Trimble left the Sergeant with the object and walked out of the hut.
At a few minutes past five o’clock, HB met Swan and Gable outside the main assembly hangar. ‘Good day chaps?’ he asked, and gestured them to get into his car.
Swan nodded. ‘Yes HB, very good. Some most interesting reports from your flight crew on the Doppler system.’
Barnett gave an embarrassing smile. ‘I’m afraid I don’t very much deal with the hi-tech stuff. Engines and airframe are my specialty, so whatever you have to say about the avionics will all be gobbledegook to me.’
Swan smiled. ‘I see. Well, things are going well with the evaluation, and it looks as though the high-tech stuff is ticking the right boxes.’
It was Gable’s turn to make conversation. ‘How is the problem with the engine coming on?’
Barnett replied, looking in the mirror at his inquisitor.
‘Been at it all day in the engine testing chamber, running her up to two and half thousand RPM. It seems stable for a constant five to ten minutes, then starts to vibrate and after that, gets steadily worse. We tried lowering the compression rating, but then we noticed a loss of power, something no flight crew wants when being tracked by SAMs or buzzed by a bloody MIG over hostile territory.
‘Quite so,’ replied Swan.
‘Talking of SAMs. I was of the understanding that the Rapier has been fitted with the latest ECM system.’
Barnett confirmed. ‘It will be on the production models. We rigged a temporary system to the second prototype, as that was going to be part of the planned trials, but obviously, that’s all on the backburner for now.’
Swan detected resentment in the Chief Designer’s reply, and decided to change the subject. ‘I trust there’s good food at The Duck and Goose then?’
‘Only the best steak and kidney pudding this side of The Lakes,’ boasted Barnett.
Gable stared out at the road, noticing that HB had slowed down and turned right into a car park. A sign with a picture of a duck being overflown by a goose as its centrepiece hung from two iron braces at the side of the stone clad building.
‘We’re here, gents. One of my local haunts, and I hope you two are hungry.’
They got out of the car and Swan took in the external structure and lighting of the inn. Barnett then led them inside the main lounge and instantly raised his hand to a man behind the bar.
‘Evening, Bob. A pint each of Grassmoor Dark for my two friends, please.’
Bob Crumley was the landlord of the Duck and Goose and ran it like a military barracks with his wife, Brenda, and their two barmaid daughters, Gwen and Mary.
He nodded to the Brinton Chief Designer. ‘Right you are, HB. Coming right up.’ As an ex RSM of the Coldstream Guards, even in retirement he stuck with his former Senior NCO eccentricities, sometimes to his family’s annoyance. Gable watched as Crumley poured the dark brown liquid into the glass tankards.
‘Will you be eating, gentlemen?’
Barnett smiled. ‘If Brenda has some of her steak and kidney pies on, then the answer is yes. I was drooling earlier over the thought as I was recommending them to Alex and Arthur here, on the drive up from work.’
Crumley nodded. ‘Then she must have known you’ll be popping in, as she has done some for this evening. We’ve also got some nice jackets in the oven as well,’ added the Landlord.
‘Sounds great, Bob. Tell Brenda to do three, with lots of mushy peas and her homemade gravy.’
Crumley wrote down the order and beckoned his daughter Mary to prepare a table. On her father’s glance, Mary went over to a table and prepared it with cutlery and napkins.
‘Gwen’s night off then, Bob?’ enquired Barnett.
‘She’s gone to Carlisle with some friends to see one of these bloody pop groups. A bunch of scruffy lads from Birmingham called The Nightriders.’
Overhearing this remark, Mary Crumley interrupted.
‘The Nightriders ain’t that bad Dad, especially the lead singer Jeff Lynne. He’s a right dish. I would say they would give The Beatles a run for their money. Maybe one day, they may be even better.’
Crumley smiled. ‘Nightriders, Beatles. It all sounds the same old rubbish to me.’ He turned to his guests. ‘I’ve had to spend a fortune on that bloody machine next door, so it plays all that racket. Give me the band of my old regiment, the Coldstream Guards any day.’
Mary walked by carrying a jug of water. ‘Oh Dad, you’re so old fashioned. You should take some time to listen to some of this rubbish as you call it and I’m sure you will enjoy it. Mum has it on all the time on the radio in the kitchen.’
Crumley cut his daughter down. ‘That will be quite enough drooling over these long haired louts you call pop stars, Mary. You can go and check the other bar for any customers now.’
Swan laughed silently, noticing that his daughter was beginning to embarrass her father.
Barnett gestured to them, lifting his drink. ‘Shall we sit at our table then, gents?’
He carried his half-drank tankard over to a laid wooden table of white napkins and stainless steel cutlery, and set around tablemats featuring painted scenes from the Lake District. Swan and Gable sat at their places and allowed HB to pour the jug into their water glasses. HB started the conversation. ‘What do you think of Grassmoor Dark then, gents?’
Swan raised his tankard. ‘Excellent ale, really smooth and full of flavour.’
‘I’ll second that,’ added Gable.
Idle chat about the BR-101 followed, until the meals arrived. Barnett then raised his glass. ‘Bon Appetite gentlemen. May I be the first to introduce you to the fine home cooking of Mrs Brenda Crumley.’
The three men tucked into their meals, speaking little between each mouthful of their full to the brim plates.
‘What’s your wife doing this evening then, HB?’ asked Gable.
‘Oh, she’s at our village hall meeting tonight, so would have done herself something to eat earlier. You must get a chance to meet her. She’s from Switzerland originally and does the most beautiful apple and blackberry strudel. You gents must come to my house for dinner before you return to London. My son David’s coming home from his school for the weekend, so I am sure that he would love to listen to two avionics technicians explain all this new gadgetry.’
They finished their main courses and on HB’s recommendation, Mary now doubling up as waitress, served them Plum Duff and custard.
Shortly into their dessert a small, stout woman appeared, dressed in a flowery patterned apron. ‘How’s the food tonight then, gentlemen?’ she asked. Barnett put down his spoon, stood up from the table and gestured to his guests. ‘Alex, Arthur. Can I introduce you to the finest cook in the North, Mrs Brenda Crumley.’
‘Steady on, Howard, I don’t think Heidi would want you saying things like that, would she?’ joked Brenda.
Swan smiled at her. ‘A truly fine meal, Mrs Crumley.’
‘Ooh, Mrs Crumley? Nay be so formal sir, Brenda to everyone around ‘ere it is.’
‘Excellent, Brenda,’ said Gable, not wanting to further offend her with formalities.
‘So what brings you two fine gents in here with this old rogue then?’
‘These chaps are here to see if my new plane is worth all it’s cut out to be, Brenda. They’re part of a team of inspectors up at Brinton’s for a week.’
‘Then I can tell you now gents that Howard here always builds good planes. It’s probably all my good dinners that gives him the strength to do so.’
‘Thanks Brenda, I couldn’t have thought of a better guarantee myself, especially now these guys here have tasted your good food.’
Brenda Crumley noticed that her husband had more customers than he could handle. ‘Well, it’s been very nice meeting you, gents. I better give Bob a hand, before he bellows a command at me.’