Section I, Next Section
Part 1
August 1st 1939 - Lord's Cricket Ground, England
Why spoil the game with rules? I swear I haven't seen one yet.
~ Jack Ryan 'Patriot Games'
The ground was enveloped in an almost deathly silence and there wasn't an eye that wasn't fastened on that red sphere as it soared heavenwards. The silence continued as the ball paused briefly in its flight, before descending once more towards terra firma. There was the crisp smack of leather meeting leather at high velocity as the ball was captured by the Wicketkeeper. A gentle round of applause sounded as the Umpire's finger moved and pointed skywards giving that irreversible message to the batsman. Harrison, Oxford's number 1, trudged off the field accompanied by applause and the murmurs of 'Good Catch!' and 'Shocking luck Old Boy!'. Harrison crossed with the new batsman coming out and there was a brief pause while the two men conferred briefly. There was another gentle round of applause as Oxford's number 3 emerged from the gate and proceeded to cross to the crease.
Harrison had been fortunate that morning. Almost runout for a duck, Harrison had then been put down in the slips for 2. 10 had seen Harrison dropped on the boundary by Fine Leg in a display of some of the most shocking fielding ever seen. It had been a sitter of a catch, straight down the throat of Fine Leg, the man hadn't even had to move to field the ball, yet he had put it to grass.
Harrison's fortune had failed at 47 when he'd caught a thick upper-edge off a leg-break and sent the ball dollying up. Unlike the Fine Leg the Cambridge Wicketkeeper had not made a single false step and the result had Harrison back in the Pavilion. The reception was mixed, many were sorry to see a wicket lost so early on, but the fact remained that Oxford's number 3 invariably played much better cricket, Harrison was an almost incurable stonewaller.
Oxford's number 3 was a familiar sight to any spectator worth his salt. In perfect flannels the tall, yet graceful figure nimbly crossed the outfield and idled across the infield talking to Weston, Oxford's number 2, before taking a decided stance at the crease. With an average in the seventies James Darcy was a batsman any bowler was wary of, the man had a talent for ruining bowling averages.
A quick single off the first ball he faced ensured that no duck would mar Darcy's summer. A badly timed square cut from Weston three balls later put Darcy back on strike for the first ball of the next over. Darcy was clearly unimpressed at returning to strike so soon, and he demonstrated his disgust in the usual manner. When Darcy demonstrated his disgust the bowlers invariably felt pained. Darcy this time showed his disgust by advancing down the pitch and smashing the ball over the Square-Leg Boundary for six. Not even troubling either to watch that it arrived safely in the stands or in running, Darcy ambled down the pitch to hold a brief conference with Weston. With the conference concluded and ball retrieved from the stands, Darcy dabbed the next ball to off for a single. Three balls later Darcy was back on strike for the last ball of the over. Four overs, 2 boundaries and 20 runs later Darcy was clearly settled and appeared to have no intention of departing soon.
"I think I would be in heaven if I could bat like that." Jeroen Fouchiard lowered his binoculars, having watched a particularly elegant late cut deliver the ball over the boundary backward of square for yet another six runs. Oxford was fast catching Cambridge and unless the partnership was broken soon there was little doubt but that Oxford would have the advantage going into the second innings. Weston and Darcy were notoriously difficult to break, most often broken by a run out since neither batsman believed in dawdling between the wickets.
"Possibly you could bat like that if you spent a bit more time practicing." Annette deprived Jeroen of his binoculars and watched as the ball was returned to the infield. They had both discovered the automatic ease of falling into old habits, even though Jeroen hadn't dragged Annette to a Cricket game in approximately five years. "The thought of spending up to three hours in the nets every day seems almost scandalous."
"Clearly he enjoys it." Jeroen retrieved his binoculars from his sister as Barlow, the Cambridge Spinner, retreated back to his mark.
"More likely has no choice." Annette handed her brother the water bottle before readjusting her hat. "Wouldn't do if he didn't have the Oxford Captaincy before he left. That would be admitting to failure."
"You are feeling sarcastic today Annette. Is Rory coming soon?" Jeroen lowered his binoculars and cast a brief glance at Annette.
"He's late." Annette gave a sigh.
"Now that's what I call a drive." Jeroen gave a grin as Weston powered the ball back past the bowler and his fellow batsman. A neat move which resulted in two runs.
"He needs to be careful, I think Darcy will frown if Weston runs him out again."
"Anyone has a right to irritation when run out at 99. I mean it was an incredibly fluke that it still hit the wicket. Sandling was appealing for a catch until he dropped it and then they didn't understand why Darcy was heading over to the pavilion."
"Well Barlow wasn't near that one so the point is purely academic. Why is Third Man so square? He's almost at Deep Point. Neither batsman uses that part of the field." Annette had never had any chance at developing ignorance about cricket, even though she had not been to a game in several years. Jeroen had written with great regularity and detail covering everything attached to cricket since he had moved to London. The letters had covered everything from school results, and his horror that James Darcy was going to Greenland and not continuing on to play either for University or County through to the last series against Australia.
"Watson's bringing out the Googly Man."
"Given up on wickets, just wants to stop the runs." Annette sighed. "Most thoughtless of them, they've now got a century partnership....Oh nice throw. Was he in?"
"Miles short. Au revoir Weston." Jeroen glanced abruptly over his shoulder. "Hullo Rory, please play Gallant Chevalier, I need to speak to a friend of mine down near the fence." Jeroen pushed to his feet and moved off. Small, neat, compact and known for lightening reactions and explosive speed. No one would ever have questioned that Jeroen had the perfect physique for the fighter pilot he had once dreamed of being. Annette watched her brother's departure before turning to greet Rory. To say the least Jeroen had worried Annette, he'd done everything since he was twelve which was either cricket or flying. Jeroen had even managed to capture one of the coveted Cranwell Scholarships. Two years of Cranwell and a year in the Royal Air Force and then Jeroen had thrown the whole lot over and started studying Accountancy. What had caused the immense refocus Annette had no idea, he'd left the RAF the summer he moved and never explained. Now, four years after he had left the Air Force, Jeroen was distinctly incommunicative ... in fact Jeroen would not speak about anything personal at all.
"How is it going?" Rory Halifax settled comfortably on the blankets.
"1 wicket for 165 ... sorry, 2 for 166, Weston just got run out." Annette moved over slightly.
"I was actually asking about you."
"Oh, I'm fine. But we were sorry to see Weston go, Jeroen will now lose the bob he had laid down that Oxford would catch Cambridge within the first three batsmen."
"It's good weather today isn't it?"
"A bit too bright, the outfielders seem to be having problems losing the high balls in the sun."
"What were they chasing?" Rory gave a sigh, acknowledging that he wasn't going to manage turning the subject. Cricket was in fact not a game which interested Rory in the slightest.
"172. Jeroen thinks they will declare when James Darcy loses his wicket, unless he loses it before they reach the target." Annette gave a decided nod and turned to Rory.
"I must admit I do not understand why Jeroen hangs so much on James Darcy, he's not the most reliable player by miles."
"James Darcy is a technically beautiful batsman and he makes the game quite interesting." Annette responded sharply and turned her attention back to the field. "Besides which James Darcy is in fact a very reliable player, it's just that he's only mentioned when he does get out cheap." Not even Rory could criticise who Jeroen liked on the Cricket Field. "One cannot help but admire a man who is willing to so dedicate himself to a sport."
"A man so rich he can afford to do nothing but fiddle around you mean." Rory hunched one shoulder as once more James Darcy sent a beautiful straight drive over the Long Boundary for six. "Jeroen himself could undoubtedly play that well if he had the time to devote to the practice of it."
"I prefer working I must admit. Though the last couple of months hardly counted as work. I don't believe my tennis has ever been so good." Annette gave a laugh and glanced back at Rory. "Why were you late? The trains again?"
"No, I drove actually and there wasn't a parking spot within a mile of this place." Rory sounded, and was, disgruntled.
"Jeroen did advise you to take the train. We came by train...though it was a bit crowded."
"I wanted to take you to dinner tonight, and I cannot take you out to dinner travelling by train."
"Oh Rory! I've already promised Jeroen I'd go with him to a party." Annette was dismayed.
"I'll ask him if he'll let you out then." Rory stretched out in the sun.
"But Rory, I promised to go to this weeks ago."
"Then forget what I said." Rory shielded his eyes against the sun. "We'll just enjoy today and you can do the bash tonight."
"Rory, it's your day off." Annette was almost ready to cry. "How could I have forgotten!"
"It doesn't matter." Rory squinted down at the field.
"It does matter ... but Jeroen..." Annette shook her head irritably.
"It's alright Annie." Rory sat up and gave Annette a hug. "Though you should ask yourself, you cannot rely on someone always doing the asking for you."
"I'm not afraid to ask." Annette's mouth tightened defensively, their last two fights had been on the subject of her disinclination to ask questions. "I just don't like upsetting people, and Jeroen will be upset at my pulling out because I did promise I'd go with him. Promised before I even came to London."
"Then I won't ask him to let you go and we'll just reset and do it another day." Rory rolled over.
"Don't be silly Rory, you don't have any free evenings until next month. I should have thought of it." Annette pushed to her feet. "I'll go speak to Jeroen now, I'll be back in a minute."
"Don't do it if you'd prefer to spend the evening at the party Annette." Rory looked concerned.
"Dear Rory, now you are being silly. We are talking about my brother and a party made up of him and a bunch of his friends. I'll be back in a minute." Annette descended to the fence where her brother was occupied with a quiet conversation with some friends.
"Lost Rory already? That was quick." Jeroen quickly excused himself from the conversation and moved to a private bit of the fence. "What's up?"
"Rory wanted to take me to dinner tonight."
"Ah." Jeroen shook his head. "Dear Annette, just forget I asked you, I'll take Charlie instead. Enjoy yourself."
"You're not unhappy are you?" Annette scanned Jeroen's passive face worriedly, Jeroen tended not to display emotion.
"Not at all Little Sister, I'll drag you to some torture later this week." Jeroen gave a grin. "You can then reassure Mama that do indeed have an active social life and am not forgetting my duty to find a wife."
"Jeroen!" Annette almost shrieked.
"You look lovely when you're outraged." Jeroen gave a grin. "Don't worry Button, I'll survive by myself tonight and I'll take you to Teddie's next week."
"Thank you Jeroen, Rory would have been positively grumpy for the rest of today if I'd had to tell him I couldn't make it." Annette thankfully hugged Jeroen.
"Well steady on." Jeroen fended Annette off before grinning again. "Well go back and make him smile and I'll rejoin you when the innings ends." Jeroen moved back to the group, leaving Annette to return to Rory.
August 8th 1939 - London, England
I thought I was insane ... but then I met an Englishman. - Anonymous
"Gerkin!" The door was flung open as Jeroen was about to knock and Teddie came out with a newspaper in one hand and a devastated expression. "He's quit! We'll be minced!"
"Said we'd need the beer Button." Jeroen pushed Teddie back into his apartment. "Take a breath and have a beer, Dolly." Jeroen handed over a bottle as he spoke. "Button, meet Dolly who is actually Theodore Allans. Dolly, my sister Annette ... call her Button."
