Authors: Alan Judd
The engineering officer clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Believe me, old son, if there had been you wouldn’t have had a wing and you wouldn’t be here now to argue
about it. That was a near miss.’
In the mess he found the Dodger alone at the piano, an untouched pint of beer on top of it. He was playing something classical, something soft and
melodious. Frank knew nothing of classical music but guessed that this subtle and melancholy piece was difficult
to play, unlike the Dodger’s usual raucous repertoire. The Dodger was clearly a more gifted pianist than he let on. Alone and unaware
of Frank, he played from memory, his broad features softened and abstracted as he gave himself wholly to something beyond
himself. It was a moment of stillness for Frank, which he would have prolonged but for one of the mess staff barging through the door with a crate of bottles. The Dodger broke off and
looked round, his abstraction vanished and with it his sensitive, questing intelligence. He left one hand to complete a trite jingle on the
keyboard, grinning at Frank.
‘What-ho, Moose? You back for an early bath, too? What happened?’
His own turn-back, he said, was due to a mysterious engine malfunction. It would misfire and lose power, then
pick up and run normally for a while, then cough and weaken again. ‘I suspect a fuel line problem. Seemed OK
when I landed, of course. Just didn’t fancy my chances in the flak if it went into dawdle on the
approach.’
Frank nodded. He was right to turn back. He’d have been a liability to the rest. If they hadn’t crashed into him they’d
have had to shepherd him home.
‘Have a drink,’ said the Dodger. ‘My call. Tell me about your problem.’
They drank beer and waited for the others. The Dodger downed his rapidly and got another while
Frank was still a quarter of the way through his. The Dodger’s face was flushed when he sat again, sighing. ‘Ever think about what you’ll do when the show’s over? The whole thing, I mean, the big show, the war. Go back to shooting
moose instead of Jerry?’
Frank hadn’t. It was a long while since he had thought more than a day – or the next op – ahead.
‘You could go crop-spraying,’ said the Dodger. ‘Plenty of scope in Canada. Plenty of practice, too, with all this low-level stuff we do.’
‘I guess so. Or run a flying-boat service.’ Most likely he would go back and finish his engineering
degree, and then see. ‘You?’
‘No idea. My old man’s a bank manager, wanted me to go into it. Partly why I’m here. To be honest, I can’t imagine a future.
Too knackered after this.’
‘Be a concert pianist. Sounds as if you could.’
The Dodger stared into his beer, shaking his head. ‘Could have, maybe. Not now. Don’t have the application. Lost it.’
‘Didn’t sound like that to me.’
‘That’s ’cos you know bugger all about music.’
At the sound of a plane coming in they went to the window. The runway was out of sight of the mess but they could see planes
as they taxied back. The first was Davy Jones’s, a garrulous Welshman from Cardiff.
‘Trust him to be first back,’ said the Dodger. ‘Last in, first out, that’s his game.’ He sounded uncharacteristically bitter.
‘You reckon?’
‘Always. Haven’t you noticed?’
They counted them in during the next quarter-hour or so. It was obvious even from a distance that several had been damaged, one with a fire-blackened fuselage. Patrick was last in. They were one short,
another new boy called Ian something.
‘Usually the new ones,’ said the Dodger. ‘Old ones like us know the dodges. We’re all dodgers if we last six months.’
‘He may have ditched or landed somewhere.’
‘Keep saying it.’
The mess was lively again that night. The raid was judged a success because fuel and ammunition dumps had been hit, though photo-reconnaissance had yet to
confirm how many planes had been destroyed. Everyone seemed in a mood to forget the war for an hour or two and no one mentioned Ian, who was
posted missing. His aircraft was reported during the debrief to have been hit by flak but not too badly, trailing a
thin stream of oil smoke as he pulled up and away. They all lost each other in the cloud but when they loosely
regrouped over the Channel Ian did not reappear. German fighters were by then airborne and it was thought he might have fallen prey to
them. It was still possible he might have bailed out and been captured.
‘Better than bailing out over Germany,’ someone said. There were tales of bomber crews being beaten or murdered by angry civilians.
During a shouted conversation at the bar, which both only half-heard, Frank told Patrick about the colonel and Vanessa – though not about his father – and about the invitation to bring some of the boys round. ‘I was thinking maybe if just you and I go, make sure
it’s OK. Then we can take some others another time.’ He wasn’t sure why he was doing it. Partly, he
suspected, because he wanted to show off to Patrick and partly because he thought Vanessa would be impressed. Not that
he wanted to share her in any way, even if she had been his to share. Partly also because he felt they wanted him to bring a few of the boys round, to
help them feel they were doing their bit for the war.
