POOR RUMPTY AND TUMPTY

1

By the time he rejoined Bomber Command, Silk had flown more than sixty types of aircraft; and the more he flew, the more he admired birds. Gulls especially. He marvelled at the way they did so much, so easily. Gulls could soar and wheel, and search and hunt, and call or scream, and all with such grace. He watched, and sometimes daydreamed about flying an aircraft with a performance better than any bird. When this came true it resembled a fish. The Vulcan looked like a sting ray.

He had joined an Operational Conversion Unit, and an instructor was showing him around the bomber. “Not quite a perfect triangle,” the instructor said. “Slight kink in the leading edges. Helps airflow, which makes the boffins happy. Big fin, keeps her nice and stable. No tailplane, of course, because the wings do that job. In fact the wings do just about everything. The Vulcan’s a flying wing, with a nose up front for the crew to sit in.”

They walked underneath. Silk raised an arm and could not reach the wings. The undercarriage struts were massive. Each unit had eight wheels. “What does she weigh?” Silk asked.

“Depends on the fuel load. All tanks full, something like a hundred and twenty tons.”

Silk tried to remember what a Lanc with a full bombload had weighed. Twenty-something tons came to mind. “I’m glad to see we’ve got runways to match.”

“Yes.” The instructor was ten years younger than Silk and he had respect for a double DFC, so he didn’t smile. “Actually, we need less than half the runway for take-off. The Vulcan doesn’t hang about. She rather likes the direction of up.”

They climbed the ladder in front of the nose wheel and squeezed into the cockpit: side-by-side seats for the pilot and co-pilot, each with duplicated controls. Silk fingered the stubby joystick. “Very sporty,” he said.

“It suits the Vulcan’s style. This is a bomber that thinks it’s a fighter. You’ll see.”

Silk’s first flight was on a sunny day. The instructor made a low-level pass over the airfield. Silk glanced to his right and saw their shadow ghosting below: a giant sting ray skimming the ocean bed. All his previous flying had been a preparation for this. Silk and the Vulcan were made for each other. “Now see how she climbs,” the instructor said. He stood the Vulcan on its tail and they went up as if somebody up there was hauling them in, hand over fist.

2

The Frazer-Nash two-seater was long gone; now he had a rakish Citroën with running boards, as seen in all the worst French cop movies. During leave from Air America, he taught Laura how to drive. She liked that, and liked him for it; they became friends. Then she went to America, to Radcliffe. Ivy League: nothing but the best. He was surprised how much he missed her.

Weekends were free. Zoë’s office told him where she expected to be – the Albany apartment, the Lincolnshire cottage, or the lodge in Scotland – and he drove there on Friday evening. This weekend it was the cottage, only a quick seventy miles from the Operational Conversion Unit. He was there by six.

He opened the door and called her name. No answer. He went in and she was sitting at a table, asleep, her head resting on a scattering of typed papers and open books. She had been holding a fountain pen and it was still touching a letter. A pool of blue ink had spread.

“Wake up, fathead,” he said. He took the pen from her fingers. “That is, assuming you’re not dead.”

She groaned, and sat up, slowly, feeling her neck where it ached. Her hair was tangled and one side of her face was creased. Her eyes flickered, hating the light. “Not dead,” she said. “Bit shattered.”

“All this bumf-shuffling will kill you.”

She yawned and stretched. “We’ve been here for days. Arguing over...” Another yawn seized her.

“Is it politics?”

“Obviously.”

“Then I’m not interested. And who’s we?”

“John and Debby. They’re upstairs.”

Silk went upstairs two at a time. Within ten seconds he came clattering down again. “No they’re not,” he said.

“What?” She stopped brushing her hair. “Oh. Sorry. Forgot. They went back to London.”

“Good for them. You need a hot bath. Brush your teeth while you’re at it, and I might consider giving you a kiss.”

He strolled around the garden, pulling weeds, talking to the birds, while steam drifted out of the bathroom window. Half an hour later Zoë came out with two large gin-and-tonics. She was transformed: new face, clean hair, black sweater and white slacks. “Give that lady a gong,” he said.

“Darling Silko... Have you had a good week?”

“Steady progress.”

“Good. Don’t crash, will you, or the Chancellor will have to put twopence on income tax. Either that, or cancel a battleship. Let’s go to the cinema.”

They drove into Lincoln and saw a so-so Western. As they came away, Silk said: “The bad guys never shoot straight. Every time there’s a gunfight, the bad guys always miss the good guys.”

