The Lost Flying Boat (5 page)

If I took a train along the coast to Lessom Bay, and found work as an operator on some tramp steamer sailing to another part of the world, my last notion of honour would go. I would fall through the safety net of self-respect to the lowest state of all, that of breaking my word – the final dereliction of duty. I had been brought up to believe that once you lost that kind of honour you couldn't atone. I didn't think much of this precept, for there is such a thing as loyalty to life, which means taking reasonable precautions for survival.

‘You should stop thinking thoughts,' said Nash, when I lost again. ‘It's not good for you. It never did anybody any good.'

‘It's worry,' I said, ‘not thought, and it'll go when I'm flying.'

‘That'll be too late. You'll have a rash by then. Get rid of it now. Take a tip from me. We can't afford to have anyone in the crew who thinks.'

‘All right,' I said, ‘you win.'

‘See what I mean?'

‘I do. So deal.'

Whatever the reason, for the rest of that day I won every game.

11

A man was playing a slot machine by the coat racks. Each spinning drum lit up red and yellow. He put money in and, after pausing to let a bout of coughing rack its way through him (he simply stood upright and looked straight ahead, telling the animal inside to do its worst but for God's sake to let rip and get it over with even if it intended killing him), pulled at the large handle as if knowing every move of the machinery inside. A juke-box in an adjoining alcove played the world favourite for that year: ‘I'll Never Forget You …' A glass of beer was set on the table, and he reached for a drink when his cosseting of the gamble-box brought no results.

I finished a straw bottle of red before my spaghetti and cutlets, with juicy tomato on the summit, came to the table. The Italian proprietor, Mario Salvatore, who was from Turin, told me he had been a prisoner in South Africa during the war. His young wife looked around the curtain every few minutes, then brought my dessert of
meringue crème Chantilly
and a cup of black coffee. I left the dinosaur-trail of cream, and read a newspaper, little interested in reports of the Berlin Blockade and the same old ding-dong in Korea. The snowy ridge across my plate was more intriguing, and led me to speculate on the topography of the island that Bennett was taking us to. The future, holding no more anxieties now that I had eaten, existed only insofar as my wondering about it prevented me from feeling conspicuous at supper.

On my way to the restaurant I had turned away from the seafront and passed several eating places, unable to make up my mind which to enter. They were too crowded, or too empty, or too dingy. I got back to the quay, then walked along the street of storage sheds, as if my body had yet to work up an appetite. I continued along the shore of the bay, and morse-read the licence plates of passing cars, calculating how many dots and dashes were in letters and numbers and whether there were more dots than dashes, so as to define a car as a dash or dot vehicle. If a dot, the car would go to heaven; if a dash, the thing would go to hell. And if the cypher came out in equal numbers, then its pagan status would keep it from either place.

When there were neither houses nor pavement along the potholed road (and no more cars), I looked at the sunset reflection on the battle-plate grey of the harbour, and a glow of coalfire on the wall of mountain behind. The town was quiet with the peace that presages war and frightens children more than grown men, though they do not know what it means. I remembered being frightened as a child by the continual talk of war, until that fear was replaced by excitement at real war beginning.

The satisfactory eating place of half an hour before now had people waiting, so I circled the tree-lined square twice and walked into the Plaza Restaurant which was nearly empty. I hung up my raincoat and sat down. A few solitary eaters had their backs to me. I hated having to sit with others. Even when I had a table to myself I fancied people looking at what was being knifed-and-forked into my mouth.

The man at the slot machine played on. His teeth spiked a cheroot, and the only evidence of his agitation, or enjoyment, was when smoke swept back from the crown of his head as if the machine itself was on fire. He was determined, as coin after coin dropped into its demoniac conveyor system, on an all-or-nothing decision, being a man who, I thought, wanted chance firmly in his grip, so as to be protected from something even bigger which might callously injure him.