"It's a good name." Teddie was halfway through his beer. "Call me Teddie or I'll call you Button. Only Gerkin can call me Dolly and survive."
"Annie." Annette had brought her own supply of lemonade and had no intention at all of touching the beer.
"Good-oh. Come in and I'll go tidy up." Teddie turned. "I can't believe it Gerkins, he's quit! Didn't even tell them himself. Apparently it was a telephone call by the HOUSEKEEPER ... and Derbyshire copped no better. He won't get on another team at this rate. He's done a bunk with his father I lay you anything, for there's no trace of them in Derbyshire."
"So certain?" Jeroen had settled in a large armchair.
"Weston apparently called Pemberley and received the cold comfort that James left several days ago and hasn't been seen since...he failed on two appointments in London before cancellation letters began to fly yesterday."
"Well we got half a season out of him." Jeroen offered the palliative in a rather sick voice.
"Next you'll probably say we'll see him on the Army team ... that'll kill me Gerkin! He can't possibly join the army."
"Is Teddie RAF?" Annette hissed the quick enquiry at Jeroen.
"My old Gunner." Jeroen responded calmly. "He's now a mechanic who's hoping to get pilot status...he hasn't a hope though for he's a brilliant mechanic."
"I'm surprised the Navy wouldn't make him sick too."
"The Navy would equally kill him, but Darcys have never served in the Navy. It's the Fitzwilliams who are the Naval Types, then there were the Darcys who were Army. Frankly I think that Dolly's out of luck, for there's no way James will dump the Army for the RAF ... though I think he's an idiot not to. However tradition counts with the old families and I've no doubt that we'll shortly hear of him with some rank in the Army ... all things considered that's probably why he dumped the Cricket teams so abruptly."
"War's guaranteed?"
"Everyone knows that except for the Bloody Cabinet!" Teddie was clearly already halfway to drunk and Annette couldn't stop the grimace.
"Oh, that's a bit rough." Jeroen laid his bottle aside. "Dolly, I refuse to accept your implication that my sister is a Cabinet Member!"
"Point." Teddie yawned widely. "Still the cricket is a wreck. Blake is replacing Darcy! We'll be KILLED!"
"Oh, surely not that bad." The new arrival would have looked quite at home on a cinema screen, though Annette guessed at him being another RAF-type. "Hullo, this your sister Gerkin? Squadron-Leader Able South." The man extended a hand.
"Annette." Annette shook the hand.
"Annie ... no pompous Annette here. You on leave or preparing for the lack of work once the war ends?"
"Leave."
"Good. We see any more of you than five seconds at the fence and this?"
"Ask Jeroen."
"I will. There's a crowd of us coming who weren't coming before because Gerkin Maydayed and swore he'd never forgive us if we left him with a drunk Dolly to entertain his sister."
"When did he...mayday?"
"This morning when he got the newspaper. Called me all sorts of horrible names when I said I wasn't certain I could make it."
"Amazing what a couple of names can do to get the RAF moving." Jeroen chucked a bottle at South and stretched. "Is Edwin coming?"
"A bit later and then we're to dump Dolly if he's too drunk and go to Meurice's."
"Balcony seats please, I refuse to be petitioned again." Jeroen was shuffling a pack of cards. "What thinks of that six last week?"
"Definitely his trademark that late cut. Wally reckons we'd cane at cricket it we learnt that cut."
"Aye ... but just imagine the mess learning!" Another had come into the room. "So this is the great Annie. Hullo Annie, George Sykes ... I'm Gerkin's old Navigator and co-pilot ... and was he bloody awful or what. Never so thankful as when he got posted to single-seaters."
"Oicks! No bad propaganda or I'll keep you from the beer!"
"Gerkin! You break my heart. He was a fabulous pilot when we wasn't getting lost in Derbyshire...though I must admit that I'd do it again if that girl always turned up and gave us a helping hand straightening the wreck out."
"Girl?"
"Queer name ... Oicks! Gerkin! Who was the girl who fished us out of that bog in Derbyshire?"
"Anne ... Annie ... something starting with A." Jeroen waved a distracted hand, clearly too preoccupied in his conversation.
"Well we'll call her Anne. That girl was incredible...old blood and definitely above RAF touch, but help, she'd make anyone believe in Angels."
"She had a demon for a Guardian though." Yet another person approached. "Charlie's coming up with Mel and Sue so you won't be the only girl for long. Anneliese was most certainly an Angel, but her Guardian, who was not her father, was a rare demon!"
"I reckon he was the devil himself." The girl who entered had a rather horselike face. "Charlie...you must be Annie. Rotten luck that you were set to come here the same day as Darcy left Cricket. Anyone yet heard why?"
"Not a peep. Pemberley merely says that he will not be making any games for the rest of the season." The next girl was tiny. "I'm Mel. Teddie really is taking it badly...we might have to skip Meurice's tonight."
"Edwin will be devastated ... but that'll be good for him. Beer?"
"No thanks." The response came as one.
"Good. Dolly will be out within an hour ... but currently he's like a stuck key. I asked him if his hair was burning and he moaned that Darcy had quit."
"Ah, throw a bucket of water at him." The third girl was totally average and very unremarkable. "Lemonade?"
"Oh, you saint." Charlie pounced. "Sue, you're an utter angel to bring this stuff."
"Figured it would be wanted. Leslie will not be coming."
"Oh no! He didn't!"
"He did. This morning. Called up and said that he was seeing someone else and as that made him feel a bit of a cad he was calling the engagement off."
"Only made him feel like a cad?" Charlie looked disgusted. "JEROEN!"
"Yep?"
"Make sure you tell any girl the minute you start seeing another or I'll ring your neck."
"Right! I'll make a note of that in my diary." Jeroen turned back to the other conversation.
"Oy! No fair, what about if you start seeing another chap? Does that mean you have to tell us?"
"Only if we're engaged to you are the time darling."
"Good!"
"And Dolly has passed out! Let's prepare him properly and get moving to Meurice's, knowing Edwin he'll be saving a table for us on the assumption that Dolly won't last long."
"Three cheers." Mel gave a little cheer. "I lay a fiver that Annie is the first to be dragged off from our rowdy party for a dance."
"But..." Annette's protestation was lost in the cheerful wrangling as the various bets were laid and noted.
"Let it go Button, it's harmless and no one pays up anyway." Jeroen was next to her in a flash. "It actually means that they like you...and since I just dumped three pound on my being the first to dance with you do oblige by not refusing me."
"Alright." Annette gave a chuckle which rapidly descended to near hysteria.
"That's it! NOW MOVE IT! or he'll wake!" They crowded quickly out of the apartment, having first folded Teddie neatly on his sofa, composed his arms, and placed celery sticks in his hands. A brief argument arose over the candles, but in the end they were left unlit and standing guard over the coffee pot which was steaming with a truly potent brew which would undoubtedly be needed the next morning.
Part 2
August 15th 1939 - London, England
For me the future began in a Blizzard. - MAX
Annette spun quickly through the newspapers and rags and groaned at the singular lack of originality of material. Major-General Sir David Fitzwilliam Darcy had gone into complete retirement, and in fact vanished completely off the face of the earth, nearly a fortnight ago. James Darcy had similarly vanished at the same time. Since then the press seemed to have caught Darcy-itis and the movements of a person with even the faintest Darcy Blood-ties were of interest.
In fact the only thing of any real interest to note was that not only had the two Darcys vanished, but Lord James Ashington-Frankston, Lord James Forsythe, Miss Caroline Bingley, Miss Katherine Bennet, Wing-Commander Ellis McKenna and Mrs. Hope McKenna had also vanished, and all had last been heard of in the vicinity of Pemberley. A newspaper stakeout had produced nothing except for the news that Pemberley's boundaries were once more closed and the groundsmen and foresters travelled with both dogs and arms. Whether the orders were also shoot first and then question, no one had yet dared to risk.
All other relatives, some with exceedingly remote connections, seemed totally preoccupied with travelling all over the country in a minimum space of time. Alastair Bennet, a well-known friend of James Darcy, had been in Dover for breakfast and Aberdeen for dinner.
"Ah, I see you are industriously expanding your knowledge of advanced ... something or other." Jeroen peered over Annette's shoulder. "They're still trying to find the absentees?"
"Yes."
"You'd think they'd give up. The Darcys are past masters at the noble art of avoiding the press and they're exercising that art again."
"So certain?"
"James Darcy is somewhere in Derbyshire ... but no one knows where. Teddie got that information out of Weston, the Oxford number 2. I'm filled and ready to buzz the parental metrop. if you are."
"Very ready." Annette nearly dragged Jeroen from the small news agency.
"Well, someone is eager to get home." Jeroen checked the boot before coming forward to put his car into gear. Jeroen fondly called the vehicle 'The Antique', but it was in fact only a couple of years old for all its much abused paintwork and temperamental engine. "You can drive once we're out of London ... 'bout time you learned, Button."
"Trusting me with your precious Antique?"
"Aye." The engine backfired explosively and released a cloud of evil smoke. "Or at least I will if we successfully start."
"You mean this isn't normal?" Annette fanned the smoke away from her face as the engine backfired a second time, but remained running this time.
"No." Jeroen quickly got the car moving. "That was perfectly normal for this car ... but most cars are not this car." The engine backfired only two more times before it settled down for a smooth run.
"Do we arrive before lunch?" Annette settled herself more comfortably and tucked the blanket over her knees.
"Highly unlikely." Jeroen frowned at the dash. "You must be a good omen or something, she hasn't behaved this well in years."
"Me and the prospect of a nice long run." Annette tied her hat more firmly onto her head, before abruptly taking it off and pushing it under her feet.
"Nice." Jeroen nodded approvingly. "Makes you much more like the little sister I dragged to cricket games and pushed into the river."
"Well I'm in that mood for some reason ... I think it's because you're going to teach me to drive."
"Well, don't ditch me like when you learnt to row!" Jeroen indicated and starting working his way out of the smaller streets and across to the main roads and the highway. "Dolly was actually sober yesterday ... think his CO might have raised a not so minor dust about him turning up rather well to do."
"I thought that would get you given the boot."
"It does ... indeed it does, but Dolly knows his CO really well and the circumstances are very special."
"I liked them."
"Glad you like them. They like you and Charlie asked me to ask you whether you would write to her. Charlie also instructs me that you are to inform her the second you set foot in London on any occasion. Mel asks whether she can visit during her leave and Sue joins Charlie in instructing you to let her know if you ever come within range."
"Got an address for Charlie?"
"In the bag in the back." Jeroen waved at a small canvas bag tucked behind Annette's seat.
"Ah-hah!" Annette had acquired a fist-full of letters and a small address book in a very sad condition.
"Check my mail, will you. I keep getting other people's mail."
"Jeroen ... Mr. J. Fouchiard ... Jeroen ... Gerkin ... J... " Annette stopped and frowned. "Who is Jermyn Fitzwilliam? Previous resident?"
"Guess so. Better send it back to the sender and make a note of the wrong address."
"Alright." Annette started to tuck away the letter than frowned. "Who on earth would give their return address as Annie-Bug?"