“That’s because they wear such awful black hats.”

“Russians wear black hats. Does that make them bad shots?”

“Who said Russians are the bad guys?”

His mental shutters crashed down. Change of subject. “Are you hungry? What d’you fancy?”

“Fish and chips. Just like during the war. Go to the flicks and then have fish and chips.”

They ate as they strolled. “Only difference between now and then is no blackout,” Silk said. “I must have walked into every lamppost in Lincoln.”

“I think I’ll definitely sell the cottage.”

After all these years, nothing Zoë said or did came as a total surprise. But the cottage was his only home, and he felt a small kick in the stomach. “Definitely?” he said. “I didn’t know you were even thinking of it.”

“Not enough space. There’s a manor house coming on the market soon, not far away, good size.” She talked about its rooms, its grounds, its suitability for holding seminars, what with all the catering and car parking. “It has a lake. You can swim.”

He dumped the remains of his fish and chips in a litter bin. “Well, it’s your money. You know best. I don’t suppose you’d rent me the cottage?”

“Too late, darling. I’ve got a buyer.”

They walked to the car. Now Silk didn’t want to go back to the cottage that he couldn’t call his home. A subversive memory slid into his mind. “Chap I met told me you got invited to the White House.”

“Me and twenty others.”

“This chap said you were titled.”

Zoë groaned. “That again. It’s all so boring. Mother married Lord Shapland, twenty years ago, fucked him to death. You met her, didn’t you?”

“I did. Unforgettable cocktail party. She was drinking battery acid.”

“Yes, she was tough, and that’s about all. Eventually she married an American senator. Arizona, I think. He didn’t last long. She died last year. Didn’t I tell you? I thought I told you. Anyway, I got everything. The lawyers are still counting the money. Do I inherit the title or am I just a sad and pathetic Honourable? Frankly, sweetheart, I don’t care a damn.”

“Haven’t you got a brother? In Rhodesia?”

“Dead too. Spencer Herrick-Herrick. He had fifty thousand acres of beef ranch. Tried to ride a steer, for a bet, and broke his neck. The only thing he didn’t leave me was his hyphen.” She screwed up her fish-and-chip wrapper and gave it to him. It was a greasy mess.

“Thanks awfully. That’s all I am to you, isn’t it? Just a rich woman’s plaything.”

“You’re so good at it, darling.”

“Well, you’re not the only pebble on the beach, you know. Ginger Rogers wanted to marry me.”

“Have you got her number? Ask her to stay. The manor house has a ballroom. You and Ginger could jitterbug the night away. Is she Democrat or Republican?”

“I’ve no idea. We didn’t discuss politics.”

“Oh dear. Deadly dull.”

As they drove home, Silk wondered if he was dull. Just because he was training to fly a Vulcan didn’t make him personally interesting. He had known plenty of pilots, hot stuff in the air, boring as old boots on the ground. Tommy Flynn: nothing ever went right for him. His bitching, gentle but endless, could empty a Mess like the smell of bad drains. So Flynn was dull. Not as bad as Bob Rossi, who thought he was funny, told tedious jokes, nobody laughed except Bob. “I’ve got a thousand like that,” he said, and told another. And another. Imagine sharing a room with Bob. Imagine sharing a life. What a bore. And that fat navigator, Jenks or Tonks or something, did his sums with the speed of light in the kite, but off duty he couldn’t decide anything in less than an hour and a half. Ask him he felt like a drink and he’d think hard and say he wasn’t sure. Amusing at first. Then boring. Bloody boring. “You think I’m a bit dull, don’t you?” he asked Zoë.

“I didn’t marry you for excitement, darling.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No, but it’s the best you’ll get.” She spoke lightly. “I’m too tired to argue.”

Half a mile later, he said, “Listen: if I don’t create highpowered, high-falutin, highly polished bullshit, the kind that has Members of Parliament wetting themselves with joy...”

“Please no. Awful thought.”

“Well, it’s not because I’ve got my brain switched off and my thumb up my bum. I’ve got plenty to say that you’ll never hear. The Official Secrets Act sees to that.”

“I know, Silko. I’ve signed it too.”

He was so surprised that his foot gave the accelerator a small stab. “You have? Why?”

She snuggled down in her seat. “If I told you, I’d be breaking the Act. Slow down, darling, before you get arrested.”

