Part 4 (2/2)

”How will you get it down?” I wondered aloud, watching.

”We'll show you,” said Joan. ”Come on.”

I stood in the centre of the shed. ”Isn't it highly explosive? It could burn on those lights.”

”Only if there's a spark,” said Gwen. ”Come along.”

I followed them across the cavernous shed and up some narrow stairs that led to the gable end and the balcony.

Climbing up through an open trapdoor, I saw there were several steel sheets bolted to the wooden floor as foundations for some kind of structure. It was quite dark up there, but I made out the base of the cloud searchlight tower. Beneath it were two thin mattresses side by side, with pillows and blankets. I was surprised, my mind raced...they surely hadn't brought me into a bedroom?

”We sometimes take turns to have a nap up here while on duty,” Gwen said, by way of explanation. She turned on a little lamp: just a bare bulb fixed to one of the wooden rafters.

In the new light I saw two little bowls of makeup; on the floor and a full-length mirror draped with clothing. Under the mirror was a small pile of shoes. There was also an easel and a stack of canvases, together with a palette covered with hardened oil paint of various hues, jam jars full of paintbrushes, and a wooden tray of half-squeezed tubes of paint.

”We paint up here too,” said Gwen. ”We're artists, you see.”

Even more surprised, I looked at the picture on the easel. It showed a long yellow beach with rolling breakers curved along a bay. Among puddles of seawater in the sand, a couple of black dogs jumped about, chasing salt-wet tails. The dogs' tails and the curling breakers mirrored each other, as if the intention was to convey a relations.h.i.+p between them. Behind the dogs, blues and yellows and greens of varying relations.h.i.+ps blended into the glow of the horizon.

”That's pretty good,” I said, aware of them looking at me in expectation of an opinion.

”Not good enough,” said thin Gwen, and I wondered for a second if she was referring to my response rather than the painting itself.

”Never is,” said Joan. ”Would you like some tea?”

”Oh, yes please,” I replied. ”Which of you did it?”

”We do them together,” Gwen said proudly.

”That's unusual.”

”Maybe. It's our thing. We hope to apply to the Slade, if this horrid war ever ends.”

”What do you think we should call it?” Joan asked me.

I looked again at the painting. ”Dogs in Foam?” I ventured, and they both laughed, hooting loudly.

On a low table next to the mirror was everything needed for brewing tea. Joan put a small kettle on. The three of us stood slightly awkwardly, waiting for it to boil.

”What does Whybrow think?” I asked.

”What about?” said Gwen.

”You two having this little den.”

”Oh, he doesn't mind,” said Joan, pouring hot water into a teapot.

”He daren't,” Gwen said. ”We think he's scared of us.”

”Really?”

”He says we make him anxious,” said Joan, pouring, then handing me a mug.

”Why?”

Neither replied. As we drank our tea, I studied the metal-grid pylon-like tower which rose out of the floor towards the roof, where-bolted on either side of the pitch-there were two more trapdoors. The gla.s.s of the searchlight and some meteorological gauges were suspended on a trackway in the middle of the grid, which was raised by a geared winding system.

”Can I see it work?” I asked.

”It's not worth turning on in the day,” said Gwen. ”And at night it attracts bombers, but basically we undo these...” She climbed onto the grid of the tower and unbolted one of the trapdoors, which fell down with a bang. Cold air rushed down. I could see the sky-and Gwen's calves.

All in a pickle, I quickly looked down again, trying not to catch the eye of Joan, who was standing next to me. I didn't quite succeed. I was sure she was smirking. The suspicion began to grow in me that the whole thing had been done for my benefit. Or theirs. Had I been had? I was beginning to see how Whybrow might find them perturbing. They seemed to be the kind of women who could turn men round their little fingers, and enjoy the sport of doing it.

There was another bang as Gwen let down the second trapdoor. Joan grasped a metal handle and began winding the worm gear which raised the tower. It ascended like a theatrical device. I watched as Gwen rose further with the tower until her head poked out of the roof. Her silk-stockinged ankles were now level with my face. I felt overcome by simple l.u.s.t.

”Jeepers it's nippy up here,” she called.

I stared. There was something hypnotic about the way-like a graph curve, like a continuous function-the material followed the flow of skin and bone.

Things were made worse by Joan's hand brus.h.i.+ng my back as she reached for the handle of the worm gear. ”You could help,” she said, starting to wind. ”This thing hurts my wrist.”

So I wound the tower-and Gwen-down again. Joan was right. It was quite hard, in spite of the gear.

”In summer,” said Joan, ”we can smell jasmine up there on the wind.”

”Very romantic,” I said.

”Whereas in winter we get chilblains,” said Gwen crisply, climbing down beside us. ”Joany, we'd better get that balloon.”

I looked over the balcony to the balloon on the ceiling. The suspended lights shone a peculiar red through the rubber, like torchlight through fingers. Gwen appeared, holding a pole with a hook on the end-like a boat gaffe-and Joan leaned out over the balcony to deftly hook the balloon.

”Yes,” said Gwen, as she and I descended to the ground floor. ”No, hand it down. I'll do it.”

She took the other end of the pole from Joan, who then climbed down herself.

Gwen opened the door of the shed to let the gas out of the balloon, sounding a long, slow exhalation. I imagined the molecules of hydrogen spreading out into the atmosphere and combining with other elements.

”Whybrow mentioned seeing Pyke from Combined Ops at Loch...Loch...” I said, frowning and moving my weight from one foot to another as I tried to remember the name.

”Eck. I'll show you where to drive,” said Joan. ”It's not far. Pyke is usually on the loch at this time. If he's not there he'll be at the Argyll Hotel in town.”

I was pleased it was her. For I have to admit, it was Joan who (in the midst of my ignorance) was stirring my pot then, more than Gwen, despite the business with the stockings. How they will laugh if they ever read this!

We walked through the mud and the old farmyard towards the gate.

”How will I recognise Pyke?” I asked.

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