Patrick, who normally drank sparingly, was a few pints away that night. He listened with one hand cupped
behind his ear, nodding. ‘Good idea,’ he shouted. ‘Not tonight.’
‘No, not tonight,’ shouted Frank.
‘He was killed outside Lens in early September, 1918,’ said the colonel. ‘I was with him.’
The blackout curtains were drawn and the dining room was mostly in shadow. Feeble yellow light from the two table lamps just encompassed the four empty plates but
only Frank and the colonel remained at the table, sharing an ashtray, their glasses refilled. Vanessa and Patrick were in the drawing room across
the hall, playing jazz on the gramophone and dancing. Vanessa had suggested it when they finished dinner.
‘Shall we dance?’ she asked, smiling across the table at Patrick. ‘Now, before coffee? What passes for coffee. Leave these two to their war talk.’
The light caught her eyes, making them sparkle. Frank felt it like a knife twisted in his chest. Patrick put down his glass and
stood, smiling back at her. ‘My pleasure, madam.’
Now, the music had stopped. Perhaps they were changing records. Frank hoped so. To think
they might be doing anything else – embracing – was unbearable. The colonel was relighting his pipe with Frank’s father’s lighter, which Frank had
pushed across the table to him. He wanted to hear what the colonel had to say, although it was hard to pay attention.
‘What happened?’ he asked, belatedly. The music started again as he spoke. That was something.
‘You may think it odd he should have been with us, The Royal West Kents, not a Canadian regiment. We were a Kitchener
battalion, you see, and he’d been in the Territorial battalion with me before the war, before his father sent him to Canada. When
he came back with his Canadian lot he somehow got dispensation to be attached to us on temporary transfer. He’d been promoted by the
Canadians and was senior to me but I was jolly pleased when he took over the company to which I was sent as a platoon commander. Rather elderly platoon commander, I’m
afraid – I was older than him. He was pleased too, I hope. It was good to be together again. Good for me, anyway.’
Frank hated to picture them dancing but couldn’t stop himself. He held out his hand for the lighter. ‘So how was he
killed?’
‘Well, that’s rather a long story, I’m afraid. Not what happened on the day, of course – it was quick enough,
mercifully – but how it came about.’
The music was faster now. He imagined them jitterbugging or something. He was still staring at the cigarette between his fingers, ignored
after the first drag, when he realised that the colonel was waiting for him to say something. He met his rheumy
eyes. ‘Sure, I’d like to hear it, the whole thing, if you’ve time. How it came about. What happened.’
‘She happened. Maud. It began with her.’ The colonel nodded at the portrait over the fireplace of the woman in the garden. Her face was in shadow but her white dress
was visible. ‘She was a village girl, here, from the cottages up the track by the pub, just off the green.
Her parents were not local. They were both in service and they wanted to carry on and so her mother gave
her as a baby to her two sisters who had married two brothers, woodmen. They all lived in those cottages and
one of the sisters brought her up with her own daughter. She went to school here and then into service with the Dudley Gordons over at
Penshurst, the other side of Tonbridge. They’re part of the De L’Isle family at Penshurst Place and lived
nearby at Swaylands. She did very well, worked for both families, got on. She was beautiful, as you can see, but clever, too. People liked her. Despite her rebellious
streak.’ He smiled. ‘Got up the nose of Hilary Wooding, Johnny Wooding’s snob of a wife, for
refusing to curtsey to her. Hilary fancied herself the squire’s wife, you see, though Johnny had no real claim to be squire, and, to be fair, didn’t make one. If any family here did, it would be mine, I suppose. Me, now.’ He shook his head, still
smiling. ‘Anyway, Maud did well in service, got promoted to the nursery and went with the Dudley Gordons to Phoenix Park in Dublin when the Earl was viceroy. Before the war,
of course.’
The music stopped again. Frank waited. Again, he realised the colonel was waiting for him. ‘What happened?’
‘In Dublin she lived in the vice-regal lodge, of course. Had charge of the offspring, including
the heir whom I believe is a guardsman now, doing very well apparently. Used to take him in his pram in Phoenix Park, always
in a hat and long gloves and with a policeman escorting her. Got a photo somewhere. Different world
now.’ He sipped his wine. ‘After that, back here, what happened was that she met your father. He began courting her, as we used to say then.