3

There was a lot to learn. The Vulcan looked sleek and simple on the outside, but the cockpit was dense with dials, gauges, buttons, switches. There were 56 items of equipment for navigation, signalling and lighting, from the accelerometer to the second pilot’s knee-pad lamp. There were 37 separate controls for the engines and fuel system, starting with the bomb-bay tanks control panel and ending with the throttle control levers (re-light press switch in handles). All this equipment fed vital, or at least valuable, information and assistance to the pilot and co-pilot. They also had to manoeuvre the aeroplane. 38 flying controls and instruments made that possible. Some were familiar: rudder pedals, auto-pilot, air speed indicator. Some were not: artificial feel failure, yaw damper, machmeter. Instruments and equipment overflowed onto side panels. Yet more items filled the elbow space between the pilots. The Vulcan’s cockpit was small and intensely crowded. By contrast the Lanc had been as simple as a country bus.

Silk was quick learner. All those years flying all those types for Air America had kept his brain sharp.

As they were walking out to the bomber, his instructor said, “You know what makes her tick, but do you trust her?”

For one mad moment, Silk thought he meant Zoë. But Silk had never mentioned Zoë. “Trust her?” he said.

“Some people have a problem. The nose pokes out so far in front of the aeroplane, we can’t even see the wingtips, let alone the tailplane, which of course doesn’t exist. We have to take everything on faith.”

“I’ve got faith. The Ascension into Heaven was good enough for the Almighty, so it’s good enough for me.”

“That’s blind faith. Do you always trust the instruments? Don’t you get a flicker of doubt sometimes? You’re out in front, driving, all alone. Maybe the rest of the Vulcan isn’t following.”

“It wouldn’t dare. No, I haven’t got a problem that way. I’m beginning to worry about you, though.”

The instructor laughed. “Oh, I trust her. Some kites are just heaps of hardware, but...” They reached the bomber and strolled around it. He touched the tailfin. He patted a jet pipe, and rapped its end-cap with his knuckles. “Purpose?” he said.

“Keep the dust out.”

“And the rain. The Vulcan is packed full of electrics. Wet weather is bad for her vitals. You get all sorts of nasty little short circuits.”

Silk looked at the huge sweep of the wings. Close to the fuselage they were thick enough to swallow the engines. At their extremes they tapered to thin, finely curved tips. You could play tennis on top of a Vulcan. Doubles tennis. “You’re quite fond of her, aren’t you?”

The instructor saw a thin streak of birdshit and picked it off. “More than fond. Flying the Vulcan is the greatest privilege imaginable. It makes sex look like gardening.”

Silk had done a lot of gardening at weekends. Zoë was always busy: writing, phoning, meeting VIPs whose names he’d never heard of. Silk didn’t want to think about sex. “Not that I’m complaining,” he said to the instructor, “but isn’t it odd that Air Ministry should recruit an elderly gent to fly such a beautiful beast? Why me?”

“You’ve been flying everything for twenty years. You haven’t crashed and burned. I suppose they trust you.”

“Big mistake,” Silk said. “I never paid my last mess bill, in 1944. It was a whopper, too.”

Later, the instructor put him in the left-hand seat, the captain’s position, while he took the second pilot’s place. At twelve thousand feet they found a sheet of cirrus cloud, thin as lace curtains. “You’ve shown me you can fly fast and high,” the instructor said. “Piece of cake, in a Vulcan. Now show me you know how to fly slow. Assume the cloud is ground level. Perform a little display for the crowd.”

Silk flew wide circles, letting the speed decay to 180 knots. “Too fast,” the instructor said. Silk eased the throttles a hint more. “Trust me,” the instructor said. “She’s a lady. She won’t stall.” Silk banked. He was two hundred feet above the cirrus. The Vulcan seemed to be hanging in the sky, yet it flew beautifully. Cautiously, he reversed the bank. The Vulcan swung comfortably from one wingtip to the other. He turned through a slow half-circle and came back. “I could open the bomb-bay doors,” he suggested. “The crowd would like that.”

“You’re the captain.”

Silk did it. The Vulcan revealed what she was made of.

When they landed, the instructor said, “That went okay. But don’t try anything flashy. Every aeroplane has its limits. A couple of years ago someone displayed a Vulcan at low level, flew too fast, exceeded the ‘g’ limits, and the entire starboard wing disintegrated, bang. Ass over tit, straight into the deck. God knows what anyone found to bury.”

“Sandbags, probably.” Silk looked at the bomber. “Doesn’t seem possible,” he said.

