“What was that about, Archie?”
“The Daily Mail is backing General Haig to take over from Sir John French. A headline to the effect that our latest VC thinks the war is not being prosecuted as it should be would be another blade in French’s back. As it stands, they have nothing from you that will aid their cause. Well thought, by the way – you need to be quick on your feet when those bastards are about!” He stopped for a second, face showing shocked. “I’m so terribly sorry, old chap! That must be as tactless as I have ever managed!”
“What?”
“Bloody hell – you might at least have noticed when I put my foot in my mouth! Oh, Christ! Did it again! I said you need to be ‘quick on your feet’.”
“Oh! So you did. Not something I shall ever be again. It don’t matter at all, Archie – I am not to go looking for slights and demanding extremities of tact from all who come into contact with me.”
“No. Even so, it was unnecessary on my part. What are you doing next, do you know? You can’t remain with us in the Andrew – the days of pegleg sea captains are gone. There are other possibilities, you know. Intelligence are always looking for bright young men to man their desks.”
“Bugger them! Not my cup of tea, Archie. Talking of which, is that refreshments I see?”
He spent the next five minutes discovering that it is almost impossible to manage a teacup on crutches, came close to losing his temper.
“A third hand would be useful, Peter. Not to worry. Here. If you stand by the table, all will be well. Better still if you sat down, you must have been on your feet long enough.”
It was sensible advice. He forced himself to welcome it.
Next morning saw him at home and faced with the problem of stairs. Trying to achieve something he had never thought about before was annoying, again. He had a choice, he suspected, of simply facing a series of challenges or of becoming a bad-tempered, whining invalid. He climbed the stairs.
He called for a taxi on the Monday and made his way to the premises of the sole motor showroom in the town, unprosperous and on the verge of closing its doors under wartime restrictions on petrol usage. People were not buying cars.
“A vehicle to be modified for a driver with a single foot, sir? Oh, I should think we could rise to that problem, sir. It is not, sad to say, unprecedented in our country. Too many young men have come home to stay in a sad condition!”
The salesman was well into his forties and saw no prospect of being called to the war, had a vast wealth of sympathy for those less fortunate than him.
“We must retain a clutch, operated by the foot. A hand throttle is simple enough. The brake to be operated like that on a motor cycle and we have solved the entire problem, sir. A car with a larger engine, one that does not require the double declutch, will make the driver’s life simpler.”
And substantially more expensive, Peter did not doubt. He had driven a car, was sure that he could master the relatively minor change demanded of him. They discussed models, settling on the Lanchester that happened to be the most costly vehicle in the showroom.
“Four weeks, I am afraid, to make the modifications, sir. They must be done at the factory.”
It was reasonable and he suspected he might have regained much of his independence by then.
“I must imagine that you would like a deposit?”
The salesman could think of little he would like better.
Peter wrote a cheque for one hundred pounds, in process turned the showroom’s account temporarily from red to black, much to the bank manager’s pleasure.
“A cab, Captain Naseby?”
“Not just now, thank you. I shall walk into town – it’s only a couple of hundred yards and the exercise will do me good. It will be pleasant to be out alone, as well.”
The salesman was not sure he approved, was in no position to argue.
Two hundred yards, a bit less than a furlong, was no great distance. It took Peter ten minutes, much to his annoyance. Reaching the town centre, he ventured into a teashop to take a seat and recover from the strain. He then discovered that every mama and daughter he had ever met in town was out shopping and so delighted to greet him again. Most displayed a degree of tact and a little, at least, of common sense. A few were simply very jolly. All were even more determined to display their daughters – he was now the catch of the town. He resorted to the underhand.
“Just come into town to look in the jewellers, you know, ma’am. A little gift for my fiancée, an apology for upsetting her so.”
They fumbled and stumbled in saying that no young lady should be upset that her man had again shown himself the hero. One or two of the daughters showed genuinely disappointed, having found the young captain a romantic figure.
He glanced in the jeweller’s window, the idea seeming right now that it had occurred to him. His eye was caught by a display of second-hand pieces, old Victorian or earlier keepsakes that had not caught the heir’s fancy and had been turned into cash on grandmother’s death. There was a bracelet in pale gold with heavy stones, garnets, he thought. They were cut to catch the light and he thought they would stand out against Josephine’s pale colouring.
The jeweller recognised him and was flattered to have attracted his trade. He went through the familiar process of hauling out the local newspaper and showing Peter his photograph, VC at his breast.
“Was you to sign it, Captain Naseby, I should be most proud. Delighted! In a frame, on the wall. My most esteemed client, sir.”
Peter signed and then discussed the bracelet.
“American gold, sir, the bracelet made in New York, from the markings, soon after the Civil War. I think it most attractive but not at all in the current taste. It has been in my window these three years, in fact, and consequently is available at a substantial discount.”
They agreed on eighty pounds, Peter wondering just how much of a bargain he had made. It mattered very little, he supposed. If he was to earn as much as six thousands a year in his new occupation, then it was nothing at all.
Could he take the lead in building something as massive and modern as an oil refinery? He knew nothing about construction. He had known nothing about balloons and had learned in less than a week. He could find out all he needed in his new place in life. It could not be too complex – he did not have to learn the skills, he must provide the leadership and that was simple enough.
He walked a few more yards, stopped by the estate agent’s window, wondering where he would be living when he had taken the job. Close to the site or in London, working out of the City – he did not know. Should he rent a house or buy? Again, he was unsure.
“Ha! Peterkins! What are you doing out on your own? Shouldn’t you have a minder with you?”
“Hello, Charlie! What brings you into the hometown at this time of day? Should you not be minding the shop?”
“Closed on a Monday, dear boy. Thought I should visit the family – got to do that in the morning while the Old Man’s sober enough to recognise me!”
He snorted with laughter. Geoffrey, he thought, might have been outraged at such disrespect for the paterfamilias, a peer of the realm, as well.
“Enjoying my freedom, arranging to purchase a motor car and buying a little gift in the jewellers while I am here. A bracelet that caught my eye.”
“For your young lady in Shoreham?”
“Now my fiancée, Charlie.”
“Bloody good thing too! You are too much of a man to stay a bachelor. I am glad you don’t think that a foot blown off makes you a half-man or nonsense like that!”
“You know, that never occurred to me, Charlie.”
She grinned, showed almost uncomfortable.
“Good! If it had, I was intending to take you back to my flat and show you how wrong you were.”