Connie Willis - All Clear

He stood up unsteadily, set down his mug, which was much cleaner than the one the Commander had given him, and prepared to stagger off to bed, but before he made it to the stairs, a pig farmer came in, shaking water everywhere, announced it was “a fit night out for nowt”—a sentiment Ernest agreed with wholeheartedly—

and demanded a pint.

“And make it quick,” he said. “I’ve got to take a load of shoats all t’way down to Hawkhurst.”

Ernest promptly begged a ride, crawled into his truck, and was rewarded by the farmer’s asking where he thought the invasion would be and then, without waiting for an answer, saying, “Mark my words, it’s going to be Calais,” and regaling him for the remainder of the trip with how he’d come to that conclusion.

Ernest didn’t have to say a word, which was just as well because the minute he got back to Cardew Castle, Chasuble said, “Oh, excellent, you’re here—good Lord, what’s that smell?”

“Pigs.”

“I thought you were going to sea. Well, never mind. You need to shave and bathe, particularly bathe, and get into this.” He tossed a dinner jacket and Bracknell’s too-small shoes at him, told him he had ten minutes, and hauled him and Cess off to another reception, this one for General Montgomery.

“Only it won’t be Monty,” he said after they were in the staff car.

“What do you mean, it won’t be Monty?” Ernest asked, attempting to tie his tie in the rear-vision mirror.

“It’s a double,” Cess said. “An actor.”

Oh, God, out of the frying pan into the fire. “It’s not Sir Godfrey Kingsman, is it?”

“It can’t be,” Cess said. “He’s dead. He was shot down.”

“No, that’s Leslie Howard you’re thinking of,” Chasuble said.

“It is not. He was on his way to entertain the troops—”

“And that’s Jane Froman,” Chasuble said. “What does Kingsman look like? Whoever this actor is, he’s supposed to be the spitting image of Monty.”

Which ruled out Sir Godfrey. Actors could work wonders with makeup and wigs, but not with height. Montgomery was a good eight inches shorter than Sir Godfrey.

And Cess was right. The general at the reception was a dead ringer for Monty, right down to the high cheekbones, toothbrush mustache, and imperious manner.

“Are you certain he’s not Montgomery?” Chasuble whispered after they’d all been introduced to him as assorted officers and aides to General Patton. “He sounds exactly like the old boy.”

“I’m certain,” Cess said. “And it’s your job to see to it that he stays in character. Monty’s a teetotaler, and he’s not, so keep at his elbow and make certain he doesn’t get hold of anything but lemonade. This is a dry run—quite literally—to see if he can pull it off.”

“And if he does?” Ernest said, watching the dapper general chatting with the guests, who all seemed completely taken in.

“They’re sending him off to Gibraltar to convince the Germans the invasion’s going to be in the Mediterranean, or, if they won’t believe that, to convince them it’s not coming till July.”

And I suppose I’ll end up having to accompany him and see to it that he stays sober, Ernest thought, cursing his luck. Why couldn’t Monty’s double have been sent to the invasion’s staging area instead and Monty sent off to Gibraltar?

He was right about being assigned to accompany him, but “Monty” wasn’t scheduled to leave yet, so Ernest spent the next week dragging automobile headlights He was right about being assigned to accompany him, but “Monty” wasn’t scheduled to leave yet, so Ernest spent the next week dragging automobile headlights along a fake runway in the rain while the phonograph played engines-revving-up sounds, by the end of which the cold he’d caught in Dover had blossomed into full-blown influenza, and he realized he’d never really appreciated antivirals. Or paper tissues.

On the other hand, he didn’t have to go to Gibraltar, and the doctor prescribed bed rest for a week, during which time he was able to get nearly caught up on his articles and his own coded messages, writing in bed with a typewriter on his knees:

“For sale, hothouse poinsettias, hibiscus, pearl hyacinth cuttings. Contact E. O. Riley, Harbor House,” with Mrs. Rickett’s address, and “Lost in Notting Hill Gate Underground Station, gold monogrammed compact, inscribed ‘To Polly from Sebastian.’ ” Also, a review of a production of The Tempest put on by the Townsend Players, which listed as cast members Eileen Hill and Mary Knottinge, and commented, “The shipwreck which begins the action was well done, but the ending is rather doubtful, though this reviewer hopes that will improve with time.”

And the day after he was allowed to get up, Lady Bracknell sent him and Chasuble to the Bull and Plough to spread invasion propaganda, and he had a chance to put a call through to the paymaster in Taunton while Chasuble flirted with the barmaid. But there was no Denys Atherton listed on the pay rolls there or at Poole, and time was running out.

Even sooner than he’d thought. A pilot he’d talked to in the pub said, “Whenever it is, it’s soon. Three weeks from now they’re locking down the entire staging area. No one in, no one out, not even the post.”

“That’s to fool the Germans into thinking it’s in June,” Ernest told him. “There’ll be an attack then, but it’s only a feint, to draw the Germans off. The real invasion won’t come till mid-July,” but he was thinking, If I don’t find him by next week, I’m going to have to steal the Austin and take off for Wiltshire to find him.

But he didn’t have to. The next morning Cess leaned in the door and told him Lady Bracknell wanted the two of them to go make a pickup.

“I can’t,” he said. “I need to finish these and get them to the Call by four tomorrow, and I’ve barely started on them.”

“What vital news is it this time?” Cess asked, leaning over his shoulder as he typed, and thank goodness this wasn’t one of his articles. “Another garden party?”

Ernest shook his head. “Friendship Dance.” He read, “The Welcome Club of Bedgebury will host a Friendship Dance for the newly arrived American troops—”

“We’re officers,” Cess said, “and we’ll be driving Bracknell’s Rolls, not walking. There won’t be any mud. Or bulls.”

“No. I told you, I’ve got a deadline. Can’t Chasuble go with you?”

“No, he has a date to take Daphne to dinner.”

“Can’t he do that tomorrow night? Or the night after?”

“It is the night after, but Chasuble’s afraid we won’t be back by then, and he’s already in her bad graces for having had to cancel when we went to the Savoy to meet Monty.”

Tomorrow night? “Where is this pickup we need to make?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Cess said. “Lady Bracknell gave me a map. And he said something about Portsmouth.”

Which was right in the center of the invasion area, where Atherton was. “All right. Are we going as civilians?”

Cess shook his head. “Army officers.” Which meant they’d be picking up whatever it was at an Army camp, and no one would consider it odd if an officer asked where a Denys Atherton was stationed. He could even order an enlisted man to check the records and find him. He’d have to get away from Cess, but over the course of a two-day journey, there should be ample opportunities, and if they weren’t leaving till tomorrow morning, he might be able to drop his articles by the Call on the way. “When do we have to make this pickup?”

“Tomorrow morning at nine. Does that mean you’ll go?”

“Yes,” he said, and as soon as Cess left, he typed, “Music will be provided by the 48th Infantry Division Band,” yanked the sheet of paper out of the typewriter, rolled a new one in, and typed, “Mr. and Mrs. James Townsend of Upper Notting announce the engagement of their daughter Polly to Flight Officer Colin Templer of the 21st Airborne Division, currently stationed in Kent. A late June wedding is planned.”