Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

An hour later, Langham’s smile ached. Philly took him by the arm and steered him outside. “The British wouldn’t know a real sandwich if it bit them in the ass,” she said. “Those little triangles are pathetic. How you guys ever won India beats me. We’ll take a walk.”

They strolled over to her Hampden. “Why did you do it?” he asked.

“For fun. Why else? Speaking of which, Zoë tells me you two are having trouble in the sack.” He nodded. “You don’t play Hide The Salami any more. Did used to. Don’t now.”

He walked away, kicked a tire, came back. “There are some things you can’t buy. Not even you.”

Her eyes widened. “If you can’t cut the mustard, that’s cause for divorce and I can buy that in ten seconds, don’t kid yourself, sonny.” She snapped her fingers. He saw that her hand was trembling. A pulse in her throat was throbbing furiously. One thing he had learned to recognize was fear. This woman was afraid. What a surprise.

“Why make such a fuss?” he asked. “You’ve got a son in Africa, haven’t you? Rhodesia? Tell him to do his ghastly family duty.”

“He can’t. When he was eighteen he had cancer of the testicles. Lucky to live, but he’s not a man any more. Men are so damn weak.”

They walked on. For the first time in a month, he felt calm. “You’re a selfish bitch, Lady Shapland,” he said. “You’ve always got what you want, and it’s never enough. You’ll never see fifty again, will you? And you’re desperate for Zoë and me to breed, so your whole rich stupid life won’t be a waste.”

“Congratulations, kid. I just cut you out of my will.”

“There you go again. We speak different languages. You’ve bought a Hampden. So what? We lose a couple of kites like this one every month. Go ahead, buy another kite, buy two, it won’t replace eight dead men.”

“They’re young, they don’t know what they’re losing. It’s harder when you get older. You’ll see.”

“Highly unlikely.” He spoke so crisply that she was silenced. They walked back to the Mess.

That night he was on ops. The target was Gelsenkirchen but industrial haze blotted out the Ruhr valley and Jonty got hopelessly lost. Langham prowled around at fifteen hundred feet, searching and failing, breathing the chemical stink of a thousand factories. Even the searchlights were baffled by the pollution. In the end he gave up and went home via Schiphol aerodrome, which he could see clearly, and he bombed it instead. Everyone bombed Schiphol. It was the dustbin for leftover bombs.

Still, the crew had earned their bacon and eggs, which they never got. Fog was thick over East Anglia, Kindrick was closed, Langham got diverted to West Raynham, canceled, diverted to Feltwell, canceled, and ended up at Abingdon in Oxfordshire, a big Operational Training Unit. Bombers were packed all over the field. No breakfast. They slept on blankets in a hangar. It was midday before they landed back at Kindrick. There was a flap on, reports of a German battleship in the North Sea, all crews to briefing, all Hampdens bombed up. Soon that got changed to mines: Gardening at Rotterdam. Fresh briefing. Then the mines came off and the bombs went back on again. No briefing. Nobody cared any more. Too much climax and anticlimax. At nine p.m. the whole shambolic op was scrubbed. Everyone cheered and headed for alcohol except Langham, who drove home through the mild and scented evening air.

He was met at the garden gate by a delirious boxer puppy. It barked endlessly, scattering spittle, and leaped at his legs. “Get off, you brute!” he shouted, waving his cap at it. The dog jumped, trying to bite the cap. This was fun.

“Don’t do that, darling,” Zoë called. “He’s just being friendly.”

“Make the bugger shut up, then. I’ve got dirt on my bags.”

She hurried down the path and clipped a leash to the dog’s collar. It stopped barking and began chewing her shoes. “He’s pure boxer,” she said.

“He’s pure menace. What’s he doing here? You’re not looking after him, I hope.”

“No, he’s mine, I bought him.” As they walked to the cottage the dog lunged to left and right, desperate to eat a flower or catch a moth. “Heel, boy! Heel, I say!” Encouraged, the dog lunged more fiercely.

“You bought him. Why?”

“Oh, because. You take him, darling. My hand hurts.”

They went in. He tied the leash to the leg of a sofa. The dog raced away and was stopped, choking. “It can’t stay here,” he said. “It’s completely batty.”

“No, he’s not, he’s sweet! Don’t you remember, you gave me that little porcelain boxer?” It was on the mantelpiece. “I’m all alone here. I need a friend. What’s the matter?”

Langham was sniffing, slowly turning, searching. “Something smells in here. A peculiar stink.”

“It’s not his fault, my love. He’s just a little doggie, you mustn’t blame him if he…”

Langham was scrutinizing several dark patches on the carpet. “The damn thing’s crapped everywhere,” he said. He saw more. “There isn’t anywhere it hasn’t crapped.”

“It’s not his fault, and besides…” She took a small bottle from a shelf and quickly sprayed the darkest patch. “There. Now I’ve covered up the nasty smell, so everything’s all right, isn’t it?”

His nose twitched. “What is that stuff?”

“Chanel Number Three.”

He laughed so much that he had to sit down. The dog stopped chewing the sofa leg and began chewing his shoe. “Has this hound got a name?” he said.

“Of course he has. I call him Handyman, because he’s always doing little jobs about the house.” That was even funnier. She smiled. It was a long time since she had seen him so happy.

“He seems to have a taste for feet,” Langham said. “What have you been feeding him on?”

“Jam doughnuts, darling. And beer. I read somewhere that dogs like beer.”

Now Langham was too exhausted to laugh. “Jam doughnuts,” he said. “Beer. My poor sweet angel. You don’t know anything, do you?”

“Well, daddy would never let us have pets when we were children.” She sat on his lap and unbuttoned his tunic. The puppy fell asleep with his mouth full of shoelaces. After a certain amount of kissing, she said, “Handyman’s not the only stinker here.”

“That’s honest sweat.”

“I’ll run an honest bath for you. Stay there.”

The bath smelt powerfully of exotic oils and essences. “This isn’t Chanel Number Three, is it?” he asked as he eased himself into surprisingly hot water. No answer. His skin tingled in a way that he hadn’t felt since winter afternoons at Clifton, rubbing pungent embrocation on his shoulders before rugger matches.

After a couple of minutes he found himself looking at an erection. He splashed it, but it didn’t go away. After ten minutes it was taller than ever. He stood up and watched it. Fresh air made no difference. “Come and look at this,” he called.

She came in. “Well,” she said. “There’s a thing.” She flicked it gently with a fingertip. It shivered like a flagpole in a wind.

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“Well… promise you won’t be angry, because… the fact is, Flemming gave me some special bath salts. He said a handful might help but I’m afraid my hand slipped and the whole boxful went in.”

“Flemming.”

“Yes. He told me he trained as a vet.”

Langham looked again. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

“Come with me.” She led him out of the bathroom. “I’ll see if I can find a good home for it.”

Next morning it poured with rain. Handyman liked that. He romped around the garden and came in, soaking wet and muddy. “Who cares?” Langham said. “Worse things happen upstairs. Tubby Heckter bought it, for instance.”