“That’s what they thought, right up to the bang. After that it was too late to think.”

* * *

The course lasted ten weeks. Silk studied every aspect of the Vulcan: airframe limitations, engine controls, fuel economy, emergency procedures, ejection seat, oxygen system, ditching drill, airbrakes, and a hundred others. He worked hard on everything except the ditching drill. He feared the sea. If 120 tons of Vulcan stopped flying over the ocean, it would make an almighty splash, as if God had dropped anchor. There would be no paddling away in a life raft. Silk was convinced of this. Ditching drill was irrelevant.

He spent many sweaty hours in the flight simulator, where every part of the Vulcan was fallible. Single engine failed on take-off. Double engines failed. The take-off was aborted, or he got airborne only to hit severe buffeting. He had to land crosswind. Or with only one undercarriage leg down. Or in thick rain with no windscreen wipers. He had engine flame-outs and relighting at altitude. Instruments failed. Cabin pressure failed. Heating failed. He enjoyed it all. Air America had had cock-ups, but nothing like this.

4

Silk completed the course, qualified, got his posting, packed his bags and drove to the cottage. A man with a shaggy grey beard was painting the window frames. A fat spaniel sprawled on the grass and watched. “It’s not for sale,” the man said. “We just bought it.”

“Damn.” Silk felt cheated: he hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to the old place. “I... uh...” He didn’t know how to define himself. “Used to live here,” he said.

The man stopped painting. “Are you the husband? Good. I found something in the attic you can take away.” He went inside. Silk squatted on his haunches and stroked the spaniel. It growled and tried to bite, but it was too fat and slow. “Well, sod you, then, you miserable bitch,” he said. The man came out with a leather suitcase. “Locked,” he said. “No key.”

Silk took it. “I suppose all our stuff is now at the manor?”

“Manor? Don’t know anything about a manor. Forwarding address I got given is Rich something. Goodrich? Goodrich House...” He squinted at Silk. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“Don’t bother. It’s not far away.” He heaved the suitcase into the car and left fast. He was low on petrol, he didn’t have a map, but someone must be able to tell him how to find the bloody silly house.

He drove around this part of Lincolnshire for forty minutes until he was grim with failure and sick of repeating the same question to people whose eyes immediately went as blank as old pennies. The needle on his fuel gauge was tapping empty. And then, finally, he met a policeman on a bicycle who said he knew for certain there was no Goodrich House in the county. On the other hand there was a Richards Court, big house, just bought by a lady MP, not far off.

“I may have to walk,” Silk said. “I’m running on fumes.”

The policeman mounted his bike and led the way to a petrol station, which was shut, but he got the owner to leave his TV and unlock his pumps.

“You’re a prince,” Silk said. The policeman aimed a finger at Silk’s medal ribbons. “You did your bit, too,” he said.

* * *

Richards Court sat in its own grounds, half a mile from the road, hidden by woodland, an early Victorian country house with a stable block and a dairy, plus a few smaller buildings which stood in the background, minding their manners.

The east side of the house was flanked by a broad terrace. A pair of peacocks was in residence. “Good evening,” Silk said. “You must be Abbot and Costello.” One bird slowly displayed its tail feathers. “I stand corrected. Rodgers and Hammerstein.”

French windows opened, and a man in black trousers and a dove-grey waistcoat appeared. “May I help you, sir?”

“That depends. Who are you?”

“I am Stevens, sir. The under-butler.”

“Well, I’m Silk, the under-husband. Is my wife here?”

“Her ladyship is in conference, sir. In the library.”

“In conference? Who with? Never mind. Tell her I’m here. Tell her I’ve brought Rumpty and Tumpty with me and we’d all like the pleasure of her company.”

“Rumpty and Tumpty.” Stevens didn’t even blink. “Very good, sir. Drinks are in the Music Room, if you would like to wait there.”

Silk was on his second Scotch-and-water when Zoë hurried in, kissed him, hugged him, and awoke long-forgotten tremors in his loins. “Darling, how gorgeous to see you, and looking so well, you should have telephoned, we’re frantically busy here, isn’t it a dreadful dump? But big.”

“I’ve been trying to find Something Court. I’ve driven all over –”

“Damn, damn. I meant to tell you. Frantically busy, you’ve no idea. The thing is, I knew a man called Richards, centuries ago, complete shit, I couldn’t live anywhere called Richards Court, so I changed it to The Grange... Anyway, you’re here. We’ll put you in the Red Room. Lovely views.”

