Derek Robinson - Damned Good Show

“Would it be on the occasion of the Honorable Richard and Patricia Byng-Shadwell’s marriage, sir?”

Langham slapped the steering wheel. “Told you it was the Ritz,” he said to Silk. They got out and he gave the doorman the Bentley’s keys and a pound note. “Put her somewhere safe, would you? Thanks awfully. Chocks away, Silko! Cousin Richard awaits.”

They went inside. “You gave him a whole quid,” Silk said.

“He seemed to like it. Now then: half the guests at a wedding reception don’t know the other half. Fact.”

“Besides, we’re war heroes,” Silk said. “They wouldn’t dare throw us out.”

“Damn right.”

They strolled into the reception, smiling modestly and discussing the weather. Nobody paid them any attention. The happy couple had ceased receiving guests; now everyone was drinking and talking. The average age looked to be over forty. “This is more like a wake than a wedding,” Langham said. But there were waiters with champagne. They each drank three glasses while they wandered through the crowd. “Bloody good fizz,” Silk said. “I can hear music.”

A small band was in the next room, playing a foxtrot. “Ah! Popsies,” Langham said. “Bags me the long-legged blond.” But the girl he was soon dancing with was a trim brunette with a fragile face that would bust a bishop’s gaiters.

“I don’t remember seeing you at the church,” she said.

“I was thinking the same about you. How could I have possibly overlooked this stunning creature, I thought.”

“Not very easily. After all, I was a bridesmaid.”

“Of course you were. And I was at thirty thousand feet, so I missed the whole show. My loss.”

“You mean you were flying?” Her look of admiration made his journey worthwhile. “What do you fly?”

“Spitfire. Nice little bus. Climbs like a lift.”

“Ah.” For an instant she was breathless. In 1939 a Spitfire pilot was the most exciting and romantic partner a girl could want. Here was a man in charge of the deadliest yet the most beautiful fighter in the world. Every day he soared into the blue at speeds beyond imagination, and did it in defense of his country. She had danced with film stars, Olympic athletes, the sons of dukes. None was touched with the glory of a Spitfire pilot. What’s more, this man was good-looking. And modest. And funny.

“How fast can you fly?” she said.

“Can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. Official secret.”

“Oh.”

“Fast enough to catch any Hun who’s foolish enough to show his ugly face.”

The music stopped and they did not release each other. “I won’t let go till it thunders,” she said, which made him laugh. The band began again. “I know this one,” he said. “It’s called ‘Embraceable You.’” He hummed a few bars. They were dancing more closely now, so closely that she could gaze at the wings on his tunic without betraying her fascination. “You have a wonderfully masculine fragrance,” she said. “Is that from your Spitfire?”

“It’s more likely to be from my Bentley.” He felt good about owning a Bentley. “With perhaps just a hint of spaniel.” What was a Spitfire pilot without a spaniel at his heels?

The dance ended. “I hear thunder,” she said, and let go of his hand. “Look… I’ve seen too much of these people and not nearly enough of you. That’s a shocking thing to say, and it isn’t at all the way I was brought up to behave, but I don’t care. So will you walk me home? I simply must get out of this dress. Damn. That’s not what I meant.”

“My arm is yours.”

He walked her to the top of Piccadilly. She had an airy apartment in Albany, furnished in rich, soft, countryside colors. Her name was Zoë Herrick. “A cross between a haddock and a herring,” she said. “James the First is said to have invented it for one of his favorites because the boy was neither one thing nor the other, so the king said. Later on the lad got a knighthood, so he can’t have been a complete failure. Actually I’m Zoë Herrick Herrick. No hyphen. Sounds like a hiccup. There’s some absurd family reason behind it.”

“I knew a boy at Clifton whose uncle is General Gore Gore Gore Plantaganet Finbar-Gore,” Langham said.

“Poor chap.”

“Known as Gore-Blimey, for short.”

“Make yourself a drink, while I get changed.”

“What I really need is a ham sandwich. I missed lunch.” Langham sucked in his cheeks and crossed his eyes.

“Don’t do that. Please.” She was upset; he stopped at once. “I can’t stand it when…” She never completed the sentence; instead she embraced him and kissed him on the lips several times.

“Perhaps the ham sandwich is unimportant,” he said; but his gastric juices spoke softly and contradicted him.

“No, no, obviously you must have food, you poor thing, we’ll go to the Savoy, they always have everything…”

“I’m sure they do, my sweet embraceable you,” he said gently. “Unfortunately I don’t. Especially money. The banks were closed by the time we—”

“Oh… cobblers,” she said. “Whatever that means.” She went to a desk and came back with a bundle of notes. “Here.”

“Fifty quid.” Two month’s pay. “You scarcely know me.”

“Well, you scarcely know me.” She stood, hands on hips, bright-eyed, more delicious than a plate of ham sandwiches. “So now we’re quits.”

That night they went to several parties. Compared with RAF Kindrick, this was Shangri-la with knobs on. Zoë seemed to be plugged into an endless network of pleasure; they began in a penthouse in Soho, moved to a Chelsea studio, to a townhouse in Belgravia, to a huge cellar in Notting Hill where a roulette wheel was doing big business. After that he stopped asking where they were going. Who cared? As long as Zoë knew, and the taxi-drivers knew, and the drinks were big, and she was welcomed everywhere (which made him instantly popular too) and the young and beautiful of London were having a bloody good time, many of them in uniform, damn good types, damn good music, damn fine party, then who gave a damn? He liked music. Never realized how much. They were in the cellar, dancing, when he told her: “I would say you’re like thistledown, but I can’t pronounce thistledown.” The music stopped. He went over to the band and asked them to play ‘Embraceable You,’ and turned and saw Silko with his arms around two redheads.

“These are my twins,” Silk said, speaking carefully. “I’m in love with one. She’s the one who hasn’t got a mole on her bottom, but she won’t show me, so I don’t know where I stand.”

“You can’t stand,” one redhead said. “If we let go,” she told Langham, “he falls down.”

“Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?” Langham asked him.

“Can’t tell you, because… I don’t know where I stand.” Suddenly he cackled with laughter. His knees folded.

“We’ll look after him,” the other redhead said.

“I’ll meet you at the Ritz,” Langham said. “Day after tomorrow.”

“Bloody good joke, that,” Silk said.

Then the band was playing, and Langham was dancing again. “Apologies,” he said. “Should have introduced. That was Silko.”

“Silko was blotto,” Zoë said. Not criticizing. Just observing.

“Bravo Silko!” he said, and she smiled; so he said, “Bravo Silko blotto pronto Groucho Harpo Brasso Blanco!” and she laughed, so he quit while he was ahead.

Next morning he woke up in her apartment. He was on the couch. Luckily it was a big couch. The royal aroma of freshly brewed coffee promised to wash all his sins away. He sat up, the blanket fell off, he was in his underwear. He never slept in his underwear. NCOs and Other Ranks slept in their underwear. Also convicts in American films. He saw his legs. Covered in ugly black hair. Except the feet. Why no hair on the feet? Nasty-looking things, feet. And kneecaps. Both bald as an egg. Not things of beauty. So God created trousers.