"Annie-Bug?" Jeroen made a choking noise.
"Yes."
"I'm guessing that the letter was to a family member then."
"True, I do sometimes use Button as a sender for you." Annette tucked the incorrectly addressed envelope into a pocket and opened the address book. "Charlie, 13B Cherningham Place, Paddington sound about right?"
"Sounds dandy. Check the map, will you."
"Hertford turn." Annette returned Jeroen's mail and address book to the bag and resettled on her seat. "Will it be war?"
"If it isn't ... well I'll be very glad to have left the RAF for I have no wish to serve under Hitler."
"What will you do if it is War?"
"Return if they need me. Won't jump immediately, but if things start looking bad ... well my old CO has already said he'll sponsor me straight through into a squadron without any further training. I also have a few other contacts ... we'll see what happens and how quickly things happen. You?"
"I'll never be a nurse and I'll never be a good secretary ... I can't cook for nuts ... doesn't leave much for mother will not see me work at munitions or anything like that."
"That does not leave much, does it." Jeroen had been silent for an extended period. "In fact since you also refuse to remain much longer at home it leaves you like ... nothing, unless someone wants an ... an unorthodox secretary."
"Who wants and unorthodox secretary?"
"Well an unortho ... " Jeroen frowned at some thought before firmly discarding it. "An unorthodox employer of course."
"And there are how many employers who are that unorthodox?"
"Well ... not many I will admit ... you could marry Rory you know."
"Mother has also mentioned that ... do not encourage her."
"What's happening Button? He was practically panting a month ago."
"You can be almost as vulgar as Lucille." Annette wrinkled her nose. "Nothing happened, I just asked if things could perhaps be taken a bit more slowly."
"And he accepted?" Jeroen's brows were wrinkled.
"He said he was thinking in my best interests and that is where the matter rests."
"Ah." Jeroen muttered something under his breath and after a moment of thought Annette decided she did not wish to know what it was. "I wonder what has happened... "
"James Darcy retiring?"
"That and the fact that except for a very small core nucleus the entire family are scattering in every direction like startled rabbits." Jeroen shook his head. "I'd say that Alastair is the only one of the group who is not ... what the devil does James Darcy mean by vanishing into Derbyshire with every god-parent he has who is still alive? Equally why is everyone else scattering and dragging attention with them? Something as happened and I'll swear it is serious. But ... " Jeroen fell silent and frowned "Button, be a saint will you. When you return that letter to Annie-Bug, ask her if she can spill the beans about what has happened."
"So this Annie-Bug is in fact a known person?" Annette eyed Jeroen closely but discovered nothing from his expression.
"Yeah, old friend from RAF days. She ... she's got an Uncle who was in Intelligence and she tends to know everything. I'm guessing she might know something."
"I assume she addressed the letter wrong by accident." Annette pulled the letter back out. "In fact she didn't address it at all, Jermyn Fitzwilliam was written by a girl, but if the address isn't written like you write an address I know nothing about handwriting."
"Here, take the wheel." Jeroen slowed the car considerably and took the envelope. "Looks like ... Why is Conrad addressing her mail?"
"Conrad?"
"Her father, drunken old sod and selfish." Jeroen took over the wheel again. "Address the response to May Cottage, Derbyshire will you? Don't trust that old devil an inch."
"May Cottage is safe?"
"Yes, a former housekeeper lives there and the mail will go through the main house anyway so it will be safely redirected or delivered."
"Why haven't you mentioned Annie-Bug before?"
"She ... she had a ... she was engaged to one of the boys and it ended rather messily. Communication has rather lapsed over the years ... she wanted to remain friends but ... we took it rather personally and tried to forget her. Think you could find a nice way to renew communications with that?"
"Was I ever mentioned to her?"
"Button, anyone who knew me knew about you. Yes, Annie-Bug does know of Button ... or at least she did."
"Annie-Bug's real name?"
"I don't know, it was foreign and no one used it but for the first time she was introduced ... and possibly not even then. She ... I'm certain you'd like her, Button. She's very friendly and charming."
"Well I'll try for a bit, but you've got to approve it and your name will be in the post script."
"Ah." Jeroen hesitated before nodding firmly. "Read it as you go."
"Dear Annie-Bug." Annette began before she'd even retrieved pencil and note-paper. "I do appologise for the informality of address, but my reprehensible brother has failed to remember..."
"Just say that I asked you to address her that way. Doesn't sound quite so rude as I disremembered her real name."
"Dear Annie-Bug." Annette finally settled her pencil on paper and actually began to write. "I address you such under the orders of Jeroen, who claims it is the most appropriate way to address you. He instructs me to recall my name to your memory by admitting that I am known to him as Button. Quite delightful this situation, two intelligent women and we know of each other as Button and Annie-Bug. I must admit I think I prefer Annie-Bug over Button, but my fate is Button. You do not mind my use of Annie-Bug? Was my brother so obnoxious when you knew him?"
"She'll undoubtedly respond yes to that ... but I'll let you get away with it. Better also mention that Jeroen has kept his word."
"Kept your word?"
"Sorry Button, but to explain it would be to break it ... express your irritation to Annie-Bug, she will very likely commiserate with you."
"That doesn't mean she'll explain."
"True, but I will speak for no other party on that subject."
"Jeroen ask me to mention the fact that he has kept his word. He does not explain that by simply saying that to explain it would be to break his word and I've never met such a stickler as my brother for such things. As for why Jeroen is not writing this, well he is driving the car and he says he cannot write and drive at the same time. He could of course write it later, but he swears he will forget. Did he ever try to fob you off with a bad memory claim?"
"Yes ... and like you she never believed me."
"We are currently headed for home from London for I had a fortnight of leave just before Jeroen had a fortnight of leave, so things worked nicely. It is a good day for driving today and not at all dusty." Annette paused. "Can I safely mention meeting Charlie and Mel and Sue and the others?"
"No problem, send their greetings as they undoubtedly would if they knew you were writing."
"Do I give your return address or mine?"
"Give yours, then she can write directly if she decides to."
"We went to Meurice's on the 8th. By we I refer to Jeroen and myself as well as Charlie, Sue, Mel, Squadron-Leader Able South (Jeroen notes that I should refer to him as Suds since he has apparently suffered a promotion since you last met) George Sykes (Jeroen once more observes that you might remember him as Bill. I detect Oliver Twist I think, apparently there is some class in the RAF) and Edwin were also part of the group. Theodore Allans, also known as Teddie, would have been with us except that he was so drunk he had fallen asleep. Jeroen advises me to observe that Teddie was in mourning for his Cricket teams. I fail to understand why that excuses drunkenness, but Jeroen merely states that it does. Jeroen also firmly informs me that Teddie has good reason to mourn for his teams since one James Darcy apparently retired by telephone which has them all puzzled. Jeroen also wants to know if you can shed any light on that matter. He seems to think that the way the blood relatives have scattered is suspicious, particularly since god-parents seem to have gone into hiding with Mr. Darcy.
This whole letter has actually been written quite simply because your letter (Jeroen says the letter was addressed by your father) came to rather the wrong address. Jeroen seemed to think that May Cottage would be an appropriate re-direction to return the letter to you and we felt it a bit rude not to write to you at the same time. Jeroen reassures me that Charlie and the rest would send their greetings if they knew we were writing, and so here are the hellos from Charlie, Sue, Mel, Suds, Teddie, Bill and Edwin.
I hope everything is well for you,
Button"
"Nice." Jeroen had been silent for quite a while before he finally spoke. "You're good at writing Button."
"Meaning you want me to start writing again?"
"Did I ask you to stop?"
"Yes, lovely brother. You sent me an utterly foul letter which basically stated that if you saw another letter from me you would tear it up."
"Umm ... what had happened?"
"You ... you claimed later to have had a bad day at work and not felt at all like reading cheery news from home."
"Ah." Jeroen bit his lip and shot Annette an apologetic look. "How do you suffer it?"
"For the most part you are entertaining ... except for when you are feeling particularly narked because you aren't married to the girl you wanted to marry four years ago."
"But..." Jeroen jerked to a halt and turned a darkish red. "I don't talk in my sleep still do I?"
"You never have as far as I know. It's just common sense Jeroen and the only logical conclusion. Why didn't you ever say anything?"
"I ... it ... I didn't want to talk about it and I still don't. She ... please Button."
"I'll keep peace." Annette responded calmly. "Just remember Jeroen that I am your sister and I can keep a secret."
"I do know that ... it's not ... I don't even really like to think of it. It was just a dream, a very sweet and precious dream, I do not wish to risk it."
"Was it Annie-Bug?"
"Button..."
"Jeroen I need to know if I'm writing to her. I don't want to make a mess of things since you've approved a letter I'd probably write to a friend."
"Yes it was Annie-Bug and yes I was the boy who had the messy break-up with her ... and yes I still don't want to talk about it."
"I won't trouble you about it then." Annette nodded decidedly before preparing the letter for posting to May Cottage. "Now, Cricket ... are you taking me to the match next week?"
"Just you try and get out of it!" Jeroen gave a chuckle and willingly seized Annette's offer of a change of topic.
September 3rd 1939 - Little Gaddesden, Hertfordshire
A good mystery can be exciting.
~ Chet 'The Hardy Boys'
"Lurking Annie?" Lucille Fouchiard was sixteen, well-developed and well aware of that fact.
"Enjoying some sunshine to benefit my freckles." Annette was thankful she had a skirt to lose her book in before Lucille saw it. It was bad enough that war had been declared, but she really was in no mood to face Lucille again yet. Lunch had been bad enough for Lucille had been attempting once more to persuade their father to send her to a school in London to learn dress-making.
"You really are no fun you know that?" Lucille pouted, then glared as Annette remained unresponsive. "You've got mail. Lots of mail."
"Thank you." Annette gathered the four letters Lucille had flung on the grass before she had waltzed off. "Charlie! Oh nice girl, you wrote again." Annette hesitated briefly before opening Charlie's brief letter about some disaster which occurred in her office that day. Jeroen's letter, the second, was typical and less than a page in length. The third letter was simply another letter telling her that her services as a secretary were unnecessary. The fourth letter caused Annette to frown and double check the address, for the hand was unknown and the sender illegible.
Greetings Button,As you wrote to Annie-Bug on behalf of your brother, I am writing to you on Annie-Bug's behalf. Confusing? I will confess however that Annie-Bug received your letter and was delighted. In fact Annie-Bug fully intended to write back to you, but such is our life that everything is head over tail currently and good intentions often fail. It is also a fact that I complained once to often about boredom so she flung your letter at me (which I think she had been reading again) and told me to answer it and stop annoying her. The result as you see.
Annie-Bug orders me to notify you that the primary reason for my boredom is the fact that I am a bedfast cripple and have run out of books. Annie-Bug can be odd at times and to put it bluntly she refuses to have anyone think I am a bad-tempered idiot too lazy to supply my own entertainment. Truth is that I am actually all those things, though I fairly successfully hide it most of the time. However it can be tiresome stuck in a bed for more than about five minutes if you are awake and not running some horribly high fever.