After a long draw-down of the handle, bundles of coins cascaded out of the tin pocket level with his groin, and both hands, in no kind of hurry – he had been expecting to win and knew clearly what to do – moved to extract his reward. Money continued teeming out and was heaped on the table until his glass of glowing lager became a regal beacon on the high ground of an island set to keep ships away from its dangerous coast.

Thin in face and body, he grinned, yellow teeth showing as he carried his winnings in troughed hands to his own table. He put on his ridiculously small nicky hat, perched as if to hold down the thatch of fair hair reaching almost to his collar. He sat, eyes glowing with exhaustion and triumph. After a quick reckoning, he laid part of his bonus aside, perhaps to put back into the machine, for he seemed nothing if not systematic. Noticing my interest, and realizing who I was, he said: ‘Hello, Sparks. Let's have a bottle of steam to celebrate.'

He was Wilcox, our newly-arrived flight engineer. When he came out of Bennett's room that afternoon I knew who he was, and he knew who I was, but I did not feel like introducing myself, and neither did he seem eager, both of us perhaps preferring to let such a procedure occur in the normal course of events.

‘Be glad to.' I got up to shake hands.

‘Looks like I've broken the bank, eh?'

I went to his table, thinking it as good a time as any to get acquainted. Having watched him at his favourite pastime, I already knew something. His finely boned face took on a light shade of purple when he coughed, hands clenched and opened, as he fought to clear his throat without causing me to think that he put much effort into it. I considered him ill enough for bed, but he rallied and looked almost robust. He relit his cheroot, which calmed the coughing, and sat down.

‘After I left the mob I couldn't settle at anything,' he said. ‘I tried a few office jobs, but was as bored as hell. Then I worked in a garage, bodging cars together – some of which were nicked, I'd say. But one night I met some friends in a pub and they got me taken on by a firm which did jobs all over the country putting up scaffolding. I was never afraid of heights, or working long hours in wet and freezing weather, so with good wages we had a fine old time. Hell-raising wasn't the half of it – plenty of booze and women when we weren't working all hours God sent. Then I got married, and last winter I caught this bloody cough and had to knock off work.'

He gave a vivid illustration of what he meant, during which I thought he would end by coming to pieces, so that I considered keeping my head to one side in case I should catch whatever he had. ‘I went down with a terrible dose of 'flu, and it hasn't left me yet.'

He hoped to have a few days' rest before we set out, to get rid of whatever it was. I agreed that he should. ‘The climate's right, anyway.' He too was parted from his wife, but it was he who had walked out on her: ‘We were passionately in love, but one morning she said that if I coughed once more she'd go mad. I knew then there was no hope for our marriage. She had lost confidence in me, and once that happens life gets intolerable. I couldn't see an end to my coughing, and didn't want to be responsible for getting her into an asylum. I have this thing about being sensible, and about confidence. If people don't have confidence in each other they've no right tormenting one another. The letter from the skipper saying he wanted me for this trip came just at the right time. In any case I was on sick pay, so I was glad it did.'

12

Why I should be followed around the streets of this obscure port of southern Africa I did not know, but one evening on my way to search out a place with a different menu I sensed a shadow some way behind. Though I heard nothing, the knowledge of being stalked was positive, as if my own shadow had pulled away in the shine of a street lamp and wanted to observe my intentions in an unfriendly manner.

To follow one man and not lose sight of him takes three men. If the man to be kept in view is on the move sixteen hours a day, then six men are needed to work two shifts of eight hours. If it is necessary to keep him under observation during the night as well, nine men would be employed. I liked the situation no more than when sitting on watch in Malaya with hut doors open and lights glaring from the double pack of accumulators, and thinking that a terrorist had me in his sights from the cover of the trees. As I turned a corner at my usual pace I wondered, not how to outwit my pursuer, but how I could discover his identity. Common sense suggested I swing from the next bend and walk back into him; but cunning advised me not to show that I was aware of his intentions.

