Previous Section, Section XIII, Next Section

Part 43

Posted on Sunday, 16 January 2005

July 1942 - Cairo, Egypt

Strange thoughts disturb my mind ... what is this emotion?

It was somewhere after three in the morning and Alistair knew, without even looking, that the Vickers K gun behind his head had moved. The gun was bumping against his hat, pushing it into his eyes. Normally Alistair would have objected to being assigned a jeep to watch when everyone else was getting rum and singing around the fires. Alistair had got some of the rum though and the singing was perfectly audible from where he was. In this case one could enjoy without risking being called on to perform. The jeeps were special because they were armed. These guns were a new experiment for the SAS and they seemed to be working well.

War was rather funny, in Cairo papers were being burnt and everyone was cursing the fall of Tobruk and fearing the fall of Alexandria...but the SAS merely seized more trucks and set forth to wreak even more havoc on the defenceless rear of Rommel's forces. Stirling had acquired a further twenty three-ton lorries and fifteen of the new American jeeps, and they had proven good in the desert. Rommel's rear was not as defenceless as it had been, he seemed to have been learning that just because an aeroplane was on the ground did not necessarily mean it was safe. The SAS had confirmed destruction of one hundred and forty-three aeroplanes and that tally did not include the accumulative results from the destruction of aeroplane bits...like the thirty engines and three hangers which had been destroyed in the last raid. Stirling had wanted guns in his trucks, but the Army could not supply truck mounted guns. Stirling had gone to the RAF and been given twelve obsolete Vickers K guns which the army engineers had then modified. Nothing wrong with the guns, they just lacked the range and punch of the new guns. But range and punch were not as important on the ground when shooting up airfields...they just had to work against aeroplanes.

They had skirted the lines at the northern end of the Qattara Depression coming across this time. Time would tell but possibly in the future they would have to use the southern end of the Qattara Depression and that would be almost cripplingly time consumptive. To those in the know the main hope was that one of the tracks across the middle of the Depression would be safe enough to use when the northern route was rendered unsafe by battle. They'd made a full passage along the Palm Leaf Track this time before turning north. It was about three in the afternoon when they'd turned north and Rawnsley was wearing azure pyjamas and a virgin-blue veil. Not that Rawnsley's attire was at all important...but it was certainly a pleasant relief after staring at the sand.

Gurdon's navigation had been perfect, for Timpson was found where he was meant to be an hour later. It was pleasant to camp when one knew one would not be returning to Cairo for at least three weeks. Before it had been a quick in and back, but now they camped, raiding night after night after night ... or until their supplies ran out and a return became compulsory.

Last night Stirling had come back from blasting Bagush near the Fukra Escarpment in a far from pleasant mood. They were half a day late in their return and had had a far from quiet trip, losing a three-ton truck and the old 'Blitz-wagon'. There had been a Jock column to avoid, and there wasn't meant to be a column there. Why High Command had not notified Stirling of the column's penetration was a mystery, but Mayne had certainly mumbled that it was tempting to blast the Jocks simply so the Commanders would be so stupid in the future. Not a serious comment, but still tempting. Rather a pity it wasn't possible to stick labels on a Jock Column, might make the Command think twice about not warning raiding groups of their possible presence. The trip had been made more exciting by some planes which had taken an interest in the little trio of vehicles. Mayne had got the jeep to safety, but the others had perished. No lives lost though and some thirty aircraft destroyed.

The icing on the cake was the LRDG idiot who had loosed off at a passing plane. The action had caused a duel to start and thoroughly betrayed the hideout. They'd been forced to move after dark had well and truly fallen and all raiding parties had returned. Now they rested at a different escarpement, determined to keep it at least until the next trip to Cairo was completed.

So they drank and were merry and Alistair felt a little sorry for the prisoners who clearly knew not what to make of these captors who wore beards, drank rum and sang execrably. It was a great relief to know that the Germans sang better and Alistair knew he'd be whistling Lilli Marlene all next day ... pity he didn't have a girl he could think of.

"You look like either you're pining for a girlfriend or wishing you had one to pine for." Jessop dropped down with a sigh and leant his head against a wheel.

"The latter." Alistair moved slightly to give Jessop space.

"There are plenty out there, you'll find one someday."

"I'm twenty-six and all I want is a girl who is quiet and willing to think I'm wonderful."

"Not a chance laddie, we all want that."

"Uh-huh?" Alistair glanced at Jessop somewhat skeptically. Alistair had met Mrs. Jessop and he could think of quieter people to live with.

"I'm in the army for a reason, my son." Jessop's expression became pious for the briefest of seconds. "Couldn't stand the auld bessom's nagging about my lack of reliable income...so she gets a reliable income and will retain part of it if I snuff it. I get peace and quiet so all is well. Don't marry, boy, you seem to manage perfectly well on your own."

"Your kindly words of wisdom mean much to me." Alistair gave a chuckle. "Go breathe your advice down someone else's neck, you reek of rum."

"Of course I do, I snagged an extra couple of glasses." Jessop gave a yawn and abruptly fell asleep.

"Sleep well." Alistair turned his attention to the stars overhead, so similar and yet different from home. Kitty could see these stars. In joke Alistair had once said that if he married anyone they would have to be like Kitty. Kitty was scatty, but she brought with her a peace which was uniquely her own. Alistair had not appreciated Kitty until after he'd joined the army, and since then he'd barely seen her at all. Next leave he would not spend in London, he would take Kitty on a holiday she wanted.

July 23rd 1942 - Weybridge, England

It has made me realise how fascinating drying paint is.

Mac had been staring at his left hand for over an hour when he finally shifted his attention to the clock on the wall. It felt like he'd been staring at the hand for months, but the clock indicated that it had only been about an hour and ten minutes. There was little to be found in the room in the way of entertainment and Mac usually occupied his time staring at the foot of his bed, or the ceiling. Of the past week though there had entered into the arena of entertainment a whole new player, his left hand.

One week ago, almost to the minute, Mac had seen the smallest finger on his left hand twitch. Having seen it twitch once lifted the question of whether it had twitched before and if it would twitch again. In the past week Mac had witnessed two twitches and he rather thought he'd felt one of the twitches. One hour and ten minutes ago the finger had twitched, and Mac knew beyond any doubt that he had felt that twitch. It had taken the past hour and ten minutes to voluntarily reproduce the movement. Mac's littlest finger had twitched and he'd twitched it himself. A conscious action, brought about by his own decision and his own request to his own nervous system. He was also exhausted now and it was with quiet relief that he closed his eyes and fell asleep again. Perhaps when he could move the finger with less effort he would mention the movement to someone. Embarrassing to say he could move a finger and then totally fail to perform when the required moment came.

July 1942 - Egypt, Africa

Never worry about tomorrow ... it's already that in Australia. - Charles M. Schultz

Thomas Mallern worked quickly, his fingers automatically guiding his pencil to draw the scene before him. The car was a wreck, it's roof was held by one corner, torn open like a tin can. A dead dog was near the front wheel, blood staining the dust which was everywhere. It was a scene like hundreds of others Thomas had drawn in the past couple of years. Deft fingers guided the pencil as it shaded under the rocks and darkened the stain under the dog. There was something so helpless, so innocent about that dog. A slight check of the fingers and then resumed movement. Thomas could tell what his fingers were doing even without looking. It was the tail of the dog, those hairs which looked like they were frozen in time. That dog should have been racing across a grassy field.

Thomas jettisoned his official sketchbook and seized his private notebook. He could see the dog as if it stood before him. The tongue lolling to one side, the expression cheerfully idiotic. Perhaps the dog had a stick in his mouth. The grass was waving in the wind and the hairs on the dog's tail were beginning to fall back down, no longer streamed by the wind and the dog's run. No blood here, just a simple field with one single tree and a sheep. The sky would be blue, slightly clouded and so beautifully warm. The dog racing across the grass, tummy low and tail streaming behind as he raced after some toy or stick which had been flung for his entertainment.

The book was a reminder of another life, brutally terminated by the war. It had happened back in England where Thomas had been working on a very similar sort of sketch.

Thomas was putting the finishing touches on his private sketch of the dog when he abruptly became aware of the boy standing beside him.

"Hullo." Thomas laid his sketchbook aside and picked up his official book which was crammed with death, gore and shattered buildings. It was time he finished the real scene he was meant to be sketching, the dead dog in the gutter, the bomb shattered building and the still spreading pool from the remains of a fire hydrant which had long since met whatever maker fire hydrants had.

"D'ye think 'e's gone there?" The boy pointed at the sketch Thomas had laid aside.

"Can't see why he can't have." Thomas glanced down at the sketch. The simple field, the single tree, the sheep and the dog rolling in the grass while chewing a rubber ball. "You know it?"

"Yeh." The boy crouched down next to Thomas. "We called 'im Ringo and he was allus good with the papers."

"Who owned the car?"

"Old Bert'old wot lived in the buildin' op'site."

"Mr. Berthold is still in the building?"

"Naw." The kid touched the sketch with a grubby finger. "Firies got 'im out before the paper run."

"Would Ringo have liked to go there?" Thomas nodded at the sketch.

"Coo, yeh." The boy touched the sketch again. "Wouldn' arf like to go there me self."

"Like to have the sketch?"

"'Ow much for it?"

"Skip, you've kept me company while I finished the other sketch." Thomas closed his official sketchbook as he finished the other sketch. "You can have it as thanks."

"You don't like it?" The boy looked stunned.

"Would you like it if this were your job?" Thomas abruptly handed the boy his official sketchbook.

"Naw." The boy had studied the pages carefully. "Better stick tight on the dogs."

"Those pay the bills so I can draw the dogs." Thomas carefully took his official sketchbook back. "That book is what I like to sketch."

"Min would like that." The boy paused on one of the pages.

"Min?" Thomas glanced at the page while he questioned the name. The sketch was an old one of a small boy leaning on a fence post in a sunken lane, his face flushed, hair ruffled and eyes excited. Thomas could remember that particular sketch because it was the first time he had successfully drawn a live human from shattered remains.