Without insult to you I must have been more bored than I realised for I have never written this long a letter in my life. To clarify that, outside of business letters to dense managers I have never written so long a letter in my life. Annie-Bug states that for anyone else to write a long letter, they should just write as if they are talking to the person, but she reassures me that I should write as if I have been injected with one of those nice poisons a good thriller employs which makes a person never stop speaking. However it must be a curious poison indeed if it makes one write without pause. I think I will call this poison boredom. Would you mind if I wrote to you whenever I suffered from this unique poison? Though admittedly it is none too unique at the present moment in time.
I am informed that the weather is fine today, and after an intense interrogation I have discovered that a fine day merely means that it is not raining and there is at least a small chance that the sun might actually get through the cloud cover at least once today. Not so good weather means that it is actually raining. Bad weather means that visibility is down to about a yard and it is pouring down by the bucket load. Horrible weather I assume means that only the totally insane would stir outside as it is a blizzard and utterly unpleasant.
Annie-Bug informs me that if I do intend to write to you, I must find something of interest to write every letter, regardless of whether it is something that interested me from a book, from a thought, or even from someone else's conversation. Would you be willing to make it an exchange? Then I shall have the knowledge that a letter from you would result in some interesting thought for me. Is that selfish? I should like to think that it isn't, but the fact remains that I am a stranger who has just written to you and asked if you would write to me. Not only write to me but also find something of interest whenever you write. I conclude though that it is not selfish for what is writing for but communication and surely there is no point to communicating nothing.
Annie-Bug maligns me, she accuses me of having written nothing of interest this letter. I protest and I appeal to you to protest as well. The weather is of interest and our analysis of it by word when questioned. In point of fact I currently find myself fascinated by this conglomeration of noise we call the English Language. However I will break this fascination down piece-meal and for now restrict myself to the weather.
Do you know I have never realised what a breadth of area my thoughts could cover when permitted to roam freely? I am almost writing like Annie-Bug does (she doesn't even manage a single sentence without changing the subject).
I was reading some letters written by my uncle to my mother the other day. My Uncle was killed at Loos in the Great War (I greatly fear that that war will soon sink to being referred to as 'the other war' or 'the last war' or something similarly dull). I realise that I might actually have more in common with my Uncle than I have with my father (a very depressing realisation actually and rather thought provoking since I've spent my life to date being told I'm exactly like my father (not that I do not think him a good man, but I would rather be myself than him.)) I realise that my mother would be proud of me, for she named me different from my father in a hope to save me from being forced to become like him. However I do not intend to become my Uncle, though one of my aunts reassures me that everyone shares some trait or other with any relative. Inheritance or curious paradox? I'll leave that question up to the people who are attempting to determine why we exist and how it occurred (I suspect that it will no more match up with the Bible than Darwin did.)
Annie-Bug informs me that my hour is up, I am now required to lie flat on my back and either dictate to continue this, or fall asleep. I must admit that I think I will fall asleep. So Cheerio for now.
Mackle
P.s. That name, like Button, was only ever used by one person. I do not think he would mind if you borrowed it.
"So Button is corresponding with Mackle." Annette looked out at the hills for a moment before returning her gaze to the pages of closely written script. "I will write to him ... and purely and simply because he sounds interesting and he has not troubled to patronise me like so many people do." Annette folded the pages away with the rest of her mail and picked up her book, she was carefully ignoring the little voice which whispered Rory's name.
Part 3
October 7th 1939 - London, England
Alas poor Yorick, I knew him well.
~ Shakespeare 'Hamlet'
Jeroen Fouchaird was not in a good mood and the large black Bentley parked in front of his apartment block did not improve it a swot. It was a car which had once been very familiar, though it surprised him somewhat to realise that it was not exchanged for a newer model yet. Jeroen fished his key and mounted the stairs after first having inspected the car. It was unquestionably the same car, there was even the dent he had made in it the day Annie-Bug had told him she wouldn't marry him.
"I presume the car is familiar." The man who lounged next to Jeroen's front door had the broad-shoulders and controlled movements of a born athlete. The man was also wearing an RAF uniform with the braid of a Flight-Lieutenant.
"Presume what you choose, I like cars." Jeroen pushed his key into the lock and kicked his door open. "Do you introduce yourself or do I let you in while still ignorant?"
"That depends on whether you're willing to talk or are determined to hate everyone with even the remotest connection to those people."
"Come in, stop being an idiot and have a seat." Jeroen shook his head and stalked into the kitchen. "I don't hate anybody, but I have had a distinctly bad day and really am in no mood for polite fal-lals."
"Fair enough." The Flight-Lieutenant had followed Jeroen into the kitchen. "I'm Brian O'Niell and I'm coming to act as an intermediary for a couple of others."
"Am I meant to be excited at this point or politely bored?"
"Be politely bored." Brian settled on one of the chairs in the kitchen. "Much more dignified when being met like this."
"I've got two questions."
"I can't promise I can answer."
"Why are you driving Annie-Bug's Bentley?"
"Only car which was easily accessible and not too well known. We could hire but that would include leaving an identity which might be traced later. We'd prefer to leave no trail to be traced."
"Who is engineering this cover?"
"Don't ask." Brian gave a wry grin. "I don't know who is pulling my puppet strings and as a result I couldn't tell even if I was allowed to."
"I think that covers everything then." Jeroen frowned. "So, why are you here?"
"I got sent to ask if you felt like learning to fly."
"Why are you wearing an RAF uniform?"
"Because I'm an officer."
"You are not asking that question as a regular RAF Officer."
"So confident?"
"No one asks me whether I want to learn how to fly ... with the exception of Mac."
"What if I said another man was asking you that?"
"I would expect to be worked into the ground. If I'm not worked I'll walk, I've got no interest in not being worked."
"Why?"
"If I want to be bored I'll continue doing my current job. I don't want someone seeing whether I can be bored in an aeroplane."
"This went into the works before James retired and he put your name at the top of the list. You'll be working with Mac and you'll also be working with the two men Mac says he'd take as wingmen into Hell. You'll learn how to fly. Really fly. When Mac's finished with you low flying will have a whole new meaning. Formation flying will have a whole new meaning. Instruments will be a an unnecessary indulgence. It'll be the middle of 1940 before we even think of starting you to work. It's going to be hard, it's going to be dangerous and no one, not even the government are going to know you're doing it so even after the war there will be no recognition and no rewards. You'll likely die, but if you don't there will be a hole in your life which you will not be able to give employment for."
"How long do I have to make the decision?"
"A week."
"That's all?"
"No." Brian grinned. "Tomorrow I take you flying ... or rather you go flying and I watch from a great height with a radio. Two spitfires and a game of follow the leader. I warn you in advance the leader's sole objective is to scare you."
"That will be a novel experience." Jeroen stretched his arms and then grinned. "I'm afraid all I've ever done before is scare my instructors witless."
"I'm aware of that." Brian rolled his eyes and sighed. "Just warning you as in Mac's words 'the man you'll be following scared the Devil himself.'"
"That is one being I have not scared." Jeroen rested his chin in his hand for a moment. "I assume if I accept my family, friends ... everyone, are to be as in the dark as the government?"
"Oh, they'll be more in the dark, and the primary reason will not be because letting them know would breach any secrecy act." Brian rose. "James assures us that you can contact us at any time so let us know whenever and be at Hendon by seven tomorrow ... we've already got you leave from work."
"An hour ago I left my office and the Manager fully expected my attendance on the morrow and was muttering dark and nasty sentences about what would happen to me if I was late. Just what magic was weaved on this occasion?"
"We sent in another accountant to fill your hole. Fellow called Dannings actually, charming idiot with only one arm and one ear ... he had a difference of opinion with an Arabian Scimitar."
"I almost wish I was in the office tomorrow." Jeroen nibbled a thoughtful thumb. "Do I get supplied with a flight suit and boots or do I have to find some before tomorrow?"
"It will be supplied, as will be the 'plane." Brian had crossed to the door. "James was right about you, you are a very strange bird ... however I think you'll fit in fine."
"Which is encouragement and a half." Jeroen finally spoke after he had heard the Bentley depart. "What a messy pudding this is ... I almost hope this mystery pilot can scare me." Jeroen returned to his kitchen and fixed a second cup of tea for himself. "I completely forgot to ask that charming old soul why James Darcy had retired." Jeroen sipped thoughtfully at his tea. "Then again I think he would have given nothing away if I had answered. Something is fishy ... very very fishy." Jeroen gulped the last of his tea and dumped his mug next to the sink before stalking quickly out of the kitchen. Not good, he was talking to the teapot again.
October 8th 1939 - Hendon Aerodrome, England
Flying? You call this FLYING??? ... Man, I call it a miracle.
~ Sandy
"Wonderful, you're not late." Wing-Commander Ellis McKenna was leaning against a dispersal shed when Jeroen came looking for a familiar face.
"I'm early." Jeroen gave a brief nod and pulled up a nearby chock before glancing at the large Alsatian which sat next to Mac. "I see that Octo is still a snob."
"Octo has class." The dry response caused Jeroen to choke violently. "Brian should be here shortly and hopefully Ashie won't stand us up."
"Ashie?" Jeroen's brows rose sharply, for the name was familiar, but not as a name he had heard much.
"The one pilot who has successfully scared every man who has flown with him."
"Including the Devil?"
"Especially the Devil." The new voice caused Jeroen to twist sharply and he frowned up at the newcomer. The flightsuit was old and rather filthy, and the man was carefully wiping his hands on a piece of swabbing cloth. "Greetings Mac, Brian will be late and as a result asked if you would take the bomber up."
"Are you telling me that there is MORE trouble?" Mac looked exceedingly irritated. "I thought those medics had said the worst was past."
"Well clearly pneumonia is not considered a worst then ... however I will hand them that they seem to have done a reasonable job for medics."
"How magnanimous of you. Ashie, Jeroen. Jeroen, Ashie. You're fueled to eight hours so the birds will be heavy. You'll jettison the tanks in sets of two every hour on the hour ... jettison them over an aerodrome, preferably attached to the RAF, and refrain from hitting anything. Note
where you make your jettison. Your guns are live so no cockpit shots."
"Oh goody." Ashie pocketed the cloth and leant against the shed as he pulled on an old pair of gloves. "How's Hope?"
"She's being hopeful." Mac's response was downright sour, for he clearly did not share his wife's optimistic outlook at the present moment in time.
"Wonderful to hear." Ashie's grey eyes abruptly focussed on Jeroen. "So you're the Cranwell Wonderkid. What a pity."
"What am I meant to deduce from that obscure remark?" Jeroen had been watching the two men closely for they were both from the previous war and neither had come out of that war with a small reputation. A big reputation earned in a time of war was no small or empty feat ... least of all when the reputation still survived twenty years later.
"Depends entirely on what you want to deduce from that remark. Though with a bottle of brandy I am sure I could deduce that it made you King of England."
"No thanks." Jeroen had the sudden feeling that this was all some fantastic dream and he would shortly wake up to the knowledge that he needed to get to the office before he was late.
"Wise idea, I want to take you flying."
"Brian said your sole objective was to scare me."
"Very true ... both of them tell me you're a pretty tough cookie though."
"Follow the leader?"
