meant to get them as they had followed their porters, with their luggage on barrows, past the W.H. Smith kiosk, but had been distracted by the station announcer’s voice echoing incoherently around the glass-and-iron vault of the station roof, just as an engine’s safety valve lifted and blasted steam, so that he couldn’t hear exactly what was said, but it was something about the Channel. Was it rough? He wasn’t a good sailor.

In the event it was to do with workings on the permanent way to the coast – adding some ten minutes to their journey.

He suddenly saw her, waving in the window of a coach called
Annabel
, steam rising from somewhere beneath, obscuring her for a second.

As he boarded at the end door whistles shrilled on the platform and doors slammed.

He slumped into the seat opposite her and took off his trilby hat, just as the coach gave a lurch forward.

‘Phew, that was close.’

Rosemary raised an eyebrow and said sarcastically: ‘That would have been fun, wouldn’t it? I have a husband for just one night, then he stays in London while I go off to the most romantic city on earth. That’s a dangerous way to treat a girl, isn’t it?’

He leant forward over the table and kissed her on the tip of her nose.

‘Just as long as you behave yourself, Mrs Banks.’

She put the tip of a finger on his forehead and pushed him away.

‘Mr Banks, you’ve started a fire in me that only
you
can put out.’

He went bright red.

All the way down to Dover, through the Kent countryside with its tall hop frames and apple orchards, he read the news. There was a photograph of Mr Chamberlain, stepping off the plane at Heston, waving a piece of paper with apparently Herr Hitler’s signature on it.

As he read further it became apparent the Sudetanland was being transferred to Germany. Edvard Beneš, Czechoslovakia’s head of state, had protested at the decision, but Neville Chamberlain had told him that Britain would be unwilling to go to war over the issue: after all, they were German-speaking peoples.

Eduard Daladier, the French President had agreed and Mussolini was being praised for setting up the four-power meeting and acting as an ‘honest broker’.

Biff gave a little grunt at that. For a start, he hadn’t even invited the Russians, who had more of an interest in the region than either France or Britain, they being fellow Slavs.

He read the full statement dated 30 September 1938.

As he read on it became apparent that the Munich Agreement, as it was being called, was popular with the press and the public, who perceived it as having prevented a war with Germany. The
editorial in the
Daily Express
pretty well summed up how everybody seemed to feel. He read:

Biff bit his lip. It seemed a great relief, but he only hoped that they would continue to build up the strength of the Air Force from the perilously low state to which it had been allowed to slump.

For heavean’s sake, the Navy still seemed strong enough.

Apart from Anthony Eden resigning earlier in the year as foreign secretary in protest at the policy of appeasement, on the day, only Winston Churchill raised a dissenting voice.

Whatever, it was a lovely start to their honeymoon.

He turned the page. Inside were splendid photographs of the launching of the new liner, the
Queen Elizabeth
, at Clydebank.

On the sports page was an article on Don Budge who had become the first tennis player to achieve the Gland Slam. After that he dozed for a while. The last few days – and
one
night, had been quite draining.

The Channel was calm, and Biff stood on the stern of the steamer with his arm around Rosemary’s waist as they watched the white cliffs recede. She turned her face to his.

When he kissed her he could taste the salt on her lips.

That night they dined in the Ritz’s ornate restaurant, and drank wine the like of which he had never tasted before. He felt
a bit guilty because his father-in-law was paying: it had been set up beforehand as part of their wedding gift.

Maybe it was because they were tired from travelling, or were suffering from the excess of wine and food, but they didn’t make love that night. Nothing was said or decided. They just fell into bed and went straight to sleep.