"Min's dry nurse to the toffs and Eddie was 'er boy. She'd like to rembember 'im like that." The boy paused. "Eddie allus runned, fastest boy I ever see'd."

"Take it for her."

"Yer bats." The boy looked up in astonishment.

"Give me three minutes and I'll make a copy of it." Thomas was already reaching for a scratch pad and pencil.

"Coo." The boy's eyes seemed to become bigger than his head as he watched Thomas' flying pencil. Little Eddie looked as if he had just won a race. It was a rougher sketch, but for all that it seemed even more alive than before. Thomas had definitely improved since he'd made the original sketch. "Could you draw me like that?"

"Umm." Thomas finished the sketch for Min and studied the boy rather hesitantly, he hadn't sketched a live subject since leaving art school.

"Min's me 'alf-sister and this won't 'alf make 'er 'appy." The boy tucked the two pieces of paper into a pocket before shoving his cap back on his head.

"Hold it right there." Thomas had abruptly seen what he wanted and his pencil was already flying, blocking in that determined chin, the fearless eyes and friendly grin. Ringo rested on the feet of the boy, his eyes on the ball in the boy's hand, his tongue lolling happily.

"Coo." The boy hesitated for a long moment, his expression somewhat disbelieving. "Coo."

"Glad you like it." Thomas rose stiffly and massaged his legs.

"If ye be wantin' comp'ny in fore time jest ask for Sam and I'll come. Min'll like this and I'd surely like to draw like you."

"The best way to learn is practice." Thomas pushed his sketchbooks into his bag. "I'll call for you when I'm in these parts again."

"Bye." The boy vanished, leaving Thomas to slowly ease himself into a full stride as he headed back towards his flat in Chelsea. A bit of sleep wouldn't go astray and then hopefully he could wangle himself some job which wasn't wondering around the East End drawing bomb shattered remains.

"Tommo? You've mail." Emil told everyone he was French, but he was nothing of the kind. Long of leg, lanky, charming and far too attached to a 'wee tipple' to be in good health. Thomas didn't require a medical degree to know that Emil's life was limited.

"Thanks." Thomas glanced up from his sketch to take the envelope as Emil began looking for a place to sit. The envelope was battered, dirty and showing much wear and tear...it also showed a censors stamp.

"Who do you know in India?" Emil settled down on a burnt out something Thomas neither cared to identify or draw.

"Ind..." Thomas paused as his eye caught the postmark. "Certainly seems that someone is writing to me from India." Thomas flipped the letter, but there was no return address. "Certainly know the hand which addressed the letter." Thomas tore the envelope open and spread the pages out. The return address was written on every page, the fist cramped.

Hiya Maudie,
How's the pentin' coming along? Still gory bomb scenes? Or perhaps you've found something else in Africa? Dust perhaps? or does the Sphinx do the dark and indecent for you? If so, do send me a sketch, it was off chasing a mouse when I was in Africa and I would like to see it.

"Yes, chap I knew at school. Insufferable prig held up by the masters for worship. We ended up sharing a study together and we've remained in contact ever since. I was the disreputable one, he was the saint who was to end up in charge of some big teaching hospital. I ended up as an official war artist and he's drifted from one outpost to the next picking up lost causes and quaint culture as he goes." Thomas turned his attention back to the letter, it was enough information to shut Emil up for a while and Thomas wanted to finish the letter.

As you've no doubt noticed, I'm in India. Imphal to be precise, one of the most god-forsaken corners on the globe. You thought the retreat from Dunquerque was tough, well trust me, you had a positively cushioned job. The Army just marched out of Burma, a nice little stroll of 900 miles with the Japs hot on their heels. I do know what I'm talking about for I was with them most of the way. I would say all the way except that I got a lift in some vehicle for some fifty miles. I dare not call the vehicle a truck, it looked like a collection of rust held together by string and a miracle.

Imphal was supposed to be where we met the relieving force. Unfortunately there were two powers concerned with such matters and both were confident the other was dealing with it. The result is as may be expected when such things happen and we are essentially out of mepacrine ... so a few extra cases of malaria in the old wards as well as concern that the Nips'll pop out of the rain and mud.

So we are camped at Imphal and await our fate. For most of us malaria is the fate elect and failing that we settle for dysentery. There are a couple of unlucky sods who got both. One chap is the real prize, turned up as a private, later found to be a lieutenant whom the RAF had lost in their retreat since they left him as dead. This noddins turned up with a 'touch of malaria'. I quote him on the subject. He seemed a touch shakey so we bunged him into bed with half a dozen others and a mouthful of quinine. Nurse turned up a bit later said we needed to actually give the man a thorough once over. Nurse seemed to think that this case needed some real attention as it was possible that the ____ wasn't making a song and dance sequence up about nothing. His temperature was a touch high, even for malaria. We investigated the man thoroughly and bunged him into isolation. Never again do I want to meet a man with a 'touch of malaria' like that touch of malaria. There was concussion, severe concussion which hadn't been treated. There was malaria, severe malaria of the worst kind. There was dysentery, and a rather savage bout if I do write the words myself. Then the prize clown revealed his hidden secret, he had pneumonia. Now as you might guess this clown doesn't do anything by halves, he had double pneumonia, lung abscesses and pleurisy. Had anyone told me someone could get this sick and still survive I wouldn't have believed it. I certainly wouldn't have believed it if I was told it would occur in a tropical military hospital and the patient would receive no penicillin, antibiotics, anti-septics or any other of the poisons we reliably dish out to patients. Chap coughed his guts out over the space of a week and a half, and quite frankly I couldn't believe the shear _____ he was bringing up. Ropes of phlegm. I mean literally ropes of the stuff, I felt like hiring him out as a rope machine. You could have built a bridge with the stuff he brought up. We were pouring water into this chap by the gallon and it was coming back out almost as quickly. One of those cases you have to joke about just to avoid getting sick yourself over.

Enough of all that, I'll let you know that the Lieutenant survived and is now officially discharged for medical reasons with a nice little pension to save him from starvation. Haven't told the boy yet, but he won't pass many comfortable winters between now and the end of his life. Sensitive lungs, for he must have half stripped them when coughing, and as a result he will of course hack over the mildest provocations ... hopefully it won't make him suffer hayfever. It would be a bit much to say he can live in neither city nor country. Bad enough trying to avoid telling him he'll have to avoid cities for the rest of his life, the boy's politics mad and hell bent on reforming the entire Empire. He'll have to learn to can that particular dream, either that or die in decidedly short order. May I take the moment to say thank goodness for I should hate to have him in government, the boy's as red as a cherry.

Again, enough of all that. This is my private request, let me know if you're in any shape to employ a secretary. Knowing you're in Africa, or Baghdad, or somewhere in the sunny and sandy wilds which are imminently suitable for my idiotic Lieutenant I'm hoping you'd like to employ him in some capacity. I also know you will race all over the place like a headless ___, which would be good for him.

I want to send you a born supply officer, he'll get you access to anything, he'll fish you out of anything and when he's not trying to be clever he knows about practically everything. Unfortunately he seems to spend most of his time trying to be clever and as a result is usually insufferable ... though one can hardly hold it against him, we were also idiots at the age of twenty-some. You get the occasional glimpse of who he'll be in another decade if he grows up and it gives the elderly like me hope.

One other warning, the Lieutenant seems to have been tentatively engaged to some girl and made a regular dog's breakfast of it. Something about some girl called Lila and the newspapers and I think even the odd scrap about a Darcy, but who's to know, he doesn't like to talk about the matter and what I know was mostly derived from delirious ramblings and the odd comment when he doesn't realise he has spoken out loud. Botched love affairs usually wouldn't matter at all, except for the fact that he is still in love with the girl. His entire universe revolves around an unknown he refers to as Annie. From what I can guess she's mad about cricket, a book-worm and manuscript editor. A sharp-tongued and highly intelligent young lady, but firmly grounded by commonsense, which the Lieutenant lacks. I get the feeling also that either he doesn't want to admit her importance, or he is still unaware of her importance, in his life. Trust me, practically anything can be connected to this Annie somehow...usually when he's in trouble and the fact that Annie could think of an appropriate response. The only other thing to mention is that she drowned when HMS Ebly was sunk in 1941.

Weather is lousy and another dozen cases of Malaria, dysentery and friendly fire have arrived. I wish someone would teach these privates to unload their guns before they try to clean them. Must go now and will undoubtedly miss the evening post if I don't drop this in the bag now. Cheer-oh and send all you know on Annie, Lila, a Darcy and an RAF Lieutenant. The news will be over a year old, but anything involving a Darcy has to be big and I'm curious.

Tiddles.

"Well." Thomas carefully folded the letter up and rubbed his chin before he picked up and began working once more. Tiddles had a magnificent way of putting things and there was really no escaping the situation. "Emil, do you know anything about a Lieutenant, a girl called Lila and a Darcy?"

"There was another girl." Emil had his head in a newspaper which came from Thomas knew not where. "Some girl, Anne, Annie, Annette...something along those lines. Shocking row back before Pemberley was bombed and the Darcy killed. Lila Thompson, decided for patriotism over power and started going about with a Supply Lieutenant in the RAF. The Lieutenant had a girl, Annie, but that was on the rocks because she was apparently nuts about the Darcy. The original article was commending such patriotism on the part of one of the most promiscuous climbers in all time, but it turned into a witch-hunt in no time flat. The other girl got thoroughly dragged through the mud, a country nobody who dared aim at a Darcy. They'd danced at the Netherfield Benefit or something similarly innocuous and the press decided that Darcy was having an affair with the girl. Came to nothing in the end because Darcy died, but there was belief for a while that he'd go the way of his father and marry a nobody."

"Much about anyone but the girl?"

"No, the press couldn't care less about the patriotism once it became clear that a Darcy was tied up in it all. They can't throw ___ at a Darcy, so they threw it at the girl. I believe she was hidden away and then shunted out of the country to avoid the press. Who's to say whether Darcy had anything to do with it, the girl was secretary to Old Ashie and apparently spent most of her time fetching cups of tea and writing excuses. If any good could be said for that old ___ it's that he wouldn't permit his secretary to be victimised in a Darcy scandal. Who knows how much of that was plain animosity against the Darcys and how much genuine care for the girl. I'd guess at the former."