“The only view I want is you, starkers.”

She kissed him again and backed away, towards the door. “Poor Rumpty and Tumpty... This thing I’m chairing will go on all night...”

“I can wait. Tell you what: I’ll stand behind you and look staunch. That’ll speed things up.”

Zoë shuddered, purely for effect. “Blow things up, more likely.”

“Really? What’s it all about?”

“Can’t say, Silko. Politics. You know.”

“All I know is I’ve been flying all week and driving all evening, and...” He heard the grate of bitterness in his voice and let that sentence die. “How about tomorrow?”

“No, tomorrow’s hopeless. Hordes of people coming, absolute hordes.” She wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps Tuesday?”

“I’ll be flying. I’ve been posted to Kindrick. Remember? My last base, in ’44. Twenty miles away.”

“Kindrick, how nice for you. You’ll meet all your chums again.” She blew a kiss and was gone.

“All my fucking chums from fucking Kindrick are fucking dead,” Silk said. He opened the lid of a grand piano and ran his forefinger down the keys. “Not Freddy Redman. He’s in the Air Ministry, but that’s a living death, isn’t it?”

He left the piano and stood in the middle of the room, sipping his whisky and thinking about dead aircrew, something he had managed to avoid doing for ten, fifteen years. Then a tall, lithe young man came in and introduced himself as Charles Ferris, Zoë’s personal assistant. “I look after her appointments book,” he said. “She thought we might liaise.”

“I don’t want to bloody liaise. Liaise about what?”

“Mutually convenient dates,” Ferris said. Silk stared, frowning as if the light hurt his eyes. “Oh well,” Ferris said. “Not such a good idea, after all.”

“Here’s a much better idea,” Silk said. “Where’s the nearest pub?”

When he opened the Citroën’s door he saw the big leather suitcase on the back seat, and on impulse he dragged it out and flung it away. He got in and started the car and knew how childish he’d been, so he got out and carried the suitcase into the house and dumped it. Stevens, the under-butler, came in sight. “Not mine,” Silk said. “Tell her ladyship it was found in the attic. Bloody heavy. Don’t herniate yourself.” Then he went to the pub. They had ham sandwiches two inches thick and best bitter that washed away the sins of the world. When he got back to The Grange only Stevens was still up.

5

He slept late. By the time he reached the breakfast room, all the guests had eaten and moved on. He had a kipper and bacon and eggs and read a copy of The Times that had coffee stains on the Parliamentary News.

It was a mild, sunny morning. He went for a stroll around The Grange. The place was even bigger than he thought: he identified an ice-house, a laundry and a sprawling garage, once a coach-house. Under a Scots pine he found a cemetery for pets. He scraped the moss from a small tombstone. Tommy, a Good Pal, in flowery letters. Another stone was for Jessy, Gone But Not Forgotten. “Not true,” Silk said. “Jessy’s gone and forgotten and so are you.”

He looked around. It must take a platoon of servants to run The Grange. Obviously Zoë had more money than God. And she spent it hand over fist. Well, so what? He wasn’t being asked to do any work. Then why did the sight of this place depress him?

At the back of the house was a walled garden. Inside it, dirty smoke was boiling up. He found a doorway. An elderly man in overalls was poking the fire with a spade. As Silk got closer he saw that what the man was burning was the leather suitcase.

“I guess you’re the gardener,” Silk said.

“I’m Ted, sir.” He took off his cap.

“And that’s a suitcase.”

“Her ladyship’s orders, sir.”

Silk took Ted’s spade and chopped at the locks until the suitcase sprang open. It was full of clothing. On top was an RAF officer’s uniform, neatly folded. The smoke made Silk cough, but he used the edge of the spade to lift out a tunic. “Pilot,” he said. “See? Flight lieutenant.” The smoke swirled and went for his eyes, so he let the tunic fall. “Damn. Damn.”

“Someone you knew, sir?”

“Chap called Langham. Tony Langham. Good type.” He gave back the spade. “Rather a long time ago. Keep up the good work, Ted.”

Silk collected his things from the Red Room and drove to RAF Kindrick. Tony had been her first husband, she owned his clothes, she had a perfect right to destroy them, nobody should live in the past. Still, it was a hell of a way for Tony’s kit to end up. First he went down in flames, then his best uniform went up in flames. Silk put his foot to the floor and made the Citroën charge so hard that it left Tony in its slipstream. Speed cures all.