Part 20 (1/2)
”What did Eisenhower say?” I asked.
”Nothing. He just said nothing. And according to General Bull, D-Day is still on for Monday.” Stagg walked up to the little window of the hut and looked out into the night sky, which showed no signs of disturbance. ”You know, I have almost given up hope that we will get it right. Some of those b.l.o.o.d.y generals simply look outside, see fine weather and say, go!”
”Look,” I said, summoning up courage before that formidably tempestuous personality. ”I really think you should let me have a look at those WANTAC instruments. They have arrived now.”
”And what do you propose?” Stagg asked, gritting his teeth as if to prevent angry words from flying between them.
”There is a wind tunnel and the other necessary equipment at the Saunders-Roe factory across in Cowes. I could be there and back in a day, taking the gauges with me. I will do some tests and the results will tell us whether WANTAC's readings have been mistakes or genuine. We will know whether it was a case of the instruments or the weather.”
It seemed like an age before he replied. I remember he appeared to s.h.i.+ver as he sat there in that hut on the bluff, as if trembling under the weight of the responsibility that had been placed upon him.
”Very well, Henry. One day only, mind.”
Three.
The wind tunnel at Saunders-Roe was octagonal in cross-section and about forty feet long. Constructed in perspex, so that experiments could be viewed from outside, it had a use-able floor area twelve feet across and there was a door at each end. Wind was blown down the tunnel by a heavy-duty electric fan. Turbulence was produced by its three vanes, shaped to act as aerofoils, the angle of which could be adjusted to produce the required frequency and amplitude of perturbation.
Earlier that morning, grateful there were not many people about because it was a Sat.u.r.day, I had already tested the barometers in a pressure chamber on the site. They worked perfectly. Now it was a question of letting winds of different speeds run past the anemometers I had set up in the tunnel, to see how they performed.
I could see down the tunnel, the length of which was illuminated by incandescent lamps flaring overhead. I switched on the fan and, with a roar, the blast began. It was jolly hard work, writing down the measurements on each dial-the wind kept flipping up my notepad-but very quickly I came to the conclusion that the WANTAC anemometers, too, could be trusted.
If it wasn't a question of instrument error, then it could only be the weather itself that was responsible for the anomalous readings. I was so excited that, with the man-made wind still roaring about me, I paced up and down behind the installations like a boy on the beach pointing out s.h.i.+ps in a storm, trying to calculate what this meant for Monday's invasion. The coming weather suggested by WANTAC was still not yet calm enough to make landings possible; but it looked as if more favourable conditions were coming, and soon.
The question was still when? when? Working out how long it would take for the calmer weather to reach the Channel would involve a.n.a.lysis of the range of values of the Ryman number, but there was very little time to do the calculations. How could I possibly do all that maths in one day? It seemed impossible as a solo effort. Working out how long it would take for the calmer weather to reach the Channel would involve a.n.a.lysis of the range of values of the Ryman number, but there was very little time to do the calculations. How could I possibly do all that maths in one day? It seemed impossible as a solo effort.
As I was deliberating whether it might be feasible, the door at the other end of the tunnel opened and somebody walked in. At first I thought it was the tunnel supervisor at Saunders-Roe, who had greeted me when I first arrived-there had been no sign of Mr Blackford-but it was a woman carrying a small brown-leather suitcase.
She wore a woollen black coat and a long knitted red scarf tied loosely round her neck, streaming out behind her like a windsock in the onrus.h.i.+ng gale. The coat was open, revealing a blouse with a high white collar, a V-neck jumper, and a skirt reaching almost to the floor. The suitcase was swinging like a pendulum.
I dumbly recognised Gill Ryman. She walked towards me quickly, knocking from side to side, blown off balance by the blast roaring by, her clothes flapping around her.
She looked older, and the clothing pressed hard against her body by the wind confirmed clearly that she was no longer pregnant. Her hair streamed out behind, parallel with the scarf. Behind its knitted length, ta.s.sels fluttered in turn, each one trembling its own little wake.
Immobile for a second, I felt as if my confused feelings for her, so long shut away in darkness and sighing, were about to be released; as if a squeezing hand was being released and something springing forth.
”Gill!” I cried, eventually rus.h.i.+ng forward to embrace her. She felt extremely thin. She stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, inert in my arms with the wind tearing at us down the tunnel, plucking at our clothes and hair.
Time seemed to stand still, and then she freed herself from me-pus.h.i.+ng me away with the little brown case. I heard myself begin to speak, ”I'm so sorry...I wrote, just yesterday, but I expect you haven't-”
”I can't hear you!” Shouting into the wind's roar, she staggered, almost falling down. I clasped her again.
