“Then we’ll have one. Together. I haven’t had a drink at ten past three in the afternoon since I left the Royal Flying Corps in 1918. If we can’t celebrate we can drown our sorrows.”

  “Why do nations always want to fight each other?”

  “You’d better ask history.”

  2

  While Harry and Tina were drinking gin and tonic, Barnaby St Clair was looking out of the second floor window of his four-storey Piccadilly townhouse at the beginning of autumn in Green Park across the road. Everything looked different. What a week ago held the promise of peace in the comfort of grass and trees now had an air of menace.

  “Stop hovering, Edward,” snapped Barnaby. “Go and find another room to clean.”

  “Everything looks the same yet everything is different,” said Edward, Barnaby’s valet.

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “How will they know to sound the alarm siren? No sooner you hear the aircraft they’ll be on top of us dropping bombs. Last time all we had was the Zeppelins drifting into England. Plenty of time to take cover from an airship.”

  “They have chaps on the coast with binoculars. Aircraft spotters. Harry tried to explain the radar. Bounces a signal off metal somehow. They all have telephones. Harry says we’ll be given plenty of warning to go down to the air-raid shelters.”

  “I heard they are giving everyone gas masks. They think Jerry will drop cylinders of mustard gas. Like the waves of yellow gas he sent over our trenches when the wind was blowing right. He’ll asphyxiate the lot of us. Friend of mine took in just a whiff before he got his mask on. Been coughing ever since, poor bastard. Doctor says he’ll be coughing six times a day for the rest of his life. I’ve cleaned out the basement. What happens if Jerry drops incendiary bombs?”

  “We’ll fry, Edward. Try hiding in our own basement. Don’t be damn silly. The RAF will have shot them down long before they get to London.”

  “They’ll have fighter escorts. The Polish air force didn’t shoot down one of them according to the Daily Mirror.”

  “Of course they did. The Mirror always likes sensation. The Poles didn’t have our Hurricanes and Spitfires. Harry says the Germans have nothing to compare. Once they’ve shot the German fighters out of the sky the slow flying bombers will be sitting ducks.”

  “My friend said Jerry bombers bristle with machine guns. How else did the Poles give in so quickly? Jerry has tanks that go fifty miles an hour.”

  “Mechanised infantry.”

  “What’s the difference if you don’t have an air force and you’re riding horses into battle? Mirror says the Polish cavalry were still mounted on horses. Anyway, they won’t call us up this time!”

  “Haven’t you heard of the Home Guard?”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “To protect the island if the Germans invade. Every able-bodied man under the age of sixty. No one is going to avoid this war, men or women.”

  “The Mirror said last week it would be over by Christmas.”

  “Then they’d better make up their minds. I met one of their reporters at RAF Benson. Having an open day for celebrities and the press to recruit pilots. Came from somewhere in the Baltic, or his dad did. Bruno. That was his name. Bruno Kannberg. I’ll have a word with him if we ever meet again. No point in frightening people or making them complacent. I’m going for a walk in the park, Edward, while I still can. And you’re right. Everything feels different.”

  “They’ll have to make different sized gas masks for the children.”

  “I suppose they will. At least we didn’t have that problem last time.”

  “They called it the war to end all wars, sir.”

  “I do remember, Edward. It was just twenty years ago. Every damn part of it is still vivid in my mind. Yours too, I expect Edward. We’ll just have to keep our chins up a second time.”

  In Green Park Barnaby found strangers were looking at him, trying to make eye contact. For a moment he thought there was something wrong with his appearance or there was something left over from lunch on the side of his face making him put up a hand to find out what was wrong. Then he saw the same person looking at a man sitting alone on a bench. The two smiled at each other. Strangers acknowledging each other’s existence, a very un-English practice Barnaby had only seen during the last war.

  ‘They’re looking for reassurance,’ thought Barnaby.

  The leaves on the trees were dark green, the last colour of green before turning brown and falling off to the ground. In a month it would be autumn in the park followed by winter; cold, short days when walking outside needed a thick overcoat, gloves and a scarf wound round his neck. At the fourth person he passed, Barnaby smiled, receiving the same smile of reassurance in return; London and England were going to survive, they seemed to say to each other.

  England had not been conquered since 1066. Many had tried and failed, the Spanish, the French, the Dutch; only the Romans and the Normans had ever succeeded. The park felt different, no longer a place of menace. Looking back through the trees across the grass and over the traffic down Piccadilly, Barnaby could see the second floor window of his house, the same window he had been standing at before his brief talk with Edward. At forty-two, they were both too old to be fighting men again. He was too old to ride a camel through the Arabian Desert fighting the Turks, or anyone else for that matter. His body was no longer the taut athletic one that had taken him through the war with honour until the moment when he failed.