"Seems this stuffy study acquaintance has run over the Lieutenant involved in the mess and he wanted to find out the full details. The papers in India don't seem to have covered the matter in much detail."

"December of '40 gets the dance. March and April of '41 get the rest of it. To get the real truth you'd probably best try and find one of the Darcy acquaintances."

"Right, yes, why don't I just go ask his Majesty the King of England about the matter...probably be easier." Thomas rolled his eyes and firmly finished his sketch before chucking his stuff back into its bag. "I'm going to catch some shut-eye."

"We're going dancing tonight."

"Good." Thomas rose to his feet and stretched wearily. It had been far too many hours since he'd last had a good sleep. Fortunately his current accommodation was close and he would soon get the sleep he wanted. Tiddles' Lieutenant sounded rather interesting.

Part 44

Posted on Monday, 24 January 2005

August 3rd 1942 - London, England

Never shake fizz, it will explode somewhere.

Kitty stared at the assortment of vessels on the tray. No one, not even Ashie, had ever even attempted to claim that it was a tray of tea cups with associated tea pot. The teapot was a lumpy monster of pottery with far too many eyes and a gaping mouth which should have made a horrible mess, but was actually dribble free when it poured tea. The monster also had the advantage that it could hold enough for twelve cups of tea, though it had been many years since twelve cups had needed pouring.

"I wonder..." Kitty half turned towards the tea tray which was used for more normal situations. The tea tray had sufficient cups on it, and a tea pot of sufficient size to fill. There were only four of them today, and except for Pyro none of them had anything to do with the other tray really. Kitty glanced back towards the tray, so many mugs on that tray, so many mugs whose owners were far beyond the reach of those mugs.

Pyro's mug was probably the most conventional, it was actually a mug, though the decorations implied modern art more than anything else. Abstract had been the word Ashie employed to describe the item. All Kitty knew was that she could feel dizzy simply looking at the whirls and twirls which decorated that mug. Florrie's mug was hand-carved and wooden, the handle supplied by a hideous face with bulging cheeks, popping eyes and was touching nose and tongue to permit a fingerhold. Kitty had received the impression that the work was Ashie's from some talk during one wet Sunday afternoon about two decades ago. The mug made Caroline wince. Sir David's mug was simply vast, holding what usually filled two mugs. It was heavy stoneware, chipped and flecked with things that sparkled and glimmered in any light. Kitty liked that mug, it reminded her of clear nights and starry skies. Elizabeth's mug was a bobbly effort very reminiscent of schoolgirl pottery and decorated with cheerful suns. Kitty had a vague feeling about that mug which had never been successfully squelched. For some reason Kitty always thought of Lydia when she touched that mug. It was as if she had a long forgotten memory of Lydia with that mug. The truth was now lost beyond any hope of recovery, Elizabeth was probably the only person who could have explained the origins of the mug, and she was over a decade dead.

"Kitty?" Caroline came into the kitchen with a slight frown on her face.

"Mm." Kitty looked up from the next item in her hands with an almost guilty start.

"Is something wrong?"

"N-no." Kitty hesitated, then glanced back down at her fingers. The next 'mug' was James', a noodle bowl from the far east decorated by the most beautiful fire-breathing dragons Kitty had ever dreamed of. The dragons coiled on the black laquered surface, their hides glittering and shimmering shades of green and blue, occasionally touched by yellow and red. The flames wreathed the rim, and looked real enough to burn. Kitty could not see the mug without also seeing James' eyes peering over the top, laughing and mischievous. James was so like his father, but those laughing eyes he had inherited from his mother. "Do you think James is alright?"

"I haven't the faintest idea." Caroline spoke firmly and Kitty couldn't help a pale smile.

"Sorry, I am asking far too often ... but I'm worried."

"You should be." Caroline's tone was dry. "You are the only surviving first-rank godparent and he has no parents to worry about him."

"But..." Kitty stopped in response to a look from Caroline. "I was wondering whether I shouldn't just bring out the regular tea service. We can use less than half the mugs on that tray."

"Pyro wouldn't stand for it." Caroline picked up the oddest item on the tray. Ashie's 'mug' was not designed as a drinking vessel, that was a unanimous conclusion, but there was no answer yet given to the question of what it had been designed for. Ashie had listened with obvious glee to these discussions of the origins of his mug, but he'd never said where it had come from.

"Do you know what that originally was?" Kitty nodded towards the mug.

"Certainly not." Caroline carefully replaced the mug on the tray. "Bring the lot, Kit. At least these are happy memories."

"Right." Kitty began cautiously spreading butter on the slices of bread on a nearby plate.

"Do hurry it up a bit, Pyro is beginning to eye the imitation fruit meaningfully."

"Would James remember that day?"

"He was five...I doubt it's clear if he does remember." Caroline spoke after a thoughtful moment. "Amazing how idiotic grown men can be."

"Not idiotic." Pyro's head was poking around the kitchen door. "That was a carefully conducted scientific experiment."

"That was my great-grandmother's imitation wax fruit and you idiots completely destroyed it!"

"Well it tasted rather better than expected." Pyro's face quivered slightly.

"Wax never tastes good."

"That stuff did."

"I knew you were drunk, but I didn't realise it was that bad." Caroline growled softly.

"You should have." Pyro grabbed one of the slices of bread. "Wouldn't have turned up that day except that Ashie was hell-bent on pounding some poor Bobby into the mud."

"He quit." Caroline's frown darkened.

"My dear Caroline, I hold no arguement on that subject. Ashie certainly didn't drink, but if you think that Florrie was above spiking drinks I have news for you." Pyro gave a small yawn. "Florrie would spike anything...including the gravy."

"I suppose you found it funny."

"Exceedingly." Pyro gave a sudden grin. "On a sober note, Chris is in London."

"And?" Caroline lifted her eyebrows interrogatively while Kitty's hand froze in the butter, her eyes on Pyro.

"Big fat zippo. Not a sniff or snort to be found of the boy. We couldn't have lost him more thoroughly if he was executed as someone else."

"That isn't funny." Caroline spoke after a silent moment.

"It wasn't meant to be funny." Pyro's expression became quite grim. "He's totally vanished Caroline. Said he'd be back for dinner and didn't come. Said he'd meet someone at lunch and failed to meet them even though he knew the appointment was a big risk for the other. Likewise the Gestapo do not have him and know even less of his movements than we know."

"That's some comfort at least."

"Minimal, he was expecting to be back in four months at the outside and this is the fifth month."

"I'm trying to find something to be happy about." Kitty picked up the tray with a jerk and moved towards the hall.

"Then certainly, it is a great comfort." Pyro's response earned him a dirty look.

"You're almost as cheerful as Hope today." Caroline picked up the bread and pushed Pyro out into the hallway. "What's she doing now by the way?"

"Swearing something shocking because the resultant drag on the tail demands reinforcement to such a degree that the empennage will fall off when the 'plane is sitting on the tarmac."

"It won't fall off in flight?"

"If you could get the 'plane into flight it would be fine since the lift of the tail plane compensates for the extra weight of the re-enforcement. She tried re-inforcing the connections and the result is an aeroplane so heavy there's insufficient lift, redesign the wings. Redesign the wings, need to redesign the tail for drag and so on and so forth ... she's getting rather monotonous."

"Can't they just concede that the design is an impossible ask?"

"It's Wallis, one of their designers, he's designed a bomb or something which is a bit too heavy so they're trying to design an aeroplane to carry this bomb." Pyro pushed the living room door open. "A ten tonne bomb, I ask you. We were lucky if we got a three hundred pounder to drop on the Hun."

"Three hundred pounders are for the flattening of buildings." Hope was chewing on her pencil. "This bomb is designed to start an earthquake."

"Do we need an earthquake?"

"You try hitting one of those old viaducts with your precious three hundred pounders." Hope spun to face Pyro.

"Don't think it can be done with the archie and lights they have these days."

"Hence the use for an earthquake bomb. It's cleaner." Hope turned back to her papers with a snort. "Hit within a couple hundred metres and you'll bring the lot down. I've heard that your precision bombers think it good to be only a couple miles from the target."

"They're dropping from thirty thousand feet."

"Irrelevent, they're given lots of practice."

"They hardly sign their bombs so they can tell whose bomb is whose." Pyro accepted his cup of tea.

"Dear, dear." Kitty handed Hope her cup of tea. "I think someone's worried that his squadron's all time bombing record is under threat."

"We were accurate to within one hundred yards...and if anyone betters it I'd damn well like to know how."

"Language." Caroline sank into her seat. "I thought you were meant to be on holiday, Hope."

"So's he!" Hope jabbed over her shoulder at Pyro, who already had his nose in a book.

"That's different." Pyro looked up. "I'm merely on holiday because I retired and have yet to find suitable replacement employment."

"You could perfectly easily continue flying."

"Garbage, about time someone else kept Mutt company at the mercy of your tongue."

"Pyro!" Caroline frowned at a clearly unrepentant Pyro.

"Well it's true." Pyro returned to his book with some inaudible mumble.

"What was that?" Caroline looked sharply across the room.

"Nothing." Pyro didn't even look up as he gave his short response.

"He crashed." Hope stared at the page in front of her, there were more corrections than actual calculations and she was starting to get a headache. "Another of these American wonders, undercart collapsed during testing for emergency landings and again their restraint system has proven inadequate. He'd have been in the bed next to Mac except that he'd read Mac's crash report and managed to avoid flipping."

"How is Mac?" There was a long moment of silence before Kitty spoke, and Pyro visibly relaxed when he realised that he was being left alone.

"Still immobile." Hope frowned at the page. "Perhaps if we over design the tail for drag..."

"Hope?"

