“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.
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.”