"Anything I can do you better be able to do because today is going to be light compared to what the future holds."
"How exciting. What does the future hold?"
"That depends entirely on your performance today and your decision within the next six days."
"Then I'll passively await instruction on what I am to do next."
"Get moving Mac, I'll get the boy kit and I'll radio in when we're ready to begin."
"You do that ... but remember to be high enough so my ears can hear."
"Yes, Mum." The response was so easy, so smooth and so similar to Mac that it wasn't until Mac had departed that Jeroen realised what had actually been said and he chocked violently. "Never fear Gerkin, he's used to that from me."
"Gerkin?" Jeroen eyed the man anew, not quite certain what to make of this rather whimsical man who smiled sleepily as he leant against a dispersal hut.
"Well you look rather like a gerkin ... slight greenish tinge ... lots of lumps ... "
"Which Ashie are you?"
"What options do I have available to hide under?"
"Hide under?"
"Well I might not feel like telling the truth so I might as well make myself something exciting."
"One is a peer with far too many names, the other is a aviator from the first war who hasn't been heard of since."
"Damn." The man yawned widely and finally pushed off the shed. "Let's get you some kit, I can't hide under either of those."
"Why not." It was a good moment later when Jeroen finally sorted the remark out.
"Because both is one and one is both and both is me and all that sort of stuff. Can't hide under a singular when that singular is you."
"I think getting kit sounded good." Jeroen reached for the flightsuit that Ashie had distractedly pulled from a cupboard.
"Flying sounds even better." Ashie abruptly became positively glavanic and in a matter of minutes Jeroen found himself up in the air weaving and looping slow and lazy loops several metres to the rear of Ashie.
"Well well, Maestro, what's the plan?" The voice snapped vaguely over the R/T, badly distorted and only sort of intelligible.
"Nothing until we've jettisoned the first four tanks ... or nothing by today's standards." Ashie's response was clearly meant for all.
"Right." Jeroen's response was almost distracted as he focussed on dusting off the rust which had built up on old skills. The aerobatics were quickly increasing in difficulty and not one had yet even been at regulation height for aerobatics ... let alone above the regulation height. Jeroen had a feeling that today was going to be very long indeed ... in fact he was beginning to wonder whether he might not just happen to feel fear in an aeroplane.
"Light entertainment I see." Mac's voice crackled forth once more over the R/T.
"Of course, must warm things up nice and slowly." Ashie had apparently forgotten to come out of a dive for his nose was practically touching the ground.
"Nice." Mac's voice crackled forth once more as the Spit pulled out of its dive and rolled along the tarmac briefly before soaring once more for the heavens.
"Damn!" Jeroen couldn't help it, one thing he had never done was diving until landing.
"Not scared are you?"
"No ... just worried I might wreck the Spit."
"We'll get another one for you then."
"That's assuming I'm not in hospital." Jeroen set his teeth and he fought his instinctive desire to pull out of the dive. The wind was screaming around the Spit as the airspeed rose to nearly 400 miles an hour.
"Not too dusty ... but land with your nose up this evening, she won't take the strain again." It was Mac who crackled forth once more. Jeroen barely noted the remark as his eyes searched the sky for the other Spit. Somewhere out there a rather wily and extremely skilled aviator was preparing to scare him silly.
"Mac, where is he?"
"30,000 feet but not in the contrail zone."
"Dandy." Jeroen put his nose up and began to climb. Attention, focus and feel, they were coming slowly but Jeroen had faint hopes that if he survived the day most of the rust would have been smashed off his technique.
"He's at about three o'clock of your current position ... range eleven miles."
"Thank you Mac, I thought the idea was for you to remain silent!" Ashie's response was passive, but Jeroen grinned at the sudden contrail which began almost exactly where Mac had reported Ashie's whereabouts. "Tanks away!" Ashie's abrupt announcement caused Jeroen to stand the spit on its wing and leap away in an unhealthily tight turn. Jeroen eased the stick only slightly to lift the heavy grey curtain which had
quickly engulfed his view. In a minute Jeroen was down at twenty and jettisoning his own tanks on the aerodrome's tarmac.
"Just one more hour and then which direction do you head?"
"We'll head north. Go wait near Pemberley and get a refuel ... you're going to need it."
"Lovely ... R/T's like a lily old soul so don't dent it. I'll expect your next call in an hour." And with that Mac was gone and Jeroen realised that Ashie really had been merely warming up before. Survival was now definitely not guaranteed and fear highly guaranteed ... but did he really prefer the idea of being an accountant or a regular officer?
Part 4
October 13th 1939 - London, England
You do realise that stuff is intoxicating don't you?
~ Colonel A.
The view was dreary and even cleaning the dust and smuts from the glass improved nothing. The street was grey, the sky was grey and generally the whole world seemed grey. Jeroen tried half-heartedly to improve his dusty little office for the umpteenth time, but the room remained grey and the accounts still awaited his attention. The shuffling noise of London and the office filtered vaguely into the room along with the dust. For five minutes Jeroen fought to keep his attention focussed on the reports in front of him, but as with every other time the other thoughts surfaced and took supremacy of his attention.
The scream of wind around a cockpit has a distinctive noise and in many ways it is infinitely more pleasant than the sensation of an open cockpit. Jeroen consciously straightened his fingers which had subconsciously clenched. The eighth had been a day which would remain in his memory for the rest of his life. Jeroen had never felt fear in a cockpit before, but on the eighth he had felt it...
"Not bad Gerkin, we might just manage to teach you to fly after all." The dry words had come spitting across on the R/T after some particularly tortuous aerobatics. This was the only time Ashie had spoken directly to Jeroen since they had entered the spits seven hours previously. Both spits were now half empty, all long range tanks jettisoned and Jeroen had more than once had to stand his spit on end to get out of the way of Ashie's jettisoned tanks. Ashie had used his empty tanks like bombs, jettisoning them when he was just above Jeroen, and Jeroen had successfully avoided all of the tanks even though there had been some seriously near misses. They had actually jettisoned the last tanks over an hour earlier, leaving only a little over an hour of flying time even with recourse to the emergency tanks.
"Ashie, probably better start heading back." Mac's voice snapped calmly over the R/T, speaking for the first time since the final jettison.
"Brian turned up yet?"
"He rocked up twenty minutes ago."
"Good, get him up and tell him to get to The Pins on the double." Ashie was twisting and looping around, soon setting the new bearing, though not making it a simple matter of following.
"CHRIST!" It wasn't half obvious that the expletive was totally unwilling. "Ashie are you off your nut? You've been flying for seven hours!"
"I think he might have turned his radio off." Jeroen finally spoke after Ashie had been dead silent for five minutes.
"Not half ... if he comes live for you at any point tell him that Brian's headed across."
"Wilco." Jeroen opened his throttle a bit further and put his nose down a trifle, if the day had taught him anything it was that Ashie would begin complicating things even further if he lagged at anything. Ground rolls in hilly country were not Jeroen's idea of fun, though it was undoubtedly a great test of skill.
"Gerkin." Ashie came snapping over the R/T thirty minutes later. "We're about to enter The Pins and I have three comments. The first is that your airspeed is not to drop below 200 miles an hour. The second is that your altitude is not to rise above 70 feet. The third is that if you botch this you very likely will die or at least be hospitalised for many months. There will be no shame if you say no thanks." Ashie's nose was already tilted down at a sharp angle as he sought 70 feet.
"I'm still following." Jeroen dropped his own nose. "Any advice on surviving?"
"One comment." The scream of the wind around Ashie's cockpit was coming over the R/T which said Ashie must be very near the maximum speed tolerance of the spit. "Don't think, just react."
"Gotcha." Jeroen pulled his spit briefly over into a flat spin for a couple of rotations to kill some of his airspeed as the dial spun too close to 400 miles an hour.
"One other comment." Ashie abruptly broke left and spun wildly in every plane, a stunt which was not going to be easy to copy. "If you do survive this remember we will not be landing at an aerodrome."
"Right, I'll get the rest... " Jeroen closed his eyes as he sent the spit spinning wildly, a nice technique, but it was harder on the pilot than anyone else and often caused utter disorientation. "After we're through." Jeroen continued when he'd finished the spin and noted with interest that his airspeed was exactly 200 miles an hour and his height 65 feet. The green grass below looked almost as if he could touch it if he stuck an arm out of the cockpit.
"Then here we go." Ashie dropped slightly lower and dove into a thickish wood.
"S***!" Jeroen didn't even have time to change his mind before he entered the trees, his only option now was to ride it out and pray that his Guardian Angel was willing to do overtime.
"Jeroen, you have a visitor." Elise was the secretary, a sour-faced woman who disliked Jeroen intensely.
"Thank you." Jeroen nodded briefly and hoped it was not the client he was currently working on.
"I suspect the RAF have no idea how good you are." Flight-Lieutenant Brian O'Niell strolled into Jeroen's Office and flung his peaked cap on a nearby chair.
"However I still owe you twenty-pounds." Jeroen pushed the note across and leant back with a sigh. "Got any idea how boring accounts can be?"
"I tend to discover an important job which demands my attention the moment they're mentioned." Brian's eyes glinted with amusement.
"I've been dusting my office this morning ... re-ordered my files ... spent ten minutes experimenting with a new filing system ... called up my dentist and actually made an appointment."
"What? No doctor's appointment to dispose of the appendix ... perhaps a bit of brain surgery as well?"
"I'm thinking that won't be optional, more of a necessity." Jeroen's tone was rather sour.
"Well quite frankly I couldn't believe it when you followed Ashie into those trees."
"I quite frankly can't believe I took the trouble to get up that morning." Jeroen sighed. "I take it you're here for my answer?"
"Yes." Brian nodded briefly.
"Cup of tea?"
"Water will be fine."
"What would you advise?" Jeroen handed over the mug of water and took his seat again.
"Me? Honestly?" Brian looked sharply at Jeroen.
"Mm-hmm." Jeroen nodded briefly as he spun a pencil idly on the desktop.
"Run screaming and don't look back."
"Think I'm insane if I said I'd accept?"
"You're not me and you will be very well trained." Brian leant back in his chair. "You'll certainly have some hair-raising yarns to spin to get the odd free beer."
"What would happen if I did accept?"
"Well you'd probably remain here for the next month or so, but you'll be working yourself into the ground in the evenings and you'll be flying all weekend. In a month everything will be ready and I'm afraid you'll be fired."
"What about work? Has the Puppet Master yet supplied what my cover is going to be? There's no way I can persuade people I'm a jobless hack if I vanish for big chunks of time."
"We'll have to work on that one, but there are a few options ... and a couple of them actually include work you'll have to do in and around the flying."
"Tell them to count me in." Jeroen hesitated only momentarily before he spoke firmly sealing his future.
"Who do we list as your next of kin for notification if you snuff it?"
"Annette ... I think it would kill my parents if it just got dumped in their laps. Annette would undoubtedly find a way to make it slightly easier for them."
"No other brothers?"
"Just four sisters. Patrice is two years older than me, married and living in India. Annette is seven and a half years younger than me, Candace is a two years younger than Annette and Lucille nine months younger than Candace."
"Father in the Great War?"