  ‘Fifty quid,’ he thought. ‘I’ve got more than that in my wallet right now, all because I borrowed the money to pay my debts.’

  Always, in the same discussion with himself, Barnaby was sure he would have given back the money had he not been caught and told to go back to England from Cairo at the end of the war and resign his commission before he was cashiered in disgrace. A cold sweat broke out as the memory came back, jolting him, making him remember the fear of ostracism from the people that made up his class.

  A disaster, in the end, prevented by Colonel Parson, his CO, after Barnaby had gone on the boat out of Egypt with his tail between his legs and fear in his belly, a far greater fear than anything brought on by the Turks. So little money now, so much money then, the cold reality of recollection still forming a knot in his stomach.

  Even Colonel Parson would not want him back in the army. Once a thief always a thief. Not even a desk job to let him feel he was doing his bit to repay what life and England had always given him, the life of privilege and success despite the errors on the way that still came back to haunt him on a walk in the park. For whatever reason he was no good to England anymore, except to smile reassurance at passers-by that bombs were not going to drop from the sky at any moment.

  Now he had all that money and nothing to do. The girls, all the girls, were beginning to merge into one in his mind, the same woman in the same passing face, exciting for a moment and soon forgotten, the face, the body, soon forgotten, just another girl passing briefly through his life to momentarily take away his boredom. Some of them had used the word love which made him laugh at how easily everyone mistook lust for love and hoped it would last long after satisfaction.

  A pretty girl caught his eye making Barnaby give her a smile, a different smile to the smile he usually gave to girls. She smiled back and passed on down the path, leaving Barnaby with a feeling of friendship in adversity rather than his usual predatory expectation.

  ‘Well,’ he told himself sitting down alone on a park bench away from the path, ‘it’s over, Barnaby. Fighting wars. Chasing women. Even the excitement of making money.’ Only then did he begin to laugh at the irony of life; he’d had it all, most of it not mattering a damn in the end. Did Tina sometimes think of him, he doubted? With five children she had enough on her plate not to dwell in the past.

  The same pretty girl was passing back the other way along the path in front of him ten yards across the lawn. This time she avoided his look. Barnaby looked around. It was too early in the day to go for a drink. Closing his eyes in the September sun that dappled him through the leaves of the tree above, Barnaby quickly fell asleep, an ability to nap on demand learnt in Palestine during the months and years with his mounted regiment hunting the Turks.

  When Barnaby woke, feeling refreshed, no longer in the trance of a knot in his stomach, it was six o’clock by his watch.

  A little stiff in the joints from the wooden park bench, he got up and went to look for a drink, avoiding eye contact with anyone as he walked down Piccadilly to Piccadilly Circus and his favourite pub on the corner where he ordered himself a pint of bitter.

  3

  While Barnaby was enjoying his first pint of beer, across the pond in America, Bruno Kannberg was walking down the street in New York on his way to an early lunch appointment with Max Pearl, his publisher. As the American correspondent for the London Daily Mirror he was trained to be on time for an appointment, especially one that was important. Looking at the passers-by, they seemed to Bruno to be their usual confident selves, the news from the old world having changed nothing in their lives. Looking at them, Bruno doubted the war in Europe even crossed their minds.

  When it came to their meetings Max Pearl was always late and Bruno always early.

  “Five minutes early for an appointment, Kannberg,” his London editor had said when Bruno started his first job at the Mirror in 1931, “and five minutes late to a party to give your host that last few minutes to get ready.”

  Smiling to himself as he walked, the words of Arthur Bumley had once again controlled the subconscious of his mind as they did so often in his life. He was five minutes early for his appointment.

  Boy Rising to the Stars had sold more copies in America than Genevieve, pleasing his wife Gillian who enjoyed living in New York after their two-roomed flat in London. Bruno’s real reason for the lunch was to ask Max for more money, his wife having spent what was already in the bank, the new idea for a book the excuse to get Max to give him lunch.

  There was a small bar near the entrance to the restaurant he could see through a window. At twenty past twelve the place was half empty. By Bruno’s watch as he opened the door he was exactly five minutes early, having cut the pace of his walk two blocks back on the four-block walk from his office. To Bruno’s surprise Max was already seated on a high stool at the bar.

  “How much do you need, Bruno?” were his publisher’s first words.

  “A thousand dollars. She spends money like water.”

