One way or another, from the reminiscences of her grandmother, mother and step-father, Faith knew the Bull inside out, from the decrepit creaking floorboards at the head of the stairs to the notice in the unlockable upstairs lavatory appealing to the users not to pull the chain after midnight because of the noises which then racked the water pipes. She was an expert in every legend, tradition and horror which 3112 Squadron had inherited from its long-suffering predecessors.
The Bull she raised in Audley's imagination was built of nostalgic dummy4
wartime gaiety and stark discomfort–'The Way to the Stars' staged in Dotheboys Hall. But as the discomfort was more likely to have survived than the gaiety he began to have the gravest doubts about the night ahead of them. It promised to be even less comfortable than the previous one.
His doubts were strengthened by the rambling pub's unchanged appearance. It was as beautifully Old English as she had said: what had survived by luck, accident and sheer lack of prosperity since Jacobean times was now its greatest attraction. The lattice of timbers, the uneven plaster and the tiny, irregular leaded windows would be preserved as, long as chemicals and crafty restoration could hold them together.
But 3112 Squadron's Bull vanished like a dream in warm air, expensive continental cooking smells and deep carpeting the moment they stooped through the low oak doorway. Before Audley had got his bearings, while he was still looking for one of Faith's landmarks, a darkly handsome waiter in a white coat and tight maroon trousers materialised at his elbow.
Audley unwillingly admitted that he was the Dr Audley who had booked a double room.
The waiter was joined by an even smoother and swarthier grey-suited manager who expressed his gladness at their arrival and his desolation at their lack of a double bed. Faith, at his other elbow, gave an odd, muffled snort.
Nevertheless, the manager assured him, there could be no doubt about their comfort, as the beds in every room were of the latest American design, identical with those supplied to the London dummy4
Hilton. The measurements of these beds—
Audley hastened to assure him back that what was good enough for the Hilton was good enough for him.
And the luggage? Well, there had been a silly misunderstanding about their luggage. It had been left behind and a friend was bringing it down later in the evening. Understanding smiles spread from face to face like treacle. A tragedy –but all would be well, assuredly. If Mrs Audley was inconvenienced in any way, the hotel would spring to her assistance.
They followed the white coat up the staircase–not the narrow alpine climb on which the drunken wing commander had broken a leg in the winter of '44, but a gentle, generous stairway which neither sagged nor creaked–and along the soft-carpeted, well-lit passage.
Was there anything else the Doctor required?
The Doctor had already had more than enough. Except for one thing: 'Which way from here to the airfield?' Audley inquired.
The man looked at him, mystified. Then he grinned like a small boy who has come up with the answer to an unfair adult question.
'Nottingham,' he said happily.
Audley shook his head. 'The old airfield here–at Newton Chester.'
The black curls shook back at him. There was no airfield here. The airfield was near Nottingham.
As the door closed on the man Faith flopped back on her Hilton-standard bed.
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'Mrs Audley is inconvenienced,' she murmured. 'No double bed, no toothbrush–no Bull.' She began to laugh. 'And no airfield!'
Audley watched her slowly give in to the laughter. What spoilt the joke for him was that she could well have added 'no treasure'. But stretched out on the bed, and a generous bed it was–she did take his mind off that unhopeful prospect. She herself was, after all, the only attainable treasure of the operation now. He eyed her long legs speculatively; and an end attainable there and then, for the asking.
But the compulsion to see the airfield while the light held was still stronger than sex, rather to his regret. He told himself savagely that it was common sense rather than incipient middle age which took business before pleasure.
'Come on, wench,' he said hoarsely. 'Put on a new face! We've got one more call to make.'
Faith groaned. 'You're a slave-driver, David! God, there's no romance about your job, is there?'
'Doesn't staying in a strange hotel with a strange man count as romance?'
'Camp-followers' duty–I'm just following the family calling. That's not romantic, only patriotic. And which grotty bit of my family history are you about to dredge up this time?'
'This is merely a courtesy call. RAF Newton Cnester is plain Castle Farm now. We're going to call on Farmer Warren to ask him to let us look round.'
'Is he expecting us?'
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'If the First Class mail can be relied on he won't be too surprised by my appearance. What he'll make of you I shudder to think!'
She had loosened the French pleat, and to attempt to pass her off as a Ministry of Defence secretary on Sunday overtime would seriously impair the public image of Civil Service morals.
She tossed back the pale mane of hair. 'What the devil am I supposed to be, then?'
'I think you'd better go on being the first Mrs Audley –keeping an eye on her hard-working husband. I doubt if Farmer Warren will believe it, but it will just have to do.'
She smoothed down the mini-dress over her hips. 'And what exactly is my hard-working husband doing?'
'He's leading a survey team examining the condition of abandoned air strips. And don't laugh, my girl, because your taxes have been spent on far less likely things than that. We're just the advance guard, and you've come along for the ride.'
Faith wrinkled her nose. 'Old Farmer Warren'll have to be a turnip to swallow that. He'll put me down as a shameless hussy–but since that's just about what I am, I suppose I'll have to bear his displeasure.'
But if Farmer Warren did not swallow the story, equally he did not view Faith with displeasure: Farmer Warren was in his thirties, or mid-thirties, and if he wasn't exactly handsome he was engagingly good-humoured, with white teeth flashing like a toothpaste advertisement in his weather-browned face.
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'Got your letter, sure enough–and it rather put the fear of God up me. You're not thinking of moving back here, by any chance, are you? My family moved off once, and fair enough with the Germans over there. But I don't reckon to be shifted again,' he said frankly, with the hint of steel in his smile.
Audley reassured him. 'The runways would never do for jets anyway, Mr Warren,' he lied comfortingly. He hadn't the faintest idea what sort of runways were suitable for jets. 'We just want to see how the temporary wartime strips have weathered in different parts of the country. We won't do any harm.'
'They've weathered too darn well, if you ask me–wasted a lot of good land. But help yourself. Just don't frighten my silly sheep too much and don't tramp down too much of my rye grass. We're taking the first cut for silage next week. Come and go as you please–you'll have to come through this side because the old airfield entrance is all wired up. There's not much left there anyway.'
Audley was about to thank him when a diminutive, pretty auburn-haired girl in a mini-skirt far briefer than Faith's joined them.
'Don't be boorish, Keith! Take them round yourself. You can show them your wonderful Longwools at the same time!'
'They don't want to see my Longwools,' Warren growled back at her proudly. 'Even if they are worth seeing–better than dead concrete and tarmac. But of course I'll show you round–I should've thought of that. At least show you the lie of the land, that's the least I can do.'
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He swept aside Audley's protests. 'We'll take the Land-Rover–first bit's too bumpy for that nice car of yours. It's your coming on Sunday that's put me off. Never expected a Civil Servant to work on Sunday like me . . .'