"Yeah ... he didn't like my going into the RAF and he won't be happy if I leave this job."
"Army?"
"French Army, got nearly killed at ... argh! Big defensive dish by the French around an old fortress town in about '16, he loves to talk about it, but he sure doesn't want any of his children in the military."
"Not going to respect their wishes?"
"I did in the past ... I more than dislike the results." Jeroen's mouth tightened. "I'm twenty-six and been independent for quite a few years now. Unfortunately the very worst they can do if they disapprove of my choices now is not speak to me."
"Just one word of warning ... those of us who do not have both our parents tend to wish we had that many people to be concerned for us."
"Can I ask some names?"
"Ashie and Mac you've met ... Pyro still lurks in the wings. They'll be teaching you how to fly. Other than that I actually can't say for this is a definite case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing."
"Well I'm still in ... and you all know where to find me." Jeroen gave a brief nod and picked up the bothersome accounts for he suddenly knew exactly how to fix them.
"I'll see myself out, but be prepared for invasion tonight."
"Right." It was a distracted grunt which Jeroen gave, and Brian grinned to himself as he left the dusty little office.
November 3rd 1939 - Little Gaddesden, England
Why is it that the perilous mountain always looks so small and insignificant when you are standing on top of it?
~ Anonymous Philosopher
Greetings Button,I must admit to the most tempting desire to ask what sort of button you are. As my Aunt observes there are so many kinds of buttons. There are plain buttons, glass buttons, ivory buttons, horn buttons, silver buttons, gold buttons. The list goes on and in fact truth be told I can't think of much other than water and air that hasn't been made into some form of button or other.
I was interrupted, but now I return. A family friend has just been to visit my Aunt who is currently in the house, the friend's son has been entertaining me. Marmalade, do not ask how he came by that nickname for I have been assured that it requires peculiarly twisted logic. But back on subject, Marmalade was entertaining me by reading the various newspapers I have been carefully ignoring and giving his carefully considered opinion on all topics (I note with amusement the similarities between his views and the views his father has professed on occasion.) I do hope I wasn't such a parrot of my father for I must surely have driven him insane if I was (and if he wasn't driven insane it is because verbal communication was not his strong point.)
Annie-Bug has just stopped in briefly to pay this poor cripple a visit. Annie-Bug is not being very sympathetic, I detect with unerring skill the fact that I have somehow managed to annoy her. Annie-Bug observes in exasperation that her annoyance is purely and simply because I keep getting sick again and she's tired of being called up at all hours by doctors who are certain I am going to die when everyone who knows me knows I'll do no such thing. Such a comfort to be so well understood. I must admit to the fact that I'm of the somewhat foggy opinion that I might have very nearly died last week, or at least that is the only explanation I can derive from what my memories record. Annie-Bug informs me that if I remember anything it's highly likely to be highly warped (just like my grammar) and gives some reason which all has to do with morphine, opium and the effects these have on the human system. I now observe that not only has Annie-Bug's morbid mood infected me, it has also infected this letter so I will terminate my efforts at inscribed communication until the quarantine period has ended.
Isn't transmogrify a fascinating word? I found it in the dictionary when I was very bored in the middle of last night. Annie-Bug also informs me that I am becoming a master of Sophism. I consult the dictionary to verify spelling and meaning of both these words and discover that I am now a master of specious arguments and my fascinating word means to change completely, especially into a bizarre form. That is the meaning in brief, the dictionary actually goes into great depth about the Greek or Latin root and the various meanings and variations of meanings variations can carry. That actually looks a trifle confusing, but I blame it on the late hour if it is senseless.
My godfather just came to reassure himself that I am alive (he does it about once ever couple of weeks and otherwise sends a telegram calling me an idiot.) The Old Goat (TOG), seems to think that this is proper behaviour between us (I'll admit to agreeing with TOG since he is unlikely ever to see this letter.) My Godmother does not agree with TOG, in fact both my Godmothers have a great many fights with TOG on that subject. Though I must admit that their treatment of me differs only slightly in that they send me books and paper instead of telegrams calling me an idiot.
I return after yet another break. A very long break I will admit for TOG brought a couple of my friends with him and we ended up having a smallish fight on the bed. The official nurse (ON) (who sees very little of me) was horrified, but the only damage sustained was a black-eye for Clumps and the parting of ways of a couple of the stitches in my arm (there were five there and they were due out anyway.) The ON tried to ban visitors, until she realised that banning my visitors would achieve nothing at all (they started visiting me whenever and not using the main entrance so the ruling was soon reverted.) However there is now a big sign above my bed which says fighting is not permitted in the bed. I have to admit that that sign reminds me of some rules which my aunt has in the bathroom. Rule number one states that there should be no more than thirty-six people in the bath at any one time. I will admit that I am expecting another fight next time TOG comes to visit, if only for the simple reason that a sign like that is utterly begging to be disobeyed.
I think there should be a law against white ceilings. I think that should also stand for beige ceilings and cream. In fact I am inclined to say that ceilings are forbidden to be any one plain colour. I am currently in a hospital where the ceiling is white. At home the ceiling of my room is stone and there is hours of entertainment to be found, rather like when watching clouds. However in this room I can see no clouds and the ceiling is sparkling white and BORING!!!
Bad grammar of course to use multiple exclamation marks, but Annie-Bug reassures me that you are not my School Master come to cane me for bad grammar (a prefect tried to cane me once for that, but fortunately he was a rotten shot.) Be thankful you did not have to attend public school, ghastly places specifically designed to squish everyone into a boring mold, and I was ass enough to do service swotting in my last year. I learnt a lot of math though and had a watertight excuse to get out of rugger (every time I ever played rugger I always broke something, so my average was usually one or two games a season before I was excused until the next season.) Unlike my father I am not at all good at rugger. Annie-Bug glares at me over this and is now demanding the paper, I feel certain she is going to write something embarrassing.
Embarrassing? He wishes. Don't believe that anti-rugger propaganda for a second, he only played during his second last year at school and then he did break his hand twice. Totally insane game and I do not see what they find so attractive about it. He was almost as good at it as he was at cricket, however he is not built like a tank and he was behaving like a tank with the results you might expect, he kept breaking things.
She kindly returns my letter to me, only after having read it and advised me not to let TOG get his hands on it. That I will admit almost tempts me to let TOG read it, just so I can see Annie-bug get horrified. Oh dear, another nasty, contagious mood sets in. I shall dispose of this letter and stick it in an envelope for posting.
Thank you for your last letter, I was laughing so hard that Annie-bug demanded to see it, which set her laughing, which alarmed the ON and though it is not good to alarm the ON I must admit that it is sometimes fun.
Until I next write,
Mackle
Annette rolled over and shoved the letter back into its envelope before dropping it into a nearby draw.
"Thus ends another screed from Mackle." Annette frowned up at the ceiling for Mackle's letter had merely been a brief diversion from a very grim situation. Annette still had no job, except for a small bit of accounting at the local dress shop and a fashion column she was permitted to write as a result. The resultant wage was just enough that she was considered independent, but not enough to allow her to live somewhere else.
Annette had been thinking of asking Jeroen whether she might be able to live with him, but that plan had been destroyed when Jeroen had been fired. Exactly why Jeroen had been fired never came to light, but a fortnight later it was known that he had a job with a small accounting firm in the North of England. Annette was of the opinion that Jeroen would be getting rid of his flat in London, which meant she would have to think of another way to exist.
To become a secretary, she would have to go to secretarial school. She was insufficiently educated to become a governess, on top of which her Mother would probably have an attack of the nerves. She couldn't cook, and didn't really want to either ... and she'd have to go to Cookery School. Though a certificate from the Marshall Academy would be nice, Annette really had no desire to be a cook. Her column, though good enough for Little Gaddesden was highly unlikely to get her another job. As had been discussed with Jeroen, that really left her with nothing to do at all unless she found some unorthodox employer who paid well and wanted an unorthodox secretary ... and that was so unlikely that it was rather funny.
Part 5
November 28th 1939 - Pemberley, England
There are a group of men whose words mean nothing, to understand you must listen to their silence.
~ Anonymous
"Still alive?" Brian stepped out of the way to let Jeroen into the observatory which was by far the quickest way to the study and library.
"No." Jeroen subsided into a nearby chair with a deep and feeling groan. "They are totally insane!"
"I told you to run screaming."
"Go to hell." Jeroen propped a book up on his knees and picked up a nearby notebook.
"Nelli wants to know how your shoulder is holding together."
"Fine." Jeroen frowned darkly and scribbled a quick note before frowning again. "How long until food?"
"At least an hour I'm afraid ... need any doctoring or do I ask Ashie again?"
"No problems, just a couple of bruises." Jeroen distractedly rubbed the collarbone he had fractured two weeks earlier on a botched landing. "The news isn't good is it?"
"Not particularly, the country still seems to firmly believe that we're easily waltzing through this war."
"Why are you all so confident that it isn't this simple?" Jeroen tilted the book to one side.
"Because too many people in Germany are far too confident ... and with good reason. Their Air Force has received battle experience in Spain where as we merely run patrol and work through prescribed attack sequences that work lousy anyway."
"So confident?"
"Ask Ashie to run through some of the RAF drills with you." Brian responded dryly. "Their armies are getting toughened up by this march through Poland ... and there are plenty of people who genuinely believe that Poland invaded Germany. They're also more precise than last time and the battle plan is good. France will fall for Hitler will take no short-cuts and he knows the importance of Paris. Unfortunately we will also likely fall because we will attempt to defend France ... an untenable position."
"Cheerful." Jeroen's attention had drifted and a dark frown notted his forehead. "This is just a front isn't it?"
"Sorry?" Brian dropped into another chair and frowned himself.
"This business, the flying, the preparations ... this is just a front isn't it?"
"A front for what?"
"Potential invasion."
"Covering what?"
"The real thing ... the left hand if you like."
"Expound this theory."
"Can I first ask if I'm right?"
"In part ... and I'll thank you to forget that. Expound your theory and reasons and tonight more talk will occur."
"Wonderful." Jeroen responded dryly as he leant back. "Most of it has to do with what we're doing. Ashie and Pyro have me flying all over England at ridiculously low heights. We just keep flying rather close to small towns ... those small towns which exist with the realisation that they are always forgotten about. I can almost get through that wood from any approach in a blindfold." Jeroen waved a brief hand at the dim woods just visible from the library windows. "Lambton happens to be on the other side of that wood. We do a lot of aerobatics and we just keep happening to be seen ... always beating a hasty retreat as soon as it becomes apparent that we are being watched. Twice we've been picked up by RAF people and we've responded by losing them with some utterly suicidal flying. I was down in London last week and the rumours are running rife about what is going on up in this neck of the wood. It's not just the civilians who are talking, all three of the armed forces are talking. I got asked a dozen times what I thought was going on ... I had the IO from my old squadron on my doorstep asking whether I had heard anything while I was accounting up here. I had my old CO asking whether I had anything to do with this shindig. I told him I wished I did since I'd seen some dandy flying. The country is simmering gently, believing that some secret weapon is being prepared up here. If the Huns land it isn't going to take long for them to realise that everyone's desperately attempting to keep something secret up here." Jeroen hesitated.
