Part 8 (2/2)

”The hills 'round here are like a young girl's b.r.e.a.s.t.s.” Thus Squadron Leader ”Duke” Verschoyle. Verbatim. 4:30 P.M P.M., on the lawn, loudly.

ROGATION SUNDAY.

Last night ladies were invited into the mess. I went alone. ”Duke” Verschoyle took a Miss Bald, a friend of Neves'. At supper Verschoyle, who was sufficiently intoxicated, flipped a piece of bread at Miss Bald. She replied with a fid of ham which caught Verschoyle smack in his grinning face. A leg of chicken was then aimed at the lady by our Squadron Leader, but it hit me, leaving a large grease stain on my dress jacket. I promptly asked if the mess fund covered the cost of cleaning. I was sconced for talking shop.

Verschoyle liverish in morning.

JUNE 4.

Sortie at dawn. I took the monoplane. Flew south to the Chilterns. At 7,000 feet I felt I could see every trembling blade of gra.s.s. Monoplane solid as a hill. Low-level all the way home. No sign of activity anywhere.

Talked to Stone. Says he knew Phoebe at Melton in 1923. Swears she was a brunette then.

FRIDAY, LUNCH-TIME.

Verschoyle saunters up, wearing a raffish polka-dot cravat, a pipe clamped between his large teeth. Speaks without removing it. I transcribe exactly: ”Msay Jks, cd yizzim psibly siyerway tklah thnewmn, nyah?” What? What? He removes his loathsome teat, a loop of saliva stretching and gleaming momentarily between stem and lip. There's a new man, it appears. Randall something or something Randall. Verschoyle wants me to run a routine security clearance. He removes his loathsome teat, a loop of saliva stretching and gleaming momentarily between stem and lip. There's a new man, it appears. Randall something or something Randall. Verschoyle wants me to run a routine security clearance.

”Very well, sir,” I say.

”Call me 'Duke,'” he suggests. Fatal influence of the cinema on the service. Must convey my thoughts on the matter to Reggie.

Stone is driving me mad. His shambling, loutish walk. His constant whistling of ”My Little Grey Home in the West.” The way he breathes through his mouth. As far as I can see he might as well not have a nose-he never uses it SUNDAY A.M A.M.

French cricket by runway B. I slope off early down to The Sow & Farrow. The pub is dark and cool. Baking-hot day outside. Slice of joint on a pewter plate. Household bread and b.u.t.ter. A pint of turbid beer. All served up by the new barmaid, Rose. Lanky, athletic girl, strong-looking. Blonde. We chatted amiably until the rest of the squadron-in their shouting blazers and tennis shoes-romped noisily in. I left a 4d. tip. Strangely attractive girl. tip. Strangely attractive girl.

MEMO. RANDALL'S INTERROGATION 1. Where is the offside line in a rugby scrum?

2. Is Kettner's in Church Street or Poland Street?

3. What is ”squegging”? And who shouldn't do it?

4. How would you describe Zephire de Sole Paganini? Zephire de Sole Paganini?

5. Sing ”Hey, Johnny Cope.”

6. Which is the odd one out: BNC, SEH, CCC, LMH, SHC?

7. Complete this saying: ”Hope springs eternal in the-.”

DOMINION DAY (CANADA).

Randall arrives. Like shaking hands with a marsh. Cheerful round young face. Prematurely bald. Tufts of hair deliberately left unshaved on cheekbones. Overwhelming urge to strike him. Why do I sense the man is not to be trusted?

Verschoyle greets him like a long-lost brother. It seems they went to the same prep school. Later, Verschoyle tells me to forget about the interrogation. I point out that it's mandatory under the terms of the draft const.i.tution. ”Duke” reluctantly has to back down.

NB. Verschoyle's breath smelling strongly of peppermint.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

Sagging, moist evening. Sat out on the lawn till late, writing to Reggie, telling him of Verschoyle's appalling influence on the squadron-the constant rags, high jinks, general refusal to take our task seriously. Started to write about the days with Phoebe at Melton, but kept thinking of Rose. Curious.

JULY-?

Sent to Coventry by no. 3 flight for putting their drunken Welsh mechanic on a charge. Today, Verschoyle declared the monoplane his own. I'm left with a lumbering old Ganymede II. It's like flying a t.u.r.d. I'll have my work cut out in a dogfight.

P.M. Map-reading cla.s.s: Randall, Stone, Guy and Bede. Stone hopeless, he'd get lost in a corridor. Randall surprisingly efficient. He seems to know the neighbourhood suspiciously well. Also annoyingly familiar. Asked me if I wanted to go down to The Sow & Farrow for a drink. I set his interrogation for Thursday, 15.00 hours.

BANK HOLIDAY MONDAY.

Drove down to the coast with Rose. Unpleasant day, scouring wind off the ice caps, grey-flannel sky. The pier was deserted, but Rose insisted on swimming. I stamped on the s.h.i.+ngle beach while she changed in the dunes. Her dark-blue woollen bathing suit flas.h.i.+ng by as she sprinted strongly into the breakers. A glimpse of white pounding thighs, then shrieks and flailing arms. Jovial shouts of encouragement from me. She emerged, s.h.i.+vering, her nose endearingly red, to be enfolded in the rough towel that I held. Her front teeth slightly askew. Made my heart cartwheel with love. She said it was frightfully cold but exhilarating. Her long nipples erect for a good five minutes.

JULY 21.

Boring day. Verschoyle damaged the monoplane when he flew through a mob of starlings, so he's temporarily grounded himself. He and Randall as thick as thieves. I caught them leering across the bar at Rose. Cleverly, she disguised her feelings on seeing me, knowing how I value discretion.

RANDALL'S INTERROGATION Randall unable to complete final verse of ”Hey, Johnny Cope.” I report my findings to Verschoyle and recommend Randall's transfer to Movement Control. Verschoyle says he's never even heard of ”Hey, Johnny Cope.” He's a deplorable example to the men.

Note to Reggie: in 1914 we were fighting for our golf and our weekends.

Went to the zoological gardens and looked at the llama. Reminded me of Verschoyle. In the reptile house I saw a chameleon: repulsive bulging eyes-Randall. Peafowl-Guy. Civet cat-Miss Bald. Anteater-Stone. Gazelle-Rose. Bateleur eagle-me.

475TH DAY OF THE STRUGGLE.

Three battalions attacked today, north of Cheltenham. E. went down in one of the Griffins. Ground fire. A perfect arc. Crashed horribly not two miles from Melton.

Dawn patrol along the River Lugg. The Ganymede's crude engine is so loud I fly in a perpetual swooning migraine. Struts thrumming and quivering like palsied limbs. Told a disgruntled Fielding to de-caulk cylinder heads before tomorrow's mission.

Randall returned late from a simple reconnaisance flight. He had some of us worried. Claimed a map-reading error. It was because of his skill with maps that he was put on reconnaisance in the first place. Verschoyle untypically subdued at the news from Cheltenham. Talk of moving to a new base in the Mendips.

RANDALL: Did you know that Rose was a promising young actress?

STONE: Oh, yes? What's she promised you, then?

As a result of this flash of wit. Stone was elected entertainments secretary for the mess. He plans a party before the autumn frosts set in.

63RD WEDNESDAY.

On the nature of love. There are two sorts of people you love. There are people you love steadily, unreflectingly: people who you know will never hurt you. Then there are people you love fiercely: people who you know can and will hurt you.

AUGUST 1. MONDAY.

Tredgold tells me that Randall was known as a trophy maniac at college. Makes some kind of perverse sense.

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