"What do you want me to say?" Hope spun sharply on her seat. "Ellis is still completely paralysed, unable to move a muscle except those that move his eyes and enable him to breath. He can't talk, he can barely swallow and the doctors haven't the faintest idea what's wrong with him." Hope turned slowly back to the table. "They speak hopefully because Mac can occasionally swallow without having something jammed down his throat to make the auto-response swallow for him. They speak hopefully because there is apparently a reduced muscle wastage. They're happy because the evacuations they force from his bowels every day at regular intervals are healthy. I'm not bloody interested in their medical ______! Mac is not happy. Mac can hear aeroplanes, but he can't see them ... he can't even move his own head. Some day soon I'm going to have to go out to Cambridgeshire and tell James and Joscelyn that their Daddy is going to be stuck in hospital for the rest of his life. Joscelyn is going to blame herself because she feels it her fault that Mac fell down the stairs. James is going to look rather thoughtful and it's going to break my heart because he damn well looks like Mac's twin brother when he does that." Hope closed her eyes as her voice shook. "What do you want me to say?"

"That's probably more or less all you've got to say." Caroline spoke softly. "Pyro and Kitty have gone ... and trust me, it's better to talk this through than to bottle it up."

Oh, shut-up." Hope rubbed her eyes harshly and frowned at her papers. "I don't need being preached at."

"It wasn't meant to be preaching." Caroline rose rather stiffly and left the room. Hope drew a small geometrical what-not in the corner of her page before chewing on her pencil.

"Oh." Kitty's soft noise of surprise brought Hope's head up. Hope stared at the other woman for a long and silent moment. In Kitty, Hope had found something she fundamentally could not understand.

"Did you want something?"

"I had been going to ask Caroline if you were finished with the teapot."

"She left." Hope picked up the teapot and shook it. "Loads of tea left, but my mug is still full." Hope held the pot out to Kitty.

"Thanks." Kitty seemed to be hesitating. "Where did Caroline go?"

"No idea, she just left."

"Thanks." Kitty retreated, leaving Hope to stare at the closed door.

"What the hell..." Hope shook her head wearily, something had happened and she'd missed it.

"Swearing Hope? Never heard that before." Pyro came through the door while Hope was still staring at it and he was shaking his head slightly. "Really shouldn't do it old girl, hardens the arteries and causes coronaries."

"Oh, shut-up." Hope turned her glare on Pyro. "I've quite enough to deal with without you turning all idiotic on me."

"Ah, but nothing is better to annoy you than idiocies and I've been sent on a fact finding mission by the one and only Kitster."

"Why not just ask?"

"Because you're highly unlikely to answer if you're not annoyed. Kitty wants to know what caused Caroline to depart."

"Ask her." Hope turned her attention back to her calculations and bit her pencil. "Can't work it out myself."

"We already have ... or we would have except that she'd locked herself in her wing of the house and won't speak. Kitty wants to know if she should ask me to break down the door, or if we should just leave Caroline to come out in her own sweet time."

"Why on earth should it be necessary to bust the door down?"

"Slight matter of depression ... or at least I assume Kit means depression since she's her usual vague self. Not saying that Caroline is suicidal, but it's no use leaving her to glump over Ashie by herself."

"Ashie?" Hope's brows were knit in confusion.

"My former Squadron-Leader, snuffed it less than a year ago and engaged to her for thirty-some years."

"I..." Hope halted in response to a waved hand, Pyro wasn't going to permit interruptions.

"Ashie was a very sick man for twenty-five odd of his fifty-one years. Even I have no idea how sick Ashie really was, or even how often he was sick. Caroline knows both, for she knew him before he became sick and she was the only person he didn't mind seeing when he was sick. Mac's in bad shape and that's tough, but please don't kill us for trying to help." Pyro rose with a faint smile.

"Why don't you know how sick he was?" Hope was frowning darkly.

"Didn't know him." Pyro gave a small shrug. "I know medically how sick he was, but that's useless since medically he died before I met him. The Turks thrashed him a good year before we ever met."

"Oh." Hope gave a small shake of her head. "I am going upstairs...and Caroline will have more than a cucumber frame in bad repair if she tries to ignore me."

"Send Kitty down then. Battle of the Titans should be held for a restricted audience and Kitty and I will be quite content with audio only."

"Charming." Hope rolled her eyes and stalked from the room.

"Do you think if I over design the tail and redesign the lift factor of the wings that this 'plane might keep its tail and also fly?" Hope gave a thoughtful nibble on the end of her pencil.

"Why ask me?" Caroline poured out more tea. "I'm not the engineer here."

"No." Hope nibbled on her pencil again. "I might try it."

"You'd be in trouble if they ceased making wood pencils."

"Probably save me lead poisoning." Hope nibbled the side of her thumb as she scribbled away on the page. "What I really think they should design is a pencil which you can chew at the same time as writing without boggling your lines. So helpful for thinking...and it would help my nails no end."

"Never realised your nails worried you."

"They don't." Hope reached for her sliderule. "Used to, but I realised it simply wasn't worth the effort since nothing would save them."

"Bet Mac doesn't know she used to worry about her nails." Pyro grinned into his tea.

"You thinking that would worry him?" Hope looked up sharply.

"Telephone." Kitty's yelp prevented the incipient debate and she upset her tea as she dove for the door.

"Has she ever risen without upsetting her tea?" Caroline shook her head slightly as she threw the dishcloth over the splash.

"Not that I know of." Pyro put his feet on a nearby tabletop.

"Pyro!"

"Sorry." Pyro's expression was not particularly repentant as he moved his feet to a nearby footstool. "That is a significantly more comfortable height for the feet."

"I couldn't care less, I will not have feet on tabletops."

"Yes, sir." Pyro's mouth twitched violently as he vanished into his book.

"Dire emergency depriving us of Pyro's company?" Caroline looked almost hopeful as Kitty re-entered the room.

"No." Kitty's expression was quizzical as she looked at Pyro.

"She objected to my boots on that lovely little table." Pyro correctly interpreted the question and responded to it.

"Ah." Kitty gave a satisfied nod and resumed her seat, using a foot to scuff the dishcloth over the spill.

"Kitty, you are not going to tell us that you ruined a perfectly good arguement with a telephone call from the greengrocer about somebody's baby are you?" Hope's expression was almost warning.

"No." Kitty sipped her tea, grimaced, emptied her cup into the slop bowl and refilling from the teapot.

"Then what?" Pyro lowered his book with a frown. "You can't keep us on tenterhooks like this ... and please, tell us it was not Brian's idiotic wife interrupting another perfectly good arguement to ask whether you can ask a cook to make a roast beef dinner."

"Lucille is not idiotic and that was a perfectly reasonable question." Kitty frowned at Pyro. "It was not a telephone call, it was a telegram." Kitty emptied her second cup of tea into the slop bowl and picked up a slice of bread. "I'm hoping it makes more sense to the aeronautically minded members of this gathering." Kitty carefully bit her bread and chewed it. "Kites flying pissed controls hangovers lift eventually Mac ends."

"Well we know someone understands." All three women were staring at Pyro, who was almost sobbing with laughter.

"Aye." Pyro coughed before howling again. "Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful...Ashie couldn't have phrased it better."

"Translate it!"

"Do I have to?" Pyro's laughter had dissolved into a hacking cough as he fought for self-control.

"Nasty cough." Hope spoke quietly.

"Shut it." Pyro sucked in a deep breath and controlled himself. "Sorry about that ... been a bit too long and it was just ... fun." Pyro took another couple of cautious breaths. "Mac seems to be holding out on the medics. If I comprehend that telegram correctly he's got some degree of mobility and it's improving."

"Some degree of mobility?" Hope's face was expressionless.

"Something small like moveable digits ... something the meds could overlook." Pyro gave a small shrug. "Like Ashie said, nervous systems don't like getting jolted ... petulant prima donnas who raise the most frightful stinks over even the most minor disturbances."

"Thank you." Hope turned back towards her desk. "I'll let him know the next time I speak to him that the crash report was well-written."

"He'll be delighted." Pyro spoke rather dryly. "He was no end rude that it was insisted on." Pyro retrieved his book, found the page and settled back into it. "Someone find me tea, please."

"Lazy." Hope reached for the teapot and Pyro's mug. "I give you tea, but you'll play chess against me later."

"With a great deal of willingness, I love winning."

"In your dreams." Hope dumped the mug next to Pyro and picked up her pencil again. "What do you think Pyro? If I over design the tail and then request some wings to match?"

"It'll fly like a pig." Pyro glanced briefly over his book.

"Well it's better than requiring a wheel under the tail just to stop it from dropping off."

"Could a pig fly?" Kitty looked up from the knitting she had been inspecting.

"Not without some amendments and probably not without some propulsive help." Hope was busy with her sliderule again.

"Pigs produce methane don't they?"

"Everything produces methane ... what about it?"

"Dr Milton who lives up the street is powering his car by methane."

"What's he burning in it?"

"Green beans I believe ... the ones marked not fit for human consumption."

"Lovely." Pyro frowned. "N-no, I don't think they produce enough methane to convert it into a sufficient quantity of propulsive force."

"It's a starting point." Kitty put the knitting down again.

"Right, we have a pig, equipped with wings who can propel one millionth of its own weight by self-produced methane. A human glider is much the same." Hope's tone was thoughtful. "We'd need to maximise the angle of glide."

"Sugargliders."

"What? A spring enhanced pig with wings...doesn't classify as a pig any more."

"Nur-nur-nur." Pyro lowered his book. "Parabolic flight path of about twenty degrees. That is a ten degree improvement on what we have."

"Closer to twenty degrees and it will also need an empennage...that curly little tail won't do anything."

"That's the launch enhancement ... but you have a point." Pyro came over to the table. "Give us a clean sheet and draw a nice two hundred pound porker on it."

"Do we want a retractable airframe?" Hope was chewing on the side of her thumb as she drew quickly. "The wingspan will be a major problem when it tries to move on the ground."

"Retractable airframe will make it heavier...but it must be possible." Pyro settled on a nearby seat. "I think the old triplane model will be more appropriate than the monoplane type of today."

"It'll eat the canvas."

"Who said anything about canvas? Dual layer duralumin, armour plating and a couple machineguns to keep the hun on the hop."

"They're Nazis now old man ... and stop being so blood-thirsty." Hope was scribbling factors in the margin as she spoke.