Being a prey to speculation led me to query whether I was in fact being followed. Perhaps two weeks of boredom had deranged me. Idleness had been pleasant. The lodging, provision and lack of responsibility were so agreeable that I wanted to pass my life in this state, because nothing could make a wireless operator more content than a long break from tapping and log-filling. But the idleness went on too long and, like the painful stage of a disease, was beginning to eat into my soul. I was losing the ability to open and close my eyes at will. The calves of my legs ached, and my scalp itched as if, should I scratch, my hair would fall out in clutches. Too long from the disciplined stitch of morse code, the pit of my stomach started to solidify. Looking at my hand, I would see three fingers instead of four. The only cure was to be tucked into my operator's position with earphones and intercom-jacks pushed decisively into their respective sockets, and hands twitching at the coloured clickstops of the transmitter whose façade looks like a child's construction kit.

Being away from England, and pitched into a situation whose outcome was from any point of view uncertain, I felt myself to be at least two different people, both of whom it was difficult to hold together in one physical spot. Could not that person, therefore, who followed me and never varied the distance, be a third entity that had split off from the two of me already in existence?

I increased my pace from a surge of buoyancy rather than to outdistance my pursuer. If instead of one person tracking me there were in fact the necessary three – out of a conscientiousness to do the job properly – then the three parts of me within my controllable orbit had a chance of outwitting them.

Before deciding on the best means of doing this I wondered why anyone should so obviously track me, and hoped the reason would be revealed. Having discovered the fact early could only be explained by my lack of surprise at such a thing happening at all. Since meeting Bennett and reaching our rendezvous in Southern Africa, there had seemed something unreal about the purpose – if not the legality – of what he proposed to do. The only evidence for this uneasiness was that it poisoned my idleness.

The clatter of footsteps was my own. I would walk instead of march, do 90 and not 120 paces to the minute, preferring to show concern rather than anxiety. It was chilling to be followed. Being tracked can turn into a pursuit, and become a chase. Physically aware of the follower, you may be manoeuvred into a trap.

The streets darkened. I clenched my fists, and turned corners. The route must have shaped so many letter Ls they'd become like stairs on paper. I marched again, and at the left foot passing the right, as if on parade, the loud voice in me shouted: ‘Halt!'

Both feet came noisily together. On a further command I did the ‘about turn', drew back my left fist, and punched the body which came against me. He let out a cry, and fell into the road.

Having hit someone who as likely as not hadn't been following me at all, I thought it wise to run as far as my guilt would allow, especially since he might have been a policeman wanting only to check my passport. If he wasn't alone in his work, assistants would be coming up to help. Perhaps Shottermill, who would leave no trick unturned, still wanted the flying boat to set off without me. Or maybe he didn't want it to depart at all.

Acting without consideration never did any good, and now reason must be elevated to a par with valour, whereby it seemed tactically right to flee. I turned to do so and – no great feat to vanish into the darkness – heard my name called as clearly as if a coil of rope had hissed around my neck:

‘Adcock!' A burly figure came towards me, brushing gravel from jacket and trousers. ‘You bloody fool.' He didn't seem angry until: ‘You're like a fucking wolf.' My blow had been a mere push, and he had only gone over on losing his balance at the drop of the kerb. He spoke in a North of England accent which I didn't trust an inch: ‘It is Adcock, isn't it?'

‘You were following me.'

His arm came close, and I dodged, but the gesture was to guide himself in the dark. ‘How could I catch you up if I didn't follow?' His hand was for me to shake. ‘But you walked as quick as if you'd just come off square-bashing. My name's Bull, flight-sergeant air-gunner, as I once was. Came in this evening to join the crew.' I shook the warm and meaty hand, which held on too long for my liking. ‘Bennett gave me some of that lovely coloured money, more than a monthly wage packet back home. Then I met Wilcox coughing his guts up in the lobby of that Flotsam Hotel and asked where I could eat pork pies and black puddings. So he says I'd better follow Adcock the Sparks who is just going out, because he knows the best places to get scoff. I tried to, but you walked bloody fast.'

We went back towards the middle of town. I was unable to show instant comradeship for someone who had caused me to panic so ignominiously. ‘Sorry about the thump.'