A NICE OLD
WIDOW-LADY

1

Silk slept until two, had a sandwich and a beer in the Mess, and drove to The Grange. Stevens told him that Captain Black wished him to know that he was very grateful for the wonderful hospitality he had been shown. Unfortunately, duty required him to return to his base. That was an hour ago. Her ladyship was taking a bath.

“I hope he tipped you well.”

“Excessively, sir. I felt obliged to return half the amount.”

Silk stared. “You’re joking.”

“Yes, sir. He failed to tip me. In compensation I took a bottle of claret from the cellar.”

“Now I don’t know whether you’re joking.”

“Not the good claret, sir. That would be impertinent. One of the more gullible years.”

Silk went upstairs, thinking: Too bloody smooth. But it was the under-butler’s job to be smooth, wasn’t it? Yes. Maybe. Who cares? The hell with it.

Zoë’s bath stood on castiron lion’s paw feet and it was long enough to drown a Grenadier Guard. Her head looked very small in a sea of foam and bubbles. Silk sat on the edge and popped bubbles with the sharp end of a loofah. “ I hope the Yank wasn’t too much of a nuisance,” he said.

“Quite charming. The ideal guest.”

“I was afraid he’d get in the way of your work.”

“Not a bit. We meshed perfectly.” She let her head sink until her nose and ears were submerged and she blew bubbles as she looked at Silk. Her head rose and she said, “Such a shame you missed him. I asked if he could possibly come again. He seemed quite keen. How was your Micky Finn? Lots of innocent fun?”

“You know I can’t talk about it.”

“No? It was just a no-notice recall and dispersal. Routine panic, isn’t that what you chaps call it? I assume your Vulcans got airborne in a lot less than four minutes, or Bomber Command would have been highly displeased and you’d still be getting a numb bum on the ORP at your dispersal field.”

“Now you’re just showing off.”

“Not half as much as your fat air marshals. They love to boast. Off the record.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m just a flight lieutenant.”

“I’m just an MP, but I know where you went yesterday, and why, and what a complete farce it was. Vulcans are too big and noisy to hide, Silko. What makes you think the Russians haven’t got Yeovilton on their maps?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“The RAF knows where all the Soviet nuclear bomber bases are, and Russia’s vast. England’s tiny. D’you honestly believe the Kremlin can’t plant a missile on every RAF bomber base? Main and dispersal? Twice over?”

“That’s not my problem.” Beside him, Zoë’s right foot had appeared, pink and shiny. He fingered the toes. “All I know is the Kremlin won’t survive an attack on Britain. Is Kruschev prepared to trade Moscow for, say, Kindrick? I don’t think so.” He tickled her foot. “None of which is secret, by the way.”

“Stop. Stop! Or I’ll splash you... the trains run both ways, don’t they?” she said. “We don’t dare attack them first, because...” Silk shrugged. “So nobody’s going to drop the bomb,” she said. “It’s a useless weapon.”

“Well, mine isn’t. Mine’s on standby, and fully operational. Bugger the Kremlin. How long are you going to soak in this tub?”

“Here’s something else you ought to know. Your famous four-minute warning begs a very large question. D’you want to know what it is?”

“No.” The foam was thinning; Silk could see more and more of her. Here and now. Why not here and now? “Yesterday, when I got called to the colours, we left unfinished business behind. Remember? Well, now I’m back, loaded for bear. So: shall we make whoopee?” Four-minute warning? Damn right I want to know. But not now.

Zoë raised her foot a little higher and wriggled the toes. She took a serious interest in the performance. Steam had turned her hair into black ringlets. She looked no more than twenty years old, which was what she was when Silk first met her. “Afraid not,” she said.

“Look, I’ll go and fetch the bloody punt,” Silk said. “I’ll carry it up the bloody stairs. I’ll dump it in the bloody bedroom.”

“I know you would, darling. But that wouldn’t alter the bloody time, and the bloody time is what we haven’t bloody got.” She spoke sweetly. Silk found himself looking at her foot. If he grabbed it, jerked upwards, she’d go under. Hold tight, she’d stay under. And that would definitely solve... what? Nothing. So why was it such a tempting thought?

He reached out and, with one forefinger, pushed the foot down into the water.

“Let me guess,” he said. “The end of the world is nigh. Your sources of intelligence have pinpointed...” He looked at his watch. “Sixteen hundred hours. Am I right?”

“You are clever, Silko. It’s a cocktail party, at five. Go and have a bath, dear. You smell like the inside of a boxer’s jockstrap.”

“Well, you would know more about that than I,” he said as he went out. It wasn’t often that he got the last word, and it didn’t make him feel any less dissatisfied.

2

The Old Rectory, just outside Lincoln, was big. It had been built in an age when parsons could afford large families and cheap servants. Now it was owned by a man who had inherited half a coalfield in Nottinghamshire. To express his appreciation of this good luck, he encouraged the arts in East Anglia by giving cocktail parties where the artists could meet people with taste and money. Like Zoë.