"Blood-thirsty yourself. Just think of it, smoked bacon delivered directly to your doorstep."

"Just so long as it's not to my head." Hope paused. "The weight may be prohibitive."

"Shouldn't be for the airframe pattern is ... oh blast. Retracting ... means we can't cross brace."

"My point."

"Give the porker an armoured waistcoat and have it fold up on the centre wing."

"We'll need a locking mechanism then." Hope paused in her work. "Get more tea and find me another pencil while I punch the mathematics."

"Rubbish." Pyro grabbed the teapot. "This is not some bomber which is designed on almost identical lines. Definitely we'll need to develop this from first principles."

"Good, let's make it able to break 300 miles while we're at it and make it able to stand a Beaufort force 10."

"Lovely." Pyro refilled the mugs and grabbed a page and pencil for himself.

Kitty was frowning thoughtfully over her knitting, having long since despaired of understanding what went on at the table. Kitty was not so preoccupied by her knitting that she missed Caroline's small smile. It was a blessing that these two were so easily distracted by technicalities.

Part 45

Posted on Sunday, 30 January 2005

August 1942 - London, England

In the beginning there was nothing.

Samson Beverage had been drunk. Samson Beverage had been very, very drunk. Samson Beverage had been totally soused in point of fact. How Samson Beverage had reached the bed he lay in he had no idea at all, and it wasn't a comfortable bed. Even through the pain in his head and the general sensation of illness Samson Beverage knew that the bed he lay in was uncomfortable ... though it was probably a prince's suite compared to the gutter he'd probably have ended up in otherwise.

Samson Beverage had opened his eyes once and immediately regretted it as some ill-conditioned oaf kicked the percussion section which resided in his head. Samson Beverage was confident he would die.

"Drink." It was probably only a very soft comment, but it sounded like a deafening trump from on high. Samson opened his mouth automatically before gagging violently on the sour concoction which was poured down his throat. Samson had thought he was dying before and now he was confident that he was dead.

Drink." It was the same voice as before, but its overtones were not so agonising as before. The passage of time improved voices even if it had not improved anything else. Samson did not immediately open his mouth, he knew what was coming and he was only just recovering from the last mouthful.

"Ugh!" Sampson choked and gurgled, his mouth had been forcibly opened and the stuff tasted even worse when taken involuntarily.

"Perhaps next time you will have the wisdom not to refuse such offerings." The voice moved away and Sampson tried opening an eye.

Sampson Beverage was finally successful in opening an eye and he almost regretted it. The room was dingy, dirty boards covered in peeling paper and dust. There was a mirror on the far wall and it was cracked and dirty. Samson felt dreadful, but at least the room as steady and his eye had remained open. The top of his head was not connected to him any longer, but it didn't feel like it was rolling around on the floor anymore. Sampson carefully closed his eye, when the man with the drink appeared next time he was going to at least get a look at the stuff before it was forced down his throat.

"Drink." The same voice yet again and Sampson unshuttered one eye to inspect the owner of it. An old man, stooping, thin and silver-haired. The eyes were faintly amused and touched with commiseration. Clearly this oldster had been on a real binge at least once in his life, probably had had this foul concoction forced down his throat afterwards as well.

"Looks like pond scum." Sampson obediently opened his mouth and fought the desire to heave as the contents of the glass reached his tastebuds.

"Looks like pond scum, tastes even worse ... but it does the trick when you have a really smashing hangover." The man placed the glass on the bedside table and settled down on the edge of the bed.

"Where am I?" Sampson had been more than a little surprised for the oldster talked in cultured and cultivated tones. That voice was a voice which had done either Eton or Harrow and probably Oxford as well. It was not a voice such as usually connected with dusty and dirty rooms which were very reminiscent of the East End.

"Mrs. Meggles boarding house, Tapster Alley."

"Ugh." Sampson closed his eyes.

"Precisely." The oldster rose. "I presume you knew someone on the Malta Convoy."

"Yes." Sampson swallowed with great difficulty. Ted had been an Officeboy with him and they'd both been promoted to real journalism on the same day. Ted had enlisted when Sampson had been knocked back. Ted was now dead, to be found in the shattered remains of a sunken destroyer somewhere between Sicily and Malta.

"Tough." The oldster gave a half smile.

"He was laughing on his last leave." Sampson didn't know what had happened, but suddenly he couldn't shut up. He yammered on about Ted's last leave, of working at the office with him, of Ted's ambitions, Ted's girl ... oh hell, he'd better go find Daisy because she would undoubtedly take it hard. They'd been married during Ted's leave and Daisy was the sort which took things hard.

"Get some rest, you can't see Daisy in this condition."

"Hell." Sampson hunched a morose shoulder and cursed himself, he should have thought of Daisy before he'd hit the pubs.

"You wouldn't be an angel would you?" Sampson was feeling vaguely human when he staggered into the kitchen which was on par with the bedroom and found his host frying something on the stove.

"Not last time I checked the situation." The man looked up from the stove and studied Sampson rather intently. "You are somewhat lucky not to be an angel yourself ... you need to watch your alcohol consumption."

"Mm." Sampson sank into the chair he was waved to.

"However, I take it that you already know that and breakfast will be in a couple of minutes ... assuming they get some bread." The man pushed up a creaky window and then stuck his head out to look into the street below.

"We're not down there, Chris." The man who came in was surprisingly rugged up for the weather, wearing not just a hat, but a muffler and heavy coat as well.

"Hullo Stan, the victim has joined the living and don't tell me you've lost Daoud." Chris pulled his head back in and went to rescue whatever was on the stove.

"No such luck." Stan pulled his hat off and unwound the muffler with some alacrity. "The weather is far too hot for such attire."

"Mr. Darcy?" Sampson had jerked to his feet and he had a nasty feeling that his jaw was hanging open.

"I might have been, but no." Stan grabbed a nearby chair. "Standard Robinson, at your service, and I apprehend that you are acquainted with my illustrious relative."

"Nice to know you're related." Sampson sank back into his seat rather warily, it was simply uncanny. "I'll take it."

"Now why has he accepted the situation?" Chris paused in scraping the frypan to frown at Sampson.

"He's got a ring finger." Sampson rubbed his head and then yawned. "Mr. Darcy might be able to do many odd things, but I defy him to regrow absent digits."

"That is going to be a point of problem." Chris turned back to the frypan while Stan pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Daoud slid silently into the room and took the last remaining seat.

"Mr. Robinson also has a right leg." Daoud spoke softly.

"We're relying on that being as uncommon knowledge as Jim believed it to be." Stan's mouth tightened slightly. "I may have agreed to this masquerade, but I'll be damned if I let you chop me around to satisfy your demands for perfection."

"Oh, we weren't going to do that." Chris spun the plates onto the table with an expert flick. "Eat up before it becomes cold as well as inedible."

"I warn you, he's serious about that." Stan grabbed the plate nearest to him and began eating very quickly indeed. "Chris may have passed as a waiter twenty years ago, but he would never pass as a cook."

"You talk as if you ... " Sampson paused, uncertain of how to phrase what he was attempting to say.

"We speak as though we consider you an accomplice in our evil-doing already? Quite correct, and it is rather rash of us." Stan shovelled the last of his meal into his mouth. "Ask Chris to explain ... he's rather good at such things."

"It's the slight matter of James Darcy." Chris was calmly consuming the contents of his plate with an even expression which belied the poor quality of the food. "As you've noticed Stan has a reasonable resemblance to Jim and it has suddenly become worthwhile making some use of that resemblance."

"I have a headache." Sampson looked at Chris with an edge of dislike, he simply wasn't able to deal with these big words.

"James Darcy is missing in Europe." Daoud's tone was curt.

"Missing missing?" Sampson turned to look rather hesitantly at the man.

"Yes." Daoud met Sampson's look with a flat stare.

"Oh." Sampson didn't really know what else to say.

"Canaris doesn't yet know James is missing and we'd prefer he didn't learn about it." Chris picked the matter up where it had been left hanging. "Stan here is going to impersonate James Darcy in hiding until such time as either the fraud is revealed, the war ends, or we find James Darcy. You are going to help."

"Ah." There didn't seem much else he could say.

"He seems to understand as well as the rest of us do." Stan stretched his feet out and gave a yawn. "It's simple, Bev, you drop polite hints into the odd article of having seen the features of James Darcy. I will too pointedly deny my resemblance to the same person and keep up a pretence of trying to hide, while making it all too obvious that I'm trying to hide. We spend our time trying to persuade everyone that I'm not James Darcy and as a result persuade them that I most certainly am that certain someone."

"Ah." Sampson gave a small nod, no doubt it would all make sense later, but at the present moment it was simply confusing. Trying to persuade people you were someone by attempting to persuade them you weren't sounded too idiotic for words.

"Good." Chris deposited the plates in the sink. "There's a small flat in Tack Alley ... which isn't half so bad as it sounds. The key is in the pantry and it used to be Annie-Bug's so you'll want to clean it out a trifle. Title deed is actually part of the acknowledged Darcy Estate so you won't worry about rent and you can probably work it into your cover." Chris grabbed a nearby coat. "Beverage, do for him what you did for Jim last year."

"And he departs with his usual kind and caring words." Stan reached for the teapot. "Daoud here is the eyes in the back of our heads ... if he says duck you'd better. If Jim says duck simply assume you're about to be hit by something somewhere between ankle and ear."

"Meaning I'm not to believe a word you say." Sampson pushed the hair out of his eyes and sighed rather heavily. "When am I meant to accidentally observe you first?"

"Juliette de Bourgh Darcy is still in London." Daoud spoke rather firmly from the corner. "Claude would recognise the fraud so you'd best avoid him."

"Claude?" Stan looked up in surprise. "That weed wouldn't recognise anything."

"That weed would probably be a trifle suspicious if James Darcy became totally inept at mathematics ... and not even you can pass yourself off as a mathematician."

"Damn." Stan rubbed his nose. "Claude Watson ... no need to worry about Ashie, thank goodness."

"You never worried about him to begin with." Daoud spoke rather curtly. "Ashie either was in complete ignorance or was in it up to his eyebrows ... and I wouldn't be confident that he didn't know last time."