"We might just be being a bit too careless." Brian made the offering with a faintly rueful expression.
"Uh-huh?" Jeroen's expression was one of disgust. "As Button said on one occasion 'it makes no sense, why would a man apparently intolerant of fools be rumoured to have named the biggest fool in the country as his son's guardian'. Button never reversed that and asked whether it was possible that the biggest fool in the country wasn't actually a fool because of that rumour. After all, fools tend to get killed in war."
"Perhaps it was a lucky fool."
"Do lucky fools survive what Lord James Ashington-Frankston survived in the war?"
"Well, the Major certainly seemed to think so."
"I'm more inclined to say that cold analysis and a near inhuman sensitivity to environment was what brought about that survival. I've been flying with him rather a lot lately, and the one thing which is blindingly obvious is that nothing rattles him ... that doesn't mean he doesn't know fear, it just means that he acknowledges the fear and realises that it cannot dominate him if he is to survive. A fool would never have that sort of control over fear ... which says that Ashie mustn't be a fool, but rather one of the more intelligent men in the country."
"You said Button was a good judge of character." Brian creased his brows again.
"She is, she's more accurate than I am for the most part even though she is much younger. However, she allows emotions and politics to cloud her judgment on occasion and one has to keep that in mind." Jeroen blinked slowly. "People of the aristocracy, or people who have much money derived from the land and the power which accompanies money will always have trouble with Button unless she realises how her judgment is clouded. Button is intolerant of these people and believes the worst of them. Speak ill of these people and she will believe for the simple reason that she wants to, even if the theory has no logic. My failing is purely and simply that I do not believe ill of anyone and wax ever hopeful ... which is the main reason that I can come and work with you regardless of what happened between me and Annie-Bug."
"How profound."
"I've had four years to think about it all ... truth be told I'm undoubtedly a better person for it. I now realise that people have faults, but I cannot ignore my innate belief that people are good, which is where my problem arises from. If Button is too intolerant I balance it by being too tolerant and willing to explain away nastiness."
"Back to your left-hand right-hand theory."
"The people I see are too intelligent and too experienced for that sort of error. If you wanted something to be totally unknown it would be ... which correspondingly means that if something has become known it is because you wanted its presence to be rumoured. The only things this adds up to is the fact that there must be something else which is kept totally silent. In fact the only thread I can't draw to a logical conclusion with this map is the disappearance of James Darcy."
"That's because it isn't logical." Ashie's voice spoke firmly from the doorway. "Annie-Bug says you had to sign the Darcy Secrecy Act a couple of years back."
"Yeah." Jeroen's mouth twitched at the memory of the Darcy Secrecy Act, it was not an act in the normal way by any length.
"Jim's disappearance isn't logical for the simple reason that it isn't logical and has been a major pain to deal with ... we're only worried now that Jim won't return to Pemberley before the Major dies." Ashie snorted in disgust. "Before you ask the Major is in Canada and you will take that under the Darcy secrecy act as well."
"Dinner time?" Brian had risen.
"Got it in one. We'll deal with explanations and what-not later." Ashie smothered a wide yawn behind his hand. "Give Nelli my appologies but I need the extra hour of sleep."
"He does that rather often doesn't he." Jeroen followed Brian to the dining room, his mind occupied with adding up the number of meals Ashie had skipped since Jeroen had arrived. It was a large number.
"Far more often than he should." Brian chucked it over his shoulder as he crossed the dining room to speak to his mother. Jeroen nodded briefly before dropping into his usual seat next to Hope McKenna.
"Trash it again?" Hope was a small, dark woman of clear welsh heritage and a hot and protective nature. There were few things more guaranteed to rile up Hope McKenna than the news that an aeroplane had been crashed.
"No. For a miracle you've got it back intact." Mac handed his wife a large bowl of beans. "Take a seat Pyro, soup, beans and bread tonight."
"Where's Ashie?" Pyro dropped tiredly into the seat across the table.
"He's skipping, wants the extra sleep and says he doesn't need the food." Brian dropped into his own seat having first taken the soup pot from his mother who now settled at the other end of the table.
"You heading back to duty soon?"
"Got three more days before I'm back on duty." Brian filled his plate. "Ashie needs to speak to all of us tonight and I can promise that it will be a long night."
"I need some dive figures for the spit." Jeroen pushed his bowl across so it could be filled. "I know that pulling out at 500 miles an hour strains the airframe too much. How close can I go to 500 miles an hour? How long could the average airframe continue flat flying for after that sort of strain?"
"Reduce your speed to about 80 and get nice and low and you could probably cross England without shedding the wings ... but you'll be a sitting duck." Mac handed across the bread.
"The problem isn't the speed, the problem is how you pull out of it." Hope nibbled on her piece of bread. I'll run the maths and see if I can find you some optimal paths. Better than having you rip the wings of every bird we have while you try to find it."
"Would we do that?" Ashie drifted into the Dining Room. "Thank you for leaving the door open Pyro, I've decided I'm hungry after all." Ashie settled in a chair as Pyro moaned and hid beneath the table.
"Have the meeting now instead then?"
"Might as well." Ashie gave a wide yawn. "The little pitcher has big ears, plenty of contacts and brain unfortunately ... i.e. Gerkin suspects this whole intricate setup to be a false front to fool others away from the real thing on no more complex reason than that I was rumoured to be Jim's trustee should the Major snuff it too soon."
"Wonderful." Mac loaded his bowl for the second time. "So what now?"
"Annie-Bug vouches for him and Jim states that Gerkin's a nosey bugger." Brian spoke up firmly.
"Jim also says we need at least another three months." Pyro had re-emerged and helped himself to more bread.
"Which means either we tell the truth or another lie."
"Preferably the truth." Jeroen stirred the last of his soup.
"We're a front." Hope spoke quietly. "The Air Board have a thick file which spells out the active members of this front, what they're doing and how positive identification can occur. We're a front for some Air Board plot. It's been known for the better part of twenty years that if another war were to threaten this would begin. However, these twits," Hope generally indicated the table, "are counting on the Germans to draw the conclusions you have drawn, for only a fool will disturb a front when they are searching for the real thing. We're a front for ourselves as well as for the Air Board. Ashie has a file ... no one else knows where it is except perhaps for Jim ... Ashie's file concerns The Magi. Like all wisemen the Magi will watch and monitor. The first Mage is in the military. The second Mage is a civilian." Hope closed her eyes for a moment. "The third Mage will be one of the first people executed if the Nazis invade. It is hoped that with the front and the execution of the third Mage, the other two Magi will pass unnoticed by the Nazi watch dogs. The third Mage does not know who the other two Magi are, which means he cannot blab about them when he is taken."
"I take it the third Mage is aware of this?" Jeroen looked around the silent table.
"Oh yes." Brian spoke very softly. "The third Mage most certainly does know all of this." Brian was silent for a moment. "The third Mage was part of the triad which dreamed this insanity up. Major-General Darcy is the second member of the triad, he delayed his departure until the plan was ready for execution. The third member is the puppet master. All three are slated for execution if the Nazis land and they are caught."
"What happens if the Nazis do not successfully land?" Jeroen asked the question after a long and chilling silence.
"That's when the fun begins." Ashie's chuckle was somewhat contagious. "The Nazis no land, then we go visit the Nazis and make 'em regret they ever wrote a list of people slated for execution."
"So for now we're focussed on surviving until either an invasion has occured, or the invasion attempts have ended."
"Precisely ... let's do some night flying." Ashie abruptly finished off his dinner and rose with a yawn. "Pyro ... Mac ... game time."
"Brian you're welcome to come if you want." Mac stretched as he rose himself. "Hope, fire up the radar will you and prepare to act as a traffic controller. Jeroen, you're with Hope tonight, you need to learn to work that radar more accurately ... you flew me through a hill last time."
"Right." Jeroen rose and followed Hope up into the attics of Pemberley. The talk had revealed a lot, but most of what it revealed was how much he did not know. Jeroen knew there was more left unsaid than had been said, but it was a start, he had won at least a degree of trust in the past month.
December 25th 1939 - Little Gaddesden, Hertfordshire
Everyone can hear ... but I do wish someone would listen.
Greetings Button,That actually looks rather boring, but I have been shining silver for most of the morning and besides being a touch on the tired side the ON is shortly to arrive and she will have a fit. Helen, my current guardian, has already been in and had a fit.
(Annie-Bug observes to Button that Helen had more than a fit and is currently seated in the corner asking us to produce an alibi to prove her innocence ... so far we've only managed to satisfy her that we will swear in any court in the land that she did not know the silver had entered the room. Windows are a wonderful invention. Annie-Bug writes within brackets and hopefully Mackle will not cotton on to how his letter is being improved.)
Never polish tarnished silver with your bed sheet, it is impossible to conceal the crime from an ON. It was rather fun polishing the silver, and it was even more fun when we discovered how well it marked bed sheets (carefully forgetting Helen's dismay when she realised that we'd been drawing rather unrecogniseable caricatures of the hospital staff ... I suspect she's starting to wonder if it isn't worth the risk to try and obtain new sheets without anyone knowing.)
The ON has actually been and gone, ordering what was already being done. Terribly boring when that happens. Also known as this is me admitting that Annie-Bug is actually writing this letter from my dictation due to the obnoxious fact that I am officially fatigued and if I do anything more energetic than lying flat on my back until tomorrow morning the ON is going to give me a full dose of Morphine and knock me flat for the next week!
Terrifying woman the ON, she keeps threatening me with morphia because she seems to think I am trying too hard (fortunately the ON doesn't know half of what he's been up to in the past week. I never thought I would be happy to have to scream my head off at him, but I happen to have been enjoying it this last week.) However if I am good she promises that I will get a wheelchair tomorrow and Annie-Bug and I can go and explore a couple of little paths I am assured stand outside the window (If we don't end up having races or something similarly insane I do not know Mackle ...
"Annie!" Lucille came skipping across to the bench where Annette had been engrossed in her letter.
"A problem?" Annette looked up somewhat suspiciously for Lucille was looking particularly pleased with herself.
"Oh no." Lucille gave a final little skip. "But Rory is here, you might want to hide Mackle's letter."
"Why?" Annette frowned. "Which also raises of the question of how you know who is writing to me."
"You shouldn't leave draws unlocked when they hold secret correspondence Annie ... I was talking to Mama about it when Rory arrived ... I think he's unhappy."
"Luce!" Annette was on her feet and looking horrified.
"Wouldn't worry." Lucille flicked her skirt. "He's a bore and you'll never marry him so you might as well get rid of him." Lucille skipped away, leaving Annette to sink back down on her bench.
"Annie, what's all this twaddle Lucille is talking about you and some secret correspondence." Rory came across the grass and his expression was not happy.
"It's not secret correspondence." Annette shook her head irritably. "What was Lucille saying?"
"Didn't hear much of it, but apparently you're writing letters to some cricket player in Derbyshire."
"Why don't you just say that you're think I'm corresponding with James Darcy and get over with it." There were times when Rory was ridiculously easy to read.
"Well are you?" Rory's colour was considerably heightened.