On their way to the party, Silk asked her if she’d noticed anything sort of, you know, morbid about Captain Black. She said he’d seemed remarkably well-balanced. Silk was frowning at the road, gripping the wheel so tightly that sinews showed up stiffly on the backs of his hands. “Still, what do I know?” she said. “I’m impressed by any man who can take his pants off without falling over.”

He glanced at her, and went back to frowning.

“Joke,” she said. “Well-balanced. Remember?” She squeezed his thigh. “Relax, Silko.” He took his hand off the wheel and flexed his fingers. “Now smile,” she said. He did his best. “Ghastly,” she said. “Go back to looking miserable.”

After a mile or so, he said, “It’s just that I got the impression that Captain Black doesn’t like his job. Prospects are deeply depressing. He’s even thought of taking the easy way out.”

“Suicide,” Zoë said. “It’s called suicide, Silko.”

“Anyway, I did my best to change his mind. Buck him up.”

“Did you? Why? He’s flying an F-100 in a squadron that’s tasked to make tactical nuclear strikes on population centres in Eastern Europe.” She looked out of her window and waved to three children who were riding a fat old pony, bareback. They waved back. “If he’s going to kill a couple of hundred thousand civilians, and himself, then the least we can do is let him kill himself first, don’t you agree?”

Silk changed gear, unnecessarily, and changed back again. “I don’t know anything about any of that,” he said.

“Yes, you do, darling. You do now.”

“Well, it’s all balls. I want to ask you about Stevens. Don’t you think he’s got a funny attitude? And why is he only the under-butler when we haven’t got a proper butler?”

“No particular reason. He came with the house, rather like the death-watch beetle.”

“I never know what to say to him. All I know about is flying. How can I make conversation with ordinary people when... What’s there to talk about? Cricket? I hate cricket. At school, I could never hit the damn ball. It hit me. I had scars on my scars. Maybe I should talk about that. Are you interested in my cricket scars?”

“You need a hobby,” Zoë said. “Give your bored old brain a break. Find yourself a nice hobby, Silko.”

“I could rob banks,” he said. “That would be something to talk about.”

“Do it. Do anything. Just get one foot in the real world.”

* * *

Something artistic was happening everywhere at the Old Rectory: in the library, the music room, the drawingroom, the study; and activities overflowed onto the terrace, the lawns, the summerhouse. Poetry readings, pianists, displays of paintings, a string quartet, actors giving readings, pottery, prints, sculpture, weaving. Flower-arranging. Embroidery.

Silk toured the lot in fifteen minutes. Nothing was worth tuppence. Nobody mattered. He gave up. He noticed a small wrought-iron balcony, high up, so he went upstairs.

A man was leaning on the rail. Below, on the terrace, the string quartet was making short work of Mendelssohn. “Mind if I join you?” Silk said.

“Please do.”

“I’ve taken all the culture I can stand. Wait a minute... This is your party, isn’t it? Sorry.”

“Not a bit. My contribution to the arts is writing a fat cheque for the booze.” He pointed at a group of people. “If you’re looking for sparkling conversation, I strongly recommend the lady in the green silk.”

“Me too. She’s my wife.”

“Is that so? Lucky chap. Let me see... How about that one-armed man? Interesting fellow. Glass-blower. Can’t be easy, can it? One arm.”

“Quite a challenge.” But Silk was looking at a slim woman in khaki trousers and a v-neck sweater. The trousers fitted her like skin. The sweater was blood-red and, from this distance, appeared to be v-necked down to somewhere just north of the navel. She had pulled up the sleeves until they bunched above her elbows. She turned her head, and Silk crashed and burned, right there. “Interesting face,” he said.

“It’s the glass-blowing,” his host said. “Develops the cheek muscles.”

“Really? Sounds fascinating.”

Silk hurried downstairs, weaved through the crowd on the lawn, found the blood-red sweater listening to the glass-blower. “It all starts with the diaphragm,” he was saying. He patted his stomach. “I can move a grand piano ten feet, just using my diaphragm.”

“Excuse me,” Silk said, “but there’s a woman in the Music Room who wants to buy your glass. Lots of it.” The man stared. “Didn’t give her name,” Silk said. “Plump, about fifty, big cheque book. Music Room.”

They watched him go. “Thank Christ,” Silk said. Beneath the sweater’s deep cleavage she was wearing some kind of skin-coloured undergarment. He forgave her everything. “For a moment I didn’t think he’d buy it,” he said. No reply. Maybe she couldn’t speak English. Swedish, maybe. Italian. Greek. “Who are you?” he asked. “Tell me you’re not married.” Fool, he told himself, and shut up.

She had half a glass of white wine. She drank a little, and looked at him curiously. Seriously. Then she drank the rest and gave him the glass. “Does that often work?” she asked. “Kicking down the door and throwing hand grenades?”