That’s what caused all the trouble. You see, his people – your people, your ancestors – were yeomen stock, not a county family but
prosperous independent farmers, as I was saying before. Well-respected, known in hunting and shooting circles. In other words, a
few rungs up the ladder from a penniless village girl.’
Frank nodded. The music had resumed. He was distracted, wanting to know about his father but not this rigmarole about his dead father’s dead girlfriend from pre-history. He tried to look attentive.
It seemed to work. The colonel nodded as if Frank had spoken. ‘Well, once it got out that they were seeing each other, both families
were unhappy, his because she was not at all the match his people wanted for him, hers because she was getting above
herself, as they saw it. So they began to meet in secret, by the Medway, sometimes in a hired boat. Whenever she had time off she’d walk the
seven or so miles into Tonbridge, which they did for shopping anyway, and he’d take a pony and trap from here. With me
as cover. We were friends, you see.
‘That was a bit awkward, too, as far as my people were concerned. We lived here in the manor, I’d been sent away to school and so on, whereas
they were just local farmers and Frank spoke with a Kentish accent. But we were more or less of
an age; we’d grown up together, shot, fished and hunted together, even the odd spot of poaching for the fun of it. Only from unpopular
landowners – well, one actually, Johnny Wooding. We liked each other, respected each other – at least, I respected him. He was
better at everything than me – better shot, better rider, better poacher even. But that didn’t matter. We were friends.
‘So he and I would take old Bluebell in the trap to the Medway, ostensibly to go fishing. I actually did fish,
while he went off in the boat for his trysts with Maud Ovenden.’ The colonel again held out his hand for the lighter and relit his pipe. ‘I think I can honestly say I wasn’t jealous. Envious,
yes, enormously, but not jealous. It seemed appropriate that he should have her and not me. He was the better man. I didn’t begrudge him; I admired
him. Anyway, with war coming – we all felt it was, you see, felt it in our bones – we
joined the Territorials, me with a commission because I’d been in the cadets at school, Frank as an Other Rank.
Again, it didn’t make any difference to us.
‘What did, though, was his father finding out he was still seeing Maud. We never knew how – presumably someone saw them – but the result was that Frank was sent to Canada to help his brother, who was there already, farm some land
the old man had bought. I think I told you. Land in Canada was cheap then and old George Foucham had amassed a pretty penny through his farming and butchery
business. So they were broken up, Frank and Maud. Before he left he gave her a ring as a keepsake, a plain
silver band he made from a teaspoon – he was pretty handy like that, another difference between us – and promised he’d be in touch. It was
probably all he could manage without his parents knowing.
‘Anyway, he went and she waited and waited and didn’t hear. War came and I was mobilised with the
Territorials and after a while posted to the Eighth Battalion, one of many new Kitchener battalions, to help train them. Not that I had any idea what we were in for, no more than anyone else.
Meanwhile, I had started seeing Maud myself. Not courting at that stage, but seeing her. It came about when I ran into her by chance one day in Tonbridge, near
the station, and she asked if I’d heard from Frank. I hadn’t but hoped to sometime and said I’d let her know if I did. She usually
had to go shopping on Saturdays and we arranged to meet in the station buffet at 1130 whenever I could get in. I could often get
away at weekends, you see. We were pretty sure we wouldn’t meet anyone either of us knew there on a Saturday.
‘Of course, I was in love with her. Had been since the day I met her. But I don’t think I acknowledged it then, even to myself, let alone her. She was
Frank’s girl and he would come back for her, I was sure of that. But I loved seeing her, talking to her, being with her. Our teas
became walks by the river and in the intervals I would think of things to tell her, questions to ask about her own
life. I knew the family she worked for, you see, and although she was loyal, fiercely loyal, it
was interesting to hear about life below stairs. But we also talked about books. She had only
a village education but she was a keen reader. I’d talk about a book – Dickens or whatever, she venerated
Dickens – and by next time she’d have read it if she could find it, borrowing from her employers or the library. I started giving her books and she built up her own library. Our talks were the beginnings of her education, she
told me later. That wasn’t how I saw them. I think I assumed they were a distraction from her unhappiness about not hearing from Frank and she, I thought, saw
contact with me as a remote way of keeping in touch with him. It suited both of us. It never occurred to me then
that she and I could have any sort of future. At least, I didn’t dare think of it.