"No, and if you bothered to listen to all of what Luce said ... or perhaps asked to read the letters yourself you'd discover that I did not start this correspondence and he is not a cricket player. Besides which James Darcy is not the only cricket player in the County of Derbyshire."
"He is the only cricket player you seem to think much of."
"As a cricket player I admired him because he was good, as a person I have not the faintest idea who he is. I am not in the habit of writing letters to arrogant aristocrats who no doubt get more than sufficient fan mail anyway without adding myself to the lists." Annette glared at Rory. "Jeroen asked me to write a letter to an old friend of his in August. Jeroen was driving when he remembered about the letter and he didn't want to run the risk of forgetting so I wrote it for him. The friend has a relative who is disabled, bedfast currently and bored. The friend gave the letter to the relative and asked him to answer it. Mackle writes purely out of boredom because there is a limit to the amusement to be found in a hospital room. No more than I know who Mackle is, does Mackle know who I am. If you want you can insist that I no longer write to Mackle, but frankly, if I were you I wouldn't be worried about competition from a nickname in Derbyshire. If you really insist I'll get the other dozen or so letters he's written to me and you can decide whether he's anything other than highly intelligent, extremely bored and writing to help pass the time when he's alone and unable to sleep and too bored to read." Annette rose. "In fact how about you come along right now and you can read the lot of them ... my particular favourite is when he spent eight hours writing a discourse on why Plato should not be read while under the influence of morphia. Annie-Bug, to whom the original letter was written, scribbles in a postscript at the bottom that they're all sorry I am on the receiving end of these twenty-five pages, but they thought I might find some entertainment in those pages and Mackle was insistent that it be sent. Another letter is five pages dealing with an extended discourse on the crimes committed by raindrops. There's also one which he wrote in company with his godfather which concerns aeroplanes and the probability that they might suffer from vertigo. There are two letters which concern themselves entirely with words he has discovered while reading through a dictionary. One letter, again written to dictation by Annie-Bug recounts a game played for a couple of hours where the dictionary was opened three times at random and a word selected. The players then had to tell a story which utilised these three words. You try telling a story which utilises the words Indigo, Sophism and Rambutan."
"Rambu-what?"
"Rambutan. A man referred to as TOG decided it was an obnoxious and highly contagious disease which had one symptom, the turning of the person indigo. Rambutan is apparently a tree which grows in Asia." Annette shook her head as the anger slowly started to ease from her system. "It's just a bored man who wants reassurance that there is a world out here bigger than the few people who ever get into his room other than doctors."
"I'm sorry Annie ... just tired and Lucille..."
"Lucille likes to make trouble. May I continue to write to Mackle without you getting all het up and worried?"
"Sure ... say hi to him from me if you want."
"Thank you." Annette finally sat back down again. "So, what brought you out here today? I thought you were still in London."
"No." Rory settled next to Annette. "I've been ... essentially fired. The firm is downsizing because of the war and I am considered one of the most likely to enlist and so I have been released from my duties so I may enlist."
"Oh Rory, I'm sorry I got so irate at you." Annette leant her head against Rory's shoulder. "What are you going to do?"
"Join." Rory shook his head. "Nothing else to do really ... think I'd look good in RAF blue?"
"You're going to fly?"
"Sorry, no." Rory shook a regretful head before grinning. "Ground staff for me. I'll work nice and hard and keep our pilots in the air as long as necessary. Is Jeroen intending to join?"
"It's strange ... no I don't think he intends to ... he's been a bit weird lately and I'm not ... Something happened when he got fired for he's withdrawn from us all even more than he was before."
"Pity. I've been talking to some people ... were you aware that he'd got real status within the RAF? They want him back, Annie."
"I'll let him know that in the next letter, but even Charlie has said he's behaving a bit weird."
"Why is she called Charlie?"
"I don't know, but it actually is her real name. When do you join?"
"Well ... I'm afraid I already have." Rory's voice sounded a bit self-conscious. "I'm in the supplies section."
"No, really? Jeroen used to complain about the solid rubber tyres on the trucks. Do you think you'll even learn to fly?"
"I hope so." Rory nodded. "Anyway I'm due at the Air Board tomorrow morning so I was wondering if you'd be free to come to dinner with me tonight."
"Definitely."
"Right, I'll come for you at seven ... dress pretty." Rory gave her a quick hug and rose. "I've got to finish my packing and stuff."
"Seven." Annette nodded briefly and waved Rory off. Annette spent a few moments deciding what to wear, then remembered her letters and pulled them forth.
Annie-Bug is exhausted and this is tomorrow afternoon. I will admit to a certain degree of weariness myself ... but to the ON I will admit nothing but perfect health. I note that Annie-Bug has been adding to my discourse and will kindly refrain from any retaliatory action. It was nice to be out in the fresh air again. I will admit that there is nothing so invigorating as a dose of fresh air after several months of hospital air which almost requires a gas mask it is so laden with antiseptics and general nasties. The downside is that one feels so ill for a period after returning to this air.I find it amazing what anonymity has done. Before Annie-Bug jumped on my complaints of boredom in August my idea of a letter was usually about half a page. That was a long letter, most letters resembled telegrams. Now a conscious study has produced some quite decent efforts over the past couple of months, even though I have not actually written all of them. Annie-Bug informs me that my largest effort so far has been a discourse on Plato which was some twenty-five back and front pages and was taken by dictation. I do appologise for it if it was as boring as Plato can be when taught by the right sort of Master (I observe in an aside that I defy any Master to make it as boring as my House Master managed, and that master was the right sort of master.)
I am permitted to leave the hospital for Christmas, on the understanding that I rest while travelling, sleep for at least three hours during Christmas day and rest when I am brought back the next morning. If TOG had any choice in the matter I suspect he would forget to return me to the hospital, however there are numerous others who will ensure he behaves himself.
I hope you get this before Christmas and wish you a happy Christmas and the best that a new year with a war in process can bring. Annie-Bug and TOG would undoubtedly wish you the same except it is currently two in the morning and they are asleep. I thank you for being such a tolerant correspondent, and they undoubtedly thank you since the ability to write to you to while away wakeful hours has undoubtedly given them many hours more sleep than they would otherwise have got.
Mackle
P.s. Chin up, bound to be a job out there somewhere that will be everything you ever dreamed of. Though the doctors were talking of a nice one the other day, weather station attendant, absolutely nothing to do unless an alarm rings and then a mad rush of activity. There was also a job my Mum once worked which her primary task was to be a secretary but to ensure she was given no work. Plenty of jobs out there if you know how to look.
"I know." Annette folded the letter back up, a small smile fighting against the slightly pensive mood she was feeling. There undoubtedly were jobs out there, but do far she had not found one which wanted Annette Fouchiard.
"Button!" Jeroen's yell ripped through the air and Annette leapt to her feet.
"Jeroen!"
"Long time no see old fruit. How's life treating you?"
"Lots more people have said that they are not sufficiently unorthodox employers. I'm almost tempted to try my hand at getting a university scholarship and studying for a few years."
"Oh please don't." Jeroen settled next to Annette. "Wouldn't do at all to have a sister so much more educated than I am."
"Well, the biggest problem is I really don't know what I want to study." Annette sighed heavily. "Rory said you weren't returning to the RAF."
"And how does Rory know that?" Jeroen frowned rather darkly at his boots.
"He's joined. The firm released him since they were downsizing and figured he'd enlist anyway."
"Not flying I hope?" Alarm shot into Jeroen's eyes.
"No ... supply."
"Thank goodness. No insult to Rory but he is ham-handed and heavy and he'd all too likely get killed."
"How nice."
"Don't worry, being attached to supply they'll be pretty keen to keep him intact. So Rory's in the RAF and knows I'm not rejoining ... intriguing."
"Why?"
"Because I only decided yesterday that I'd stick with the penpushers ... thinking I'm a coward?"
"No ... but I do think you're not telling me something."
"Quite correct, all very hush-hush." Jeroen gave a grin. "You heard any talk about some hush-hush aeroplane operation in Derbyshire?"
"It would be nearly impossible not to. No insult to the RAF but their hush-hush aeroplanes fly too low and are too noisy to pass unnoticed ... the hush-hush planes have their insignia painted out which makes them a tad conspicuous."
"Well keep it under your hat ... but they're meant to be. They're very busy trying to pursuade everyone that there's something hush-hush up here."
"And your 'Accounting Firm' is this hush-hush stuff?"
"Oh dear, I seem to have an intelligent sister." Jeroen grinned again. "That's honest injun, I'm in one of those painted birds doing my level best to act suspiciously in an accidental sort of way."
"Well currently you're doing it rather nicely. Heard of anyone who needs an unorthodox secretary?"
"Not yet. Keep chucking in the applications, there's bound to be an employer out there with half a brain cell."
"Your confidence inspires me." Annette gave a tired smile. "Rory heard about Mackle from Lucille and cut up all stiff ... he managed to get over it though and we're going out to eat as a celebration of his enlistment ... I think I just want to cry though."
"Oh well, chin up. Annie-Bug was asking the other day whether you'd think of moving to London."
"Why?" Annette frowned.
"It's a matter of apartments and Annie-Bug is looking around for someone to share with."
"You've been seeing her?"
"She lives in Derbyshire, Button, and her family history is absolutely riddled with military types. We meet occasionally ... but you needn't worry, I won't make the same mistake again."
"I must admit I wasn't worried Jeroen, just curious."
"God help England, Button is curious."
"Jeroen!" Annette huffed. "Tell Annie-Bug I'd be delighted ... but I probably better first get a job ... or at least the offer of a job."
"You can type?"
"Yes."
"Sit tight for a week, there might be at least a couple weeks of work ... my old Landlady was muttering about memoirs and she hates typing with a passion."
"Might be a lot of fun and certainly some experience." Annette hesitated for a moment longer. "I'd like to try it."
"Will do ... the jobs yours."
"Jeroen you haven't even left!"
"No, but she offered you the job before I came up from London."
"But ... " Annette jerked to a halt. "She doesn't know me."
"No, but she has seen your face and she likes it ... says it is interesting."
"Good grief!"
"Well, do I tell Annie-Bug you'll at least flat with her for a few weeks or do I tell her to look otherwheres."
"Are the memoirs likely to be interesting?"
"Her husband was a diplomat ... think it will be boring?"
"Possibly not." Annette gave a small chuckle. "Why me?"
"Button you've been writing to her for months ... or at least she's read bits of more letters than you've ever written me. You're my favourite sister, and I have four options to pick from, and she trusted me far enough to actually say at one point that she would marry me. She's not really taking that much risking if you'll share with her. So, will you?"
"Tell her I'd love to and stop teasing me." Annette huffed again before abruptly squealing when something damp connected with her neck.
"Still works a charm." Jeroen leapt out of reach with his own chuckle. "Not a worm Button, just some wet grass."
"That's mean and I have to go get ready." Annette stalked firmly up to Jeroen. "I want to talk to you before you leave, so don't leave to soon."
"Aye, aye cap. I'll let Annie-Bug know tonight."
"You do that." Annette headed for the house with a little hop and a skip, before grunting to herself. "Not smitten Jeroen? That wouldn't fool anyone."