"Trust you to spoil things." Stan returned his attention to his mug. "Kill-joy, you might have permitted me some ignorance and happiness."

"Juliette de Bourgh Darcy would say exactly the same things."

"She'll probably have several more names and plenty more advice." Stan pushed his mug aside. "Where is Tack Alley?"

"Ask a Taxi Driver." Sampson abruptly rose to his feet. "I'll be late for work if I don't get moving."

"If you can walk past Ivy's Cake Shop on the corner of what was Cherningham Place at lunch time ... get cake at my expense if you like."

"Someone is very free with other people's money." Daoud shut the door behind Sampson before he spoke.

"Daoud, if you want me to be nice you will refrain from irritating me." Stan picked up his coat and then paused. "Giving unwanted advice and unasked for criticism is one sure hell-fire way of making me say that James can go hang for all I care." Stan wrenched his coat on and slammed out of the room.

"He's right you know." Stan had half finished the mug of tea before he spoke and Juliette had returned to the paperwork on her desk.

"Who's right and about what?" Juliette looked up and laid her pen down.

"Jim, Darcys are poison." Stan pushed his hand through his hair. "Worst of all I'm one of them and I've also realised that I'm just as bad as the rest of you."

"What have you done now?"

"Told Daoud that James could hang for all I care." Stan looked rather hesitantly over the top of his fingers.

"Do you actually think that?" Juliette's expression was simply curious.

"No." Stan rubbed his face. "Or, at least I don't think I want him to hang."

"Why would you want him to hang?"

"For having my face." Stan abruptly sighed again. "Sorry, I just can't cope with Daoud, he's too bloody suspicious."

"Daoud has reason for being suspicious." Juliette gave a small smile.

"Ten years in close companionship with Jim would drive anyone bats."

"I think it's closer to twelve or thirteen years."

"Can you tell Daoud for me that I don't want Jim to hang?"

"No."

"Damn." Stan slumped back on the chair.

"No point even talking to him." Juliette picked up her pen. "Daoud couldn't care less if you stated your intention of murdering James with your own hands."

"Why?" Stan straightened up.

"Because Daoud has a life claim on James Darcy and has had it since they first met in 1931." Juliette bent back over her work. "For unspecified reasons Daoud has not claimed that life yet, but it is certainly just a matter of time until he does decide to claim. You may rest confident that Daoud will claim before you have more than a half-hearted shot at it."

"____." Daoud stared at Juliette in disbelief. "Why does he keep Daoud around then?"

"It's safer than any other option. Daoud's life claim does mean that James' life is forfeit, but Daoud will make good and sure that life isn't lost until he's ready for it to go."

"What happens if Jim is dead by other means?"

"Daoud loses his honour and will take his own life."

"No." Stan stared at Juliette in disbelief. "He holds his own life in such little account that he'll take it if Jim doesn't die at his instigation?"

"No, he holds honour so high that if he loses it he doesn't consider life worth living."

"This ... it's..." Stan shook his head and made a vague gurgling noise before burying his face in his hands. "Is anyone so gothic these days?"

"Yes." There was a dryness to Juliette's tone and Stan looked up with an appologetic grimace. "Sorry, Sis, just in the dumps."

"I had noticed." Juliette rose to refill Stan's mug. "What brought you ... apart from the want to have a nice little rant of theatrical nature?"

"Damping, very damping." Stan gulped a mouthful of tea. "I'm taking you out to lunch so Sampson Beverage can recognise me."

"Then please remember I am not Sis." Juliette gave a small smile. "This lunch will be fun."

"I dislike that smile."

"You should." Juliette's smile widened by the faintest fraction and a glint came into her eyes.

"This is meant to be plausible you realise." Stan knew a touch of misgiving.

"Oh, of course." The glint became even more disquieting. "By the time we've finished lunch today everyone at Ivy's will be telling everyone in England that James Darcy is back in London, in hiding because of Canaris. As is to be expected his cousin Juliette is making the best of her only chance to entrap him when the competition can't get at him."

"Don't you ever get sick of such bitchiness?"

"It entertains me because I always start it." The smile twitched a little wider. "Given the choice between suffering the talk and making the talk, I choose to make the talk. You are a heaven sent opportunity to ensure that London doesn't totally forget that Juliette de Bourgh Darcy is an existance not to be taken lightly."

"Cat." Stan swallowed the last of his tea and rose to his feet. "Never realised what a cat you were, Sis ... but you really are a cat."

"Blue Persian, please, even you can't liken me to Diemos."

"What? That mothball is still alive?"

"In Africa with the secretary."

"Can I know what you've got her doing to help this little fib?"

"No." Juliette gave another smile. "Like any cat I walk my own path and woe betide any who try to interfere."

"Mm." Stan eyed Juliette with some misgiving, his right hand unconsciously rubbing a jagged scar on his left hand, the mark of a cat he had once interfered with. "Well, get me killed for Jim and I can promise I'll come back to haunt you for the rest of your days."

"Never fret, there will be only one death ... and it won't be yours."

"Definitely a Blue Persian." Stan settled back in his seat.

"Iron your shirt ... if you can. James wouldn't be caught dead with such a shirt on in London."

"I can't."

"Then go dig up Aunt Gardiner, claim to have just got off the train from up north." Juliette vanished into her bedroom leaving Stan to grimace. Stan had never met Mrs. Edward Gardiner in his life. Did James call her Aunt Gardiner like everyone seemed to, or did he call her some other name?

"What reason do I give her for lunching with you?"

"You don't." Juliette reappeared in a bathrobe. "If you're really that panicked I'll deal with your shirt after I've prepared myself ... just a warning that Aunt Gardiner will want to see you regardless." Juliette paused at the bathroom door. "He calls her Aunt Gardiner and you may rest comfortable that she will instigate all contact ... she will also consult me before she speaks to anyone if she thinks something is odd." Juliette closed the bathroom door firmly.

"I'll take my own shirt up." Stan pushed himself out of his seat. "I'll need the coat pressed as well won't I?"

"She quite possibly has a spare suit of Jim's up there and don't say no if she offers it."

"Cat." Stan pushed out of his seat with a sigh and slouched across to the door, he was fast learning why an eighteen year-old James Darcy had once spat that the worst curse on earth was parental friends. Juliette was being rather scary in some ways, but Stan was quite certain that she was actually the controlling force which prevented the whole situation from galloping out of all control. Who knew what would be happening if Chris Angel's initial proposition had not been fiddled with. Stan knew that he was considered expendable and it was a rather bitter pill to swallow that his life would be sacrificed if there was even the faintest chance that it might bring James Darcy back to England. Much as he might wish to curse the others, Stan realised all too well that in the end he had said yes when the issue was first mooted. Here was a silent toast to a James Darcy shirt and the sense of humour necessary to survive a masquerade of unspecified length. At least Juliette would get some malicious fun out of it.

Part 46

Posted on Sunday, 6 February 2005

September 8th 1941 - Cambridgeshire, England

Surprises come in all shapes and sizes.

"Nelli." Lucille had invaded the back part of the house at the request of Nelli and she now settled on the corner of the table in the housekeeper's room.

"You've mail." Nelli indicated the small pile of envelopes next to Lucille.

"You called me in here to give me mail?" Lucille rifled through the pile of envelopes and gave a gleeful little chuckle as she found the one addressed to her.

"No, I called you to get your mail because you were looking a trifle weary."

"Thank you." Lucille gave another chuckle. "Today I have discovered that I am heartless and practical."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hmm. Going to have to tell Annie about this one, I think she'll appreciate hearing that I'm considered sober, practical, sensible and insensitive."

"That's rather rude." Nelli frowned slightly. "What made you labelled insensitive?"

"I didn't agree with her when she said this house had a gothic atmosphere which totally tore at her sensitive nerves."

"How any house could have a gothic atmosphere when it contains you and fifteen kids by day is beyond me." Nelli rose and handed Lucille a small sheathe of paper. "The tendered menus for the next week."

"Nice." Lucille scanned the list. "Prunes again ... it took her a week to get over the last lot."

"Tough." Nelli blew out her breath in a short huff. "Take the kids on a camping trip if you want, but we're running out of coupons because of that woman."

"Ken said there was no chocolate ration." Lucille glanced over the top of the pages.

"That woman credit claimed them and ate the entire month's ration." Nelli gave a sigh. "The shop-keepers won't argue with her because they know we'll pay ... and we can't not pay because ostensibly we brought her here."

"I assume that's where the butter ration went as well?"

"Correct." Nelli spoke rather shortly.

"Thank goodness for Buttercup." Lucille let out a tired sigh. "I'll make some butter ... provided the dinner can be a whisker delayed."

"That woman will have hers on time and she'll have it dry." Nelli rubbed her face. "Any luck at moving her?"

"No." Lucille handed back the week's menus. "Apparently she's too concerned for her husband and practically prostrate."

"Well, go read your letter to Buttercup and get some sunshine."

"Thank you, Nelli." Lucille slipped off the tabletop and pushed the envelope into the pocket of her skirt. "Very kind of you to have rescued me."

"Rubbish." Nelli gave a sniff. "To claim to be a Lady ... and talk like that? It's vulgar and I'll thank you not to imitate her."

"N-no." Lucille gave a small smile. "If I decided to become a Lady I think I'd become the happy medium between Juliette and Anneliese. Juliette's poise, confidence and style with Anneliese's charm and friendliness."

"Then you will be a real lady." Nelli laid her pen aside and picked up the menus. "Go read your letter and I'll consult with Mrs. Butterworth."

"How much butter is needed for fudge?"

"A lot ... use Dandelion for butter as well and we'll have a tin for you and the kids."

"Thank you, Nelli." Lucille slipped from the housekeeper's room, scurried though the kitchen where Mrs. Butterworth was working with two of the girls on lunch. "Nelli's coming about the menus for next week."

"Lunch will be on time today." Mrs. Butterworth was frowning at the pudding which was halfway through preparation.