“Blame it on the sweater.” What the hell.

“Why? Why not blame it on your balls?” She was calm. And slightly amused.

“Hey, hey. You’re jumping several stages ahead.”

“Hey, hey, no I’m not. I’m just stopping you from doing what every man does when he fails to score. He blames the woman.”

Silk raised his hands. “Okay. I surrender.”

She ran a finger along his jawline. “Cleancut. I like a man with a cleancut face. Come on, let’s take a stroll.”

He walked beside her. “Is this wise? You hardly know me.”

“Oh, I know you. I should have married you, ten years ago, when you were still fairly sober.”

“You’re confusing me with...”

“Yes, I am. Anyway, he’s dead. Drunk as a skunk, drove flat out, hit a bridge, end of story. Hullo, Millie.” She waved to a friend. “Sings like an angel, cooks like a Borgia,” she told Silk. “Avoid her dinners. They’ll kill you.” She led him behind the summerhouse and through a garden gate. “Where are we going?” he asked. He didn’t care; it was just something to say. They turned right. “Deadman’s Acre,” she said. “Good view.”

“Another fatality. You’re dangerous to know, aren’t you?”

She didn’t laugh, or smile, or reply. Got that wrong. Silk said to himself. This is not going well.

They walked in silence. When she spoke, her voice was different: slack, easy, almost thinking aloud. “Thank God I’m out of there. I hate crowds, and crowds of artists are the worst, all those fragile egos, all that bullshit... I can’t take the noise. I was ready to go and hide in the cellar when you turned up, bellowing like a wounded buffalo. Who are you, anyway?”

Silk explained.

“I’ve met Zoë,” she said. “Ball of fire. Not like me. Slow burner, me. I used to be a model, fairly successful, I knew how to switch on and switch off. I could sparkle when I wanted. Still can, briefly. Brought you running, didn’t I?”

“Did you? Can’t remember. It was ages ago.”

At last she smiled. “I know the signs. I’m thirty-two, Silko. Men have been falling in love with this face of mine since I was fifteen. Face and figure. Love at first sight, that’s what they think, silly bastards. They don’t know me. How can they? So it always ends in tears. Not my tears, hell no, don’t blame me for my looks. You wouldn’t enjoy it if women kept falling in love with you at first sight, would you?”

“I might.”

“Twice a week? Year round?”

“That might be rather a strain.”

They reached Deadman’s Acre and admired the view. Blackbirds sang. Swallows stooged about the sky. One plunged and soared in something like a corkscrew. Hard work, and all to catch a few bugs. But beautiful.

They walked back. He found that her name was Tess Monk. She lived in an old farmhouse, alone. She taught music for a living and worked part-time in a shop for another living. “That’s where the sweater came from,” she said. “You want us to meet again. I can tell by the way you’re chewing your lip.”

“Well, I’ve always wanted to learn the saxophone.”

“You’re lying. And I don’t teach the sax. I teach the cello.”

“That was my second choice,” he said.

* * *

On the way home, Zoë said. “I bought a painting of a tree, very ugly, but the artist’s wife is pregnant again.”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” Silk said. “Talking of which, I took your advice. I’m going to learn to play the cello.”

“Golly. Who’s teaching you?”

“A nice old widow-lady. Tess Monk.”

“Oh, her. She’s batty. No, that’s unfair. She lives in a world of her own. I asked her to join Artists Against The Bomb and she said she was against artists. In her experience, they had lousy judgement and bad breath and ninety percent could be A-bombed and the world would be a better place.”

“Damn right.”

“Damn silly.”

“What if you got Laurence Olivier on your soap box? Why should I do what he says? He’s just an actor. Hasn’t got a brain of his own. Why should anyone buy his opinions?”

“I’d have him in a flash, if I could.”

“Just shows that Tess Monk was right.”

“No, Silko. It just shows that your brain is away with the fairies, like hers. And you’ll never learn the cello. I’ve heard you sing. You can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“It’s only a hobby,” he said. “Nothing serious. Like your hobby of dropping little hints about Vulcan operations. You said the four-minute warning begs a large question, but you never explained what that meant.”

“Glaringly obvious. Look at the Vulcan. Look at Blue Steel. Now ask yourself why the Americans keep their B52s armed and flying around the clock, every day of the year. If you can’t work it out, you don’t deserve to know.”

“Look,” he said. “Cows eating grass. Isn’t that amazing?”

They reached The Grange. She packed a briefcase and changed her clothes. The sun was setting as he drove her to Lincoln and saw her onto the London train. Then he drove to the farmhouse where Tess Monk lived. “You again,” she said.

“I passed a pub. The Mason’s Arms. Thought you might like to go for a drink. Maybe a pickled egg. Packet of nuts.”

“You’re full of wild ideas.” She shut the door and took his arm.