Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“So would I.” She hadn’t stopped knitting.

Zoë took the revolver from her other skirt pocket. “If you don’t give me fifty pounds, I’ll shoot this man.”

Silk put his hands up. “She’s quite mad,” he said. “I’d pay her, if I were you.”

“If I had fifty pounds,” the woman said, “I’d be at the races.”

“It’s a real gun,” Zoë said. “Look: give us the money and we’ll take you to the races.”

She put down her knitting. “He’s a nice boy,” she said. “What good would it do to shoot him?”

“Ten pounds.” Zoë opened the checkbook. “It won’t bounce, I promise.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll let you have a room and bath, and a plate of ham sandwiches, for the afternoon, for a pound.”

“Done,” Silk said, and lowered his hands.

“It’s not like this in the movies,” Zoë said.

“I was your age once,” the woman said. “I know what it’s like to be young. I eloped with an Italian count when I was nineteen. We ran away to Gretna Green and the blacksmith married us, but it turned out he wasn’t an Italian count, he was a vacuum-cleaner salesman with a wife in Cardiff. Still, he was lovely in bed.”

Silk gave her a pound.

“Use any room,” she said. “A hotel with no meals doesn’t get many guests.”

“I’m on the run from the police,” Zoë said. Silk groaned.

“I get the occasional deserter staying here,” the woman said. “They’re no trouble. D’you like mustard?”

Zoë picked the room. They lay on the bed, comfortably naked in the afternoon sunshine, and ate ham sandwiches. “She didn’t play the game,” Zoë said. “What if the gun had gone off accidentally?”

“It’s empty, you juggins.”

“She didn’t know that. She might have killed you.”

“I think you confused her. Why did you say you would shoot me? We came in together, we were friends.”

“Who else could I shoot? Not her. Women don’t shoot other women, do they? Anyway I bet if I’d been a man, James Cagney for instance, she’d have found fifty pounds. It’s not as if I’m robbing anyone. My check’s good. The money’s in the bank.”

“Zoë, my sweet, if you want fifty quid, write me a check and I’ll cash it for you. You don’t need a gun.”

“Perhaps. It’s all become a bit of a bore, hasn’t it?” She got mustard on her fingers, and wiped them on his thigh.

“What a slut you are, Zoë.”

“Yes. Go on. More like that.”

“Slut. Floozy. Tramp, trollop, tart. Strumpet. Bitch. Double slut. Super bitch.” She was on top of him, laughing as she kissed him, smearing mustard from her lips to his. Without looking, he reached sideways and put the remaining sandwiches on a side-table. That was the hard work done. Now it was all uphill to the mountaintop.

Constance Babington Smith was a beauty with brains. Her father, Sir Henry, had been private secretary to the Viceroy of India. Her mother was the daughter of the ninth Earl of Elgin. Her eldest brother was a director of the Bank of England. In the 1930s she became very interested in flying. Eventually she was such an expert on all aspects of aviation that she wrote a regular column for The Aeroplane magazine. When war broke out, she was commissioned in the Waaf and joined Coastal Command’s Photographic Reconnaissance Unit. It was based at Danesfield, a mansion in Buckinghamshire. That was where David Bensusan-Butt went.

“I’m told you know more about interpreting air reconnaissance pictures than anyone else,” he said.

“Actually, that’s quite likely,” she said, “because until recently I was the only one here who was doing it. But I’m sure the Germans must have something similar.”

“It’s a subject I know absolutely nothing about.”

“Good. That means you start with an uncluttered mind.”

For the rest of the day she showed him what to look for, and how to find it, in photographs of Germany taken by high-flying aircraft. He learned much about camouflage, shadow, bomb damage, fire damage and smoke. He used magnifying glasses of various size and complexity. Next day he came back and practiced his skills.

“It makes a change to meet someone like you,” she said. “I sometimes think the various Commands don’t have much faith in our Unit. Unless our interpretation confirms what they already think, they’re likely to ignore it.”

“What about photographs of the target taken by our bombers at night? Can you help me with those? I imagine that flak and searchlights are a problem.”

He came back again. By now they knew each other well enough for him to ask the name of the delicate perfume she always wore. “ L ’ Heure Bleue ,” she said. “By Guerlain. I slosh it on, in case an air vice-marshal looks in. This uniform is fearfully masculine, don’t you think?”

“In your case, not for one instant,” he said. His utter honesty made it sound like a vote of thanks.

Rollo spent two days and nights at the assessment center. Even with stitches to reduce the hole in the gums, his blood was slow to form a permanent clot. He drank beef tea through a straw, listened to the radio, thought about 409 and wondered what an op would look like through a viewfinder. Then, at last, the dentist said he was satisfied. Rafferty’s car arrived.

Kate was impressed when she saw him. Half his face was still swollen. “You look as if you nearly had mumps and then changed your mind,” she said. “That’s a mump you’ve got there. One mump.”

“You feeling strong?” Rollo said. He took the wisdom tooth, wrapped in a square of bloody lint, from his pocket, and showed it to her.

“Oh my God…” She turned away, repelled and fascinated at the same time; and sneaked a last look. “That’s not a tooth, it’s a fang. What a size! No wonder your face is so beat-up. D’you want a drink? I do, after that.”

“Too early. They’ve rationed my booze. What’s been going on here?”

“Not much. 409 was stood down until today. Plenty of hustle and bustle now, so my guess is ops are on tonight.”

After what he’d been through, flying didn’t frighten Rollo. It couldn’t be any worse than having a wisdom pulled out. He wanted to get on with it. He asked for an urgent meeting with the Wingco and the group captain. Within an hour, he and Kate were in Rafferty’s office with Pug Duff. Rollo told them it was time to decide on casting.

Rafferty was puzzled. One Wimpy was much like another, he said, and so were the crews. Rollo said he had noticed a black man on the squadron. Duff identified him: Sergeant Palmer, from Jamaica, rear gunner in T-Tommy, damn good type. “I’m sure he is,” Rollo said, “but there’s a problem with trying to film a black man on a dark night. All you see is the eyes.” Rollo’s jaw was still stiff. His voice was flat. He sounded tough. “Also there could be difficulties when the film gets shown in America. You know what they’re like over there.”

“Forget T-Tommy,” Duff said. “How about B-Baker? No niggers, and Joe Pearson’s a damn good pilot.”

“Isn’t he from up north?” Rollo asked. “Yorkshire accent?”

“Salt of the earth,” Rafferty said. “Done twenty ops.”

“I can’t gamble on a bloke with a funny accent,” Rollo said. “Half the audience won’t take him seriously, and we’d need subtitles in America. It’s got to be someone who speaks good English.”

“Which rules out the Australians, Rhodesians and Canadians,” Duff said. “And the Irish.” He took a long, hard look at the point of his pencil. “At a pinch, I suppose, I could do the job myself.”