"Wonderful, I won't be late in collecting the kids then." Lucille shot out the back door, crossed the cobbled yard and dove into the shed which housed the two house cows. Both cows were out in the small holding yard and Lucille scrambled up onto a handy rail and hooked her feet underneath. Buttercup came over as Lucille tore the letter from its envelope.

Dear Lucille,

This is an effort in penmanship sent from Africa. Egypt to be precise and someday I intend to send you a letter written on the Nile itself. One feels quite like Cleopatra even if it is a dinky little rowing boat which is in imminent peril of sinking.

I am not on the Nile currently, though I was yesterday. It is fortunate I did not decide to write while on the Nile yesterday because that dinky little rowboat did sink and my employer is a far from capable swimmer. That sounds rather terrifying but I must confess it wasn't, the boat didn't actually sink, it just ceased to float and he jumped overboard thinking it was better to be in the river than in the boat on such occasions. Nothing like fishing employers out of muddy water to sit on a slightly submerged boat while you industriously attempt to paddle ashore. Roger, he seems to have no other name, is a trifle absent-minded and he does the most outrageous things on occasion. We were apparently in search of the German advance when we went paddling on the river. The Germans are not even remotely near the Nile as they are still several hundred miles away in the desert.

My job is not getting Roger from Cairo to Baghdad, it mostly is concerned with rescuing Roger from some prison, military or otherwise. My knowledge of civil and military law is expanding rapidly. If Roger's not in prison he is forgetting where he's meant to be or catching the wrong train. At least my work is neither boring nor predictable. Alastair was not joking when he said I needed to be able to work in chaos.

I am currently at my official desk and ignoring some paperwork which requires typing. My excuse is that Alastair has just been in the office and officially I am still talking to him even though he has left. By Alastair I happen to mean Alastair Bennet and he's been kind enough to drag me out to socialise whenever he's in Cairo, which isn't overly often. He's not a bad dancer and he certainly knows where the good food is to be found in Cairo. Perhaps this knowledge is not so surprising when put against the fact he's been out here since 1941. By the way, you might tell Brian that Alastair has a beard, a very big beard. They must be the only regiment where beards are not only acceptable, but practically obligatory. Not certain what he does I must confess, but they've all got these well-grown beards. Reconnaissance is I believe what they're up to, but I know enough to know that official releases are not always the reality. Alastair is taking me out to dinner tonight, which is why he invaded my office.

Paige is running for the hospitals and I assume he's alright, he certainly runs all day and comes in at night willing to run some more. Peter keeps the menagerie happy, with the exception of Eoan who demands my attention for his daily exercise. Hard to believe I'm a quarter of the globe away. How is life at the Castle? Would ask more questions except I shouldn't use any more paper.

Annie

"Lucille." It was Ken who came around the corner of the cow byre, his expression frowning.

"Ken." Lucille slipped off her rail and offered her hand to Ken. They moved away from the cow byres and around to the southern lawn.

"Grandmother wrote again." Ken pulled the delicate, gilt-edged and lavender scented paper from one pocket. "I'm to visit for Christmas."

"Not much of an invitation." Lucille's brows shifted slightly.

"It's a direct order, I am to visit." Ken checked slightly in his walk. "I do not like being ordered, particularly since I am head of the family ... yet I feel it important that I do visit my grandmother."

"Bit of a problem." Lucille settled down on the seat at the edge of the lawn and stared silently back across the stretch of well-trimmed grass at the impressive edifice which was Deraux Castle. Ken had clearly already made his decision, but as usual he wanted to talk it through and verify he'd made the right decision before he took action. Lucille couldn't help feeling that either Nelli or Pyro would be more appropriate, but Ken rarely consulted either of them.

"I cannot leave for either of Christmas or the New Year, for I have my responsibilities. Uncle James was very clear on the duties owing to Deraux and the seasonal celebrations. I was going to visit for my birthday in April next year ... unless I am required for some reason."

"It sounds very fair." Lucille nodded slowly. Lady Amabel would have to concede Christmas to her grandson, no one could argue with the duties required of the Earl of Deraux. For Ken to give his birthday to visiting Sussex was certainly a major concession. "We'll arrange to have your celebration in the week after your return ... unless you are requesting me to find something that requires your presence over your birthday."

"No. Pyro will be coming out later to talk to you." Ken responded gravely. "May Marmelade and I go fishing for the rest of the day?"

"You'll need to be back by five ... fudge party."

"Good!" Ken jumped to his feet, nodded politely and then tore across the lawn shrieking for Marmelade, the incongruous nickname given to James MacKenna long enough ago that Ken used it. Marmelade was Ken's closest friend, sometimes Lucille suspected he was Ken's only friend. Even with fifteen children in the Castle Ken kept to himself. It was not aloofness, dislike or snobbery which separated the boy from the others, it was something else. An indefinable something which James MacKenna seemed to posses as well. A quiet boy for the most part, but totally inflexible. If Kenneth Deraux felt something to be a duty, nothing could cause him to alter his behaviour.

"Wucy." Anna was two, an orphan and rarely to be found more than a metre from Lucille's ankles.

"Mm?" Lucille was engaged in staring down an obstreperous five year-old who was refusing to go to bed.

"Vis'ter." Anna tugged at Lucille's skirt.

"Right." Lucille gave a final admonitory glare at the unrepentent reprobate before turning to find herself confronted by the very last thing she expected to find in the nursery of Deraux Castle at eight o'clock in the evening. Juliette de Bourgh Darcy was impressive and intimidatingly regal in normal attire. In full ball attire, be-jewelled, be-powdered and with a careful touch of tasteful makeup, Juliette was all but terrifying. Lucille couldn't help the drop of her jaw, she had never seen anything the likes of what she was seeing now. This was a Juliette de Bourgh Darcy she had never met before.

"A moment of your time?" Juliette was making a decent show of composure, but shocked though she was Lucille detected a degree of unease in the other.

"Certainly." Lucille picked up Anna and lead the way briefly to the second nursery where she restored Anna to her bed. "Bedtime was actually an hour ago, but we were making fudge and as a result got to stay up late." Lucille led the way quickly downstairs and into the vast library. From the Library Lucille passed through a pair of French windows and out into the moonlit garden.

"Could I borrow a coat?" Juliette gave a small shiver as they passed out into the garden.

"Certainly." Lucille returned to the Library and lead the way to the front hall where she removed two large overcoats from the nearby coatroom. Lucille then lead the way back out into the garden. "No privacy in the house and anything which brought you out here dressed like that has got to be private." Lucille pulled on one of the coats and helped Juliette into the other.

"Disapprove of my attire?"

"N-o." Lucille paused. "You always dress correctly for the occasion ... except for right now. Clearly something has occured and you are in a hurry."

"Profound." Juliette paused, tugging thoughtfully on a nearby branch. "Yes, I did come in rather a hurry."

"Spit it out then." Lucille gave a grin as a faint frown drew Juliette's brows together.

"One is tempted to ask the flowers how Brian managed to marry such an infuriating woman ... but I will refrain."

"The flowers would probably respond that she is only infuriating to you because she uses slang and offends your sense of what is proper ... but I shouldn't put words in the mouth of flowers."

"Very, very like your sister." Juliette's mouth tightened briefly. "Jeroen was in error there, you are not the other extreme which balances Annette."

"Certainly not." Lucille gave a sniff then frowned. "What do you mean by very like Annette?"

"Exactly what I said." Juliette paused and turned their movement back towards the house. "I acquired the bad habit of refraining from asking questions of an inanimate object from James ... but you and Annette are the only two I have ever met who even consider answering back on behalf of the inanimate object who was not queried."

"Well..." Lucille paused and then scratched her head. "I think it's because we weren't allowed to argue."

"Weren't allowed to argue?"

"It got on mama's nerves when we argued and then she'd have hysterics ... so we weren't allowed to argue."

"I see." Juliette paused. "How does that lead to answering on behalf of flowers?"

"Annie and I never agree and if you're not allowed to argue you have a problem. No idea when it started, but you can't be accused of arguing when you're merely holding a philosophical debate as to what a flower might feel about something."

"Ah." Juliette turned and they headed back out into the garden again.

"Very like a cat." It was several minutes and two laps of the garden later when Lucille broke the silence by speaking.

"What is like a cat?" Juliette turned her head slightly.

"You." Lucille paused only briefly. "Independent, aloof and yet exceedingly loyal once you've decided to be loyal."

"Stan calls me a cat for other reasons ... why the comment if I may ask?"

"You've decided not to say what you came here to say."

"That accounts for independence and aloofness ... loyalty?" Juliette's brows were slightly raised.

"I'm rashly assuming what you were going to say concerns another ... otherwise, well, Brian came over on a weekend off and was annoyed because of something concerning Ken. I do not understand what the problem was and I probably never will, but Brian tried to explain ... and in the process said more than he intended to and left in the foulest of foul moods."

"Cryptic."

"Of course, I'm learning how to be a lady worthy of my position in this house." Lucille swept a neat little curtsey. "Suffice to say that one of your two dark little secrets was divulged to mine indiscreet ears and I've had to take some hasty lessons in discretion."

"Two dark little secrets?"

"Certainly, one concerning your grandmother and the fact that though you still play the part of golden-haired little angel full of adoration, you actually have the decidedly obnoxious task of ... " Lucille obediently halted at a gesture from the other.

"I wasn't aware that Brian was privy to that secret." Juliette's mouth tightened fractionally before relaxing again into what almost amounted to a small smile. "Do forget it, that ended when I went to Belgrade."

"If you insist." Lucille turned as they reached the house wall and moved out across the garden again. What Juliette said may, or may not, have been the truth, but if it was truth then the other secret was not one Lucille wanted to know. Lucille suspected Juliette had not been entirely truthful, it had been eight years since Juliette had gone to Belgrade, and surely Brian would not consider something that out of date still relevant for annoyance.

"I take it the Dowager Countess wants Ken for Christmas." Juliette moved on from the silence which threatened to be never-ending.

"Yes. Brian was outraged that she even request his presence, Ken merely concerned with how to refuse without causing too much offence. He seems to take his duties as Earl of Deraux rather seriously."