As she spoke, we wheeled about in the rush and she had to hold on to me. I was aware of a blurring of boundaries. It was as if, in that moment, her spirit and mine were cl.u.s.tering together under the influence of something larger-something fundamental in which we were both intimately involved, like molecules moving in the same direction, following the flow of the medium in which they were carried.
”I'll turn it off,” I shouted back.
I walked to the control panel and reached down for the switch. With an unearthly moan, the fan slowed. The gale ceased. Suddenly, all was quiet.
As I came back towards her, Gill put down the suitcase. She came close, studying me hard, both of us still blinking from the effect of wind. ”I wrote,” I said, eventually. ”Not the right words I expect, but...well, I am sorry.”
She covered her ears with her hands. ”Do stop all that, please.” She was frowning as she did this, and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her eyes.
”You destroyed me by destroying him,” she continued eventually, letting her hands fall and reopening her eyes, ”but I have not come here to hear you apologise. You already did that in your letter. And besides, I owe you an apology myself, for that business with the blood and...Embarra.s.sing-I was not myself.”
”Of course not.”
”It only came yesterday.” She had taken my letter out of her pocket. ”My father did not want me to come here today. He refused to bring me. I had to drive myself. He was very fond of Wallace. He holds you entirely to blame for his death.”
I felt nausea in my stomach and a rising whirling in my head. ”And for your baby's, I gather. I'm so sorry, Gill-if I had thought...”
She shook her head. ”That was not your fault, though obviously Wallace's death did not help. But I have miscarried on many occasions previously. The rhesus factor-which is why I sat up when I heard you talk about Brecher at lunch that day. This was my eighth, so I am quite used to it by now. But each did seem to happen earlier than the last, which is why I left Kilmun when I did.” She spoke coldly, as if not about herself or her body.
”I'm so sorry, Gill, all the same. About the child as well as Wallace.”
”For G.o.d's sake!” She stepped towards me, lifting a hand as if to strike me, then reached out for my face, squeezing it hard and painfully between her fingers and thumb. Her face was inches from mine. ”Shut up. Just shut up.” Then she pushed away from me, shaking her head and falling to her knees on the floor of the wind tunnel, sobbing.
I knelt down beside her, patting her shoulder ineffectually, almost overcome by fugue-like dizziness.
She took out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, then got to her feet. ”It's all right, it's all right. I'm sorry. G.o.d sees all things; he shall not despise a contrite heart. That is what I keep reminding myself when I think about you, Henry.”
Despite my relief that she seemed to have recovered from the desire to mete violence on me, I recoiled from these devout sentiments. ”G.o.d!” I cried. ”I wish I knew him. If I had then I might not have had such cursed luck. I am afraid I have become like Wallace. I don't believe in G.o.d any more, after what happened.”
”Wallace actually saw G.o.d in everything,” she said, affronted. ”It's just that people didn't realise.”
The steel door at the far end of the tunnel banged open. Now it was indeed the supervisor from Saunders-Roe coming in. ”Everything all right in here?” he called out doubtfully.
”Yes, fine, thank you,” I replied. ”I think I'll pack up now. I've got what I came for.”
”What were you testing?” Gill asked, looking down the tunnel at the anemometers as the supervisor left.
”Wind speeds on s.h.i.+ps. We've been getting errant readings. Well, they seemed errant, but actually I think they are correct. I have now got to work out your husband's number for adjacent areas of the North Atlantic and the Channel. I don't think I've got enough time. I'm afraid I must rush back for the boat to Portsmouth. Gill-I'm working on...well, it's the war.”
”Of course,” she said. ”I understand. I can drive you to the pier, if that is any help. You'll make the seven o'clock.”
”That would be wonderful.”
She dug in a pocket to check for car keys, then picked up the suitcase and began walking to the door of the tunnel. I gathered up my equipment, stowed it in a large kitbag, and then joined her.
”So, you live here now?” I asked awkwardly as we walked into dusky light outside the wind tunnel. One of the workers from the factory was painting the number 52 on a large flying boat mounted on trestles.
”Yes,” she replied. ”But in Seaview, not Cowes. I couldn't face going back to Scotland, not after losing another baby. I had all our belongings sent down.”
”We could meet again,” I said. ”Talk things over...”
She shook her head. ”Look, do you want a lift or not?”
”Yes, of course. Thank you.” We began walking towards the vehicle. ”It seems like fate,” I continued, ”you coming here like this.”