Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

It was too early to call.

Back in the bedroom, he placed the folded contact sheet under his Alistair MacLean novel and got back into bed.

He re-awoke to the sound of Georgina on the phone downstairs. Squinting at the alarm clock, he was surprised to see it was after 9AM.

Georgina’s conversation reverberated through the house. Some mention of a new department store in Salisbury.

“We’ll go together. What larks!”

He wondered what plans were being hatched, fearing they would involve him.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Georgina was climbing the stairs; she poked Millie’s spare tyre as she passed.

“Ow!”

“We’re going to have to get you a bigger towel.”

He put his hand on his tummy. “It’s all paid for.”

“Well, let’s get back into our Sunday walks.”

She disappeared back into the bedroom.

Millie followed. “Been making plans?”

Georgina adjusted her make-up in front of the dressing-table mirror. “We’re going into Salisbury with the Mays.” She spoke through contorted lips as she applied a red coat of lipstick. “There’s a brand new department store. Turner’s.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be too excited, Millie. You and Rob can always disappear off to the pub early.”

She closed the lipstick with a flourish.

“Right, well, I’m going to get milk.” Georgina danced down the stairs. “Be ready by the time I’m back.”

Millie heard the door open and shut.

He retrieved the letter from under The Guns of Navarone . He shuffled down the carpeted stairs, holding the towel in place, leaving damp footprints in his wake.

He lifted the green telephone receiver and dialled.

The phone rang four times; Millie tapped his foot.

Finally, a woman answered. She spoke slowly in an ancient, shaky voice.

“Oxford, five-four-four-one. Professor Belkin’s residence.”

“Oh, hello. I was hoping to speak to the professor, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?” said the woman, enunciating every word.

“My name is Milford.”

She set down the receiver.

“ A Mr Milford for you, Professor .”

Another age went by.

“Hello, young Charles. How can I help you on a Saturday?”

“Actually, it’s not Charlie. It’s his father here.”

“Oh. Hello, Mr Milford. What can I do for you? I hope everything is well?”

“Yes, it’s all fine. This is all rather unusual, but I wonder if I could speak to you about a matter of some urgency to me and one which is, I’m afraid, rather sensitive.”

“Is this to do with Charles? Is everything normal at home?”

“No, I mean yes, everything is normal but no, this is not about Charlie. It’s about me. I need your help.”

“My help? Goodness, this sounds exciting. Please ask away.” The professor had a warm, whimsical quality to his voice.

“As I say, it’s rather sensitive, but in simple terms I need to do a lot of repetitive mathematics. Rather too much for the human mind. I don’t think it’s too complicated, just beyond the normal powers of a human. At least it would take an inordinate period of time. And I recall you have a bombe. Is that what it’s called?”

“We used to have, as you say, a bombe, but I’m afraid it has recently completed its last calculation. It’s currently dismantled and I believe in a skip behind the mathematics department. Such a shame. The old girl had a hand in winning the war, you know.”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” Millie sat down on the small bench next to the telephone table.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Belkin. “But it’s all about the computer now and we needed the space.”

“You have a computer?”

“Yes, we do.”

“That might be even better.”

“Might it? It’s an IBM mainframe. It uses different methods of inputting the numbers from the bombe. I’m afraid it’s all rather specialised. Punch cards and magnetic tape.”

“I have magnetic tapes.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but they’re for a different computer. Will yours be able to decipher them do you think?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I have a small army of technicians who do all that stuff. I have a vague notion of how the numbers are laid out. Something called ASCII. But beyond that I can’t really say.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps we could try it. If you would find that helpful?”

“That would be wonderful. Maybe I could drop the tape off for you today?”

“Today? You are in a hurry, aren’t you, Mr Milford?” The professor paused. “Am I right in thinking you are an officer in the Royal Air Force?”

Millie heard the car pulling back into the drive.

“I am, Professor, and I am very much in need of some help. I must ask for your absolute discretion, and that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone, including my son. Can I visit you today?”

“Why not? Rhodes Cottage, in Merton Street. It should be easy to find.”

Millie scribbled down the address and directions next to the telephone number, just as the door opened and Georgina breezed into the room.

“Goodbye.” He hung up.

Georgina stared at him. “Millie, you’re not even dressed, for goodness sake! And who on Earth was that on the telephone?”

“Charlie.”

“Our Charlie?”

“Yes. Look, I feel bad that I missed dropping him off at the beginning of term and he called to ask about my cricket bat. I thought I would deliver it to him. Give me a chance to see his new rooms.”

Georgina put down the car keys on the sideboard in the hallway.

“You’re going to deliver your cricket bat to Charlie?” She tilted her head at him.

“Yes.”

“In Oxford?”

“Yes. He has an end-of-term match, and he wanted to borrow it.”

“But Charlie gave up cricket at school.”

Fishing rod. I should have said fishing rod.

“I know. But they’ve invited him to play and he wants to and I said yes.”

She pulled a silk headscarf from a coat hook and draped it over her hair. “I see. So you won’t be coming to Salisbury with Mary and Rob? And you’ll need the car.”

“Please don’t make a thing of it to Rob. Tell him I’m very sorry to miss it and that we’ll see each other at the cocktail party tonight. Tell him I’ll drive.”

“OK,” she said, and finished tying the scarf under her chin. “Well, give him my love. Of course, we’ll see him in three weeks.”

IN HIS COLLEGE COTTAGE, Professor Leonard Belkin sat at the kitchen table with a copy of The Times , folded to reveal the cryptic crossword.

After solving one clue, his mind wandered to the unusual telephone call.

“Mrs Lazenby,” he called out.

A small woman in her eighties appeared at the kitchen doorway.

“We are expecting a guest, Mrs Lazenby.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked, looking at the kitchen clock.

“Today.”

“ Today ?”

“Today,” he confirmed.

He watched as she turned this news over in her mind.

“What time are we expecting this guest?”

“This very afternoon, would you believe?”

“Shall I fetch some tea from Danbury’s?”

“I think a selection of cakes from Danbury’s would be most excellent.” He thought for a moment. “I think it best not to mention this visit to anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“No-one, perhaps I should say.”

“I would never—”

“Mrs Lazenby, I know you would not. I’m just being cautious.”

She nodded to the man whose house she had kept for thirty-seven years. “Of course, Professor.”

As she left the room, Belkin picked up his pen to continue with the crossword.