"Anyone who's had Ashie as Guardian would take being an Earl seriously." Juliette hesitated briefly. "Being good is not difficult for these people ... where they hit the rocks is remembering that they occasionally have to be human and selfish. If you can teach Ken to enjoy himself while still being a good Earl ... then you will have done something real."

"Thank you." Lucille gave a tired smile. "I consider it real enough when I achieve two seconds of order in a single day." Lucille moved more purposefully towards the house. "Would you like a room for tonight?"

"If you have one to spare, I would be grateful." Juliette followed Lucille into the house, perhaps it was time to admit that she was a little tired.

It was almost two in the morning when Juliette rolled from her bed, looked briefly out the window before abruptly scrambling into a pair of thoroughly despised trousers and an equally despised shirt. Lucille had left the garments 'just in case' and Juliette had been quite confident she would not want the items. Juliette checked the view again as she laced her shoes up and then hastened down the stairs. Not for anything or any emergency would Juliette have left her room in a nightgown, robe and slippers.

"Lucille, you're not trying to catch a chill by any chance are you?" Juliette drew level with the small, pale figure which she had noted on the lawn.

"No." Lucille shook her head.

"Trouble with a child?"

"No." Lucille gave a thin smile. "Trouble with a child would have me in the nursery, not moseying around on the lawn."

"Tis polite to ask after children first." Juliette gave a small shiver. "So what does cause this midnight ... moseying?"

"Just unsettled." Lucille gave a small shrug. "It's no matter."

"You can lose sleep over something and call it no matter?" Juliette's brows rose slowly. "Even I'm not so ignorant as to think that children are easy to manage."

"He's not dead is he." Lucille's quiet comment caught Juliette completely off balance.

"Sorry?"

"Your husband." Lucille flicked a finger towards Juliette's left hand. "He's not dead is he."

"Why say that?" Juliette's brows drew together, she was painfully aware that her defensiveness more than answered the remark.

"You're pulling at your wedding band ... which curiously enough you'll wear at night even if you never wear it during the day. You do not strike me as someone who feels any loyalty at all for the dead be they ever so important when they were alive. Implies you've a good idea already what worries me and possibly you have the same concerns yourself."

"Not precisely intelligent." Juliette grimaced slightly as she abruptly pulled the two rings from her left hand and restrung them on the necklace they usually hung from. "Full of commonsense and quite able at observing. Be ideal if she could learn to hold her tongue." Juliette wrinkled her nose and gave a small shake of her head. "That was written about you by Ashie ... and I was idiot enough not to keep it in mind."

"Very kind of Ashie, but I don't think it comforts me."

"It should." Juliette gave a small smile. "It merely means that you can think for yourself and notice what is happening around you." Juliette paused. "I have no idea whether he's alive or not. I thought him dead in 1939 ... I learnt otherwise in 1941. I then thought him dead in 1941 and again I learnt otherwise ... now I presume he's somewhere and doing something until such time as someone shows me the body ... and even then I'll probably have my doubts."

"Such a trusting little wife." Lucille paused. "I'm wondering what happens to me if Brian dies? We've adopted four orphans and a widow's pension will not support us. I could take up dressmaking, and yet..."

"What of Pemberley?" Juliette paused slightly in her walk.

"We can use the grounds and ten percent of the net profit of the entire estate, everything else just feeds back into maintenance and increasing the capital. Brian is not the heir, he is simply a regent. If Brian dies I will not become regent in his stead and therefore I will have no income but my pension."

"If Brian dies, who replaces him?"

"I don't know." Lucille paused to rematch her steps with Juliette's. "Brian says it's convoluted and won't talk about the matter."

"Who's Brian regent for?"

"I don't know. It's something about the Darcy bloodline, and Brian says it's tied up in the old fight with your grandmother."

"Probably all engineered to ensure that by no chance at all will Lady Catherine get her hands on a penny. We really are the most insane people on the planet ... not that I blame the situation on anyone but my grandmother, she did breach rather too many unwritten rules of appropriate behaviour."

"Do I correctly assume that a question about that matter will be unappreciated and listed as none of my business?"

"What a sage and wise little pipsqueak this one is." Juliette shook her head violently, clearly shaking something out of her mind. "If anything happens to Brian, take my word for it, you will not be turned off the Pemberley Estate should you take up residence there. You may be required to work a bit, like you work here, but you will not be turned out."

"I have no idea why I trust you on that point, but I do." Lucille gave her own head a brisk shake and turned them back towards the house. "Sorry to have disturbed you, thank you for your company and whether you like to hear it or not I really must say that you are one of the very few women I know who can wear trousers to advantage."

"Clothes are very important to you."

"Of course they are." Lucille looked mildly surprised. "Should they not be?"

"No, but not everyone appreciates the importance of clothes and it can be pleasant when you do meet a similar mind like that." Juliette gave a brief nod, accelerated her walk and disappeared into the house.

"Oh." Lucille pondered the comment for a moment before she herself re-entered the house. Insensibly enough she found herself thoroughly reassured by Juliette's calm reassurance that she would always have a home at Pemberley, even when she could not afford to live anywhere. Now one only had to hope that Brian could remain alive.

September 1942 - Tempsford, England

'Tis a single straw which can break the camel's back.

Welding. Brian knew just enough to know that it was an art best left to others. The fitters must have been busy for quite a period for the early morning air was thick with the tang of welding. If there was any grim note to consider, it was probably that it was Brian's own Lizzie which was under the arc at the present moment. Last night had been a lousy flight and it would not be a matter of the odd rivet or two to render it airworthy again.

"Gibbous!" The sharp call carried easily across the field and Brian turned to see something which came very close to damping his good mood. Group-Captain Vivian 'Mitre' Talbot was now the highly skilled pilot of a Whitehall desk. It was a job-type Brian had been exerting not a little ingenuity to avoid during the past few months, even though he knew that more than one person wanted him to accept the job. Brian was in a remarkably happy mood this morning because he was pretty certain that he had staved the dreaded desk off for several more months, and as a result he did not mind overly much the sight of his former C.O. striding across the field with an expression which boded ill for most people.

"Mitre." Brian stopped his own perambulation to let Talbot catch up to him.

"You are a nuisance."

"Oh?" It wasn't a question, they both knew that Mitre would express himself with great freedom and at great length on whatever it was which had brought him out to Tempsford.

"You continue to refuse information to the Airboard."

"I can hardly tell information I do not know." Brian had expected this complaint and he continued to take comfort in the fact that he officially did not know the whereabouts of James Darcy, the fact that he had recognised a man standing by a hedge was totally beside the point and irrelevent. "As requested I have asked around and I can inform anyone with a great deal of authority that unless he was acting on behalf of the Admiralty, James is still in England and has no intention of leaving. I can also notify you that no one has seen James since the end of March and no one knows what his intentions were or where he might be."

"Thank you." Mitre scribbled briefly on a small notebook and then closed it with a snap and returned it to his pocket. "Quite amazing what you can get a holiday for these days. How's the flying?"

"I think I've staved the desk off again."

"I'll confirm that you have ... it was about five minutes off when the request came in." Mitre gave a brief smile. "Interesting to note that you weren't interested in Africa."

"You send me to Africa and you can be the person who breaks the news to my mother and wife." Brian began to walk again.

"I can't do private interviews with family members just because they're being sent overseas."

"Well, you send me to Africa and I can promise that a private interview is what you will have with my wife. I am not even going to attempt telling her I've been sent overseas."

"Why?"

"Tarter?"

"No." Brian smiled slightly. "Just doesn't want me overseas."

"The Airboard can't pander to wives."

"The Airboard will pander to my wife if they want to keep me in this war." Brian felt his fragile control abruptly slip. "The amount of ____ I've had from you sods since I've been flying here is unbelievable ... and you can tell that to the Air-Marshall with my blessing. I may know James Darcy. I may have grown up with him, but kindly remind them that I am three years his senior and not his social equal. If you can kindly drive it through the marble blocks which pass as heads at the Air Board that James Darcy confides in no one, I will be happy. Jim doesn't even confide in his wife."

"He has a wife?" Mitre's brows shot upwards in surprise.

"Figure of speech." Irritation flashed across Brian's expression and he took a deep and careful breath. "Sorry to blow like that, sir, but last night was a bit of a rough flight and I really don't need the Air Board on my back about Jim at the present moment. I have no idea where he is and no idea what he's doing ... all I can say is that I pray to God that he's still alive."

"The Air Board want to know where he is because he has too much information."

"Well, tell the Air Board to chat with the Admiralty. The Admiralty sent James on his current mission so if anyone knows where he is they should."

"Mr. Darcy didn't return as ordered, he elected instead to send some ex-MAGI agent back in his place."

"So the Air Board are jumping on me because the Admiralty are jumping on them?"

"That and the fact that you were the pilot of the flight which Mr. Darcy was meant to come back on."

"____!" Brian turned restlessly on his heel, sighed, then abruptly turned back with a darkening expression. "No, I've had it. Go tell the sods I'll train pilots for them ... but I'm not starting until January, my nerves are not up to the rigours of Flight Training School yet. You might as well tell them I'll only train out Cambridgeshire way ... hell, I'll tell them myself." Brian abruptly turned and stalked towards the Nissan huts.

"Don't you have a flight coming up?"

"Not with my Lizzie such a mess as it is." Brian poked his head around a door and conferred briefly with whoever was within before grabbing Mitre's arm and dragging him back towards the car. "Nothing else to do up this way I hope."

"No."

"Good." Brian slid into the driver's seat. "Take hold of your hat, for I'm going to try and break Jim's record for getting to London."

"Why?"

"Because I'm in a bad mood." Brian paused with his finger on the starter. "What's the talk of Jim being seen in London?"

"Precisely that, talk. If it really was Mr. Darcy he hasn't shown hide or hair of himself since, though the papers certainly were in a tizzy for a couple of days."

"He might well be in hiding ... he'd be furious he got caught by the papers in that case. Has any paper tried cracking Juliette?"

"Miss de Bourgh Darcy has proven somewhat elusive to the press." Talbot took a firm grip on the door as the car hurled itself through the gate with a great deal of thrown gravel. "Please don't crash me."

Continued In Next Section