  “Tell me. I’m on my fourth wife. What you got for me, Bruno? Better be good. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. So the Brits, the Frogs and the Krauts are going to blow each other to pieces again. Don’t people ever learn? What are you going to have?”

  “Gin and tonic.”

  “You English are so predictable.”

  “Don’t you worry about the war?”

  “None of our business. Why we have the pond between us. No one can get at us. If you look as if you’re winning we’ll come and help you out so we can share in the spoils. Otherwise it’s business as usual. As we did the last time, American industry will make money, kill off the depression. Roosevelt is playing his cards well and America is right behind him. No sane man starts a war, let alone interferes in one that’s started.”

  “Don’t you worry about your fellow Jews in Germany, Max?”

  “Anyone with brains got out. You can’t spend your life worrying about other people, Bruno. Now that’s a good barman. Overheard what you want. Down the hatch, Bruno. I picked that one up from you. Did anyone worry about your father, the White Russian, when he made a run out of Latvia? Of course not. Poor bugger was on the wrong side. But look at you. You did all right. Life often turns out for the best just when it’s looking the worst. All those Jews fleeing Germany for America will do us all a power of good. Hitler’s doing the Jews and America a favour. It’s all just politics, which is money. Do you know our factories are gearing up for full production? That friend of yours and mine, Bruno, he’s going to make a fortune out of the Tender Meat Company. Now that Harry is one smart cookie. Your good health, my friend. What you got for me? I like you Bruno. You always make me money. One of my tricks as a publisher is to choose good authors with expensive wives who keep their old man’s face to the grindstone.”

  “Gregory L’Amour is going to join the RAF,” said Bruno, clutching at straws. “Wants to be a real-life hero. I want to write a sequel in instalments. You sell first to the magazines for a big, high number and afterwards bring it out in a book. Keeps them on the hook, so to speak. Brave American coming to the old country’s help. There’s nothing more satisfying than sending another man to do your work for you.”

  “She can have five thousand, Bruno. Five whole thousand. That’s one hell of a good idea. When’s he going to England?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe she gets the five grand when you are sure, Bruno. Drink up. I’m hungry. This one’s on you, Kannberg. All you got to do is make sure.”

  By the time the main course arrived at Max Pearl’s usual corner table, the Thespian was full, the noise having risen to leave their small bubble of conversation unheard by the diners around them. The Thespian was close enough to Broadway to use a theatrical name and be patronised by what some liked to think of as people of letters. Especially, Bruno knew, when they were thinking of themselves. Max liked the restaurant because it was next to his office. The food was good and diabolically expensive, giving Bruno the problem of writing a cheque without any money and being charged with fraud or explaining his real predicament to Max Pearl.

  Bruno’s monthly cheque as American correspondent for the Mirror barely covered the rent, let alone his wife’s entertaining now she was married to the man who wrote the biographies of the stars, something she took great pleasure in telling anyone who crossed their path. Now a lady of leisure instead of a London shorthand typist, his wife Gillian lived in a world of her dreams while Bruno picked up the bills.

  As he had said to Arthur Bumley on the transatlantic phone while trying to borrow money from his editor, “It doesn’t matter what I make, she spends it.”

  “Are you getting enough, Kannberg?”

  “Barely.”

  “You married her. Have fun. Even when you don’t want it anymore you’ll still be paying. You’re welcome to America’s divorce laws.”

  “I don’t want to divorce her!”

  “Watch this space. Write another book. You’re on a treadmill, Bruno. Have a nice day, as they say in America.”

  “They’re not coming into the war.”

  “Oh, they will, when we can’t pay their bills after we ask for credit. When we owe them enough for out-of-date destroyers, they’ll come in on our side to protect their own financial interest. Their greed will give us the credit. We just need to run up the bills and make them big enough to fight for.”

  “We’re all Anglo-Saxons.”

  “You’re not, for one. Give my love to Gillian. Tell her from me to keep up the good work.”

  “Thank you, Mr Bumley, for the loan,” Bruno had said sarcastically.

  “My pleasure.”

  Bringing his mind back to the present, the price of his fillet steak still sticking in his throat, Bruno tried to concentrate on his publisher’s words.

  “Those two girls over there are in the wrong place. Happens once in a while. They mix up thespian with lesbian or I’m a Dutchman. Just look at them holding hands across the table. Should be a law against it.”

  “There is.”

  “Only for men. Women can do to each other whatever they want. That’s Gerry Hollingsworth over there, Genevieve’s producer. My word, the place is full. He’ll know when L’Amour is going to England. Go and ask him.”

  “It was just an idea. I need money, Max. Gillian again. If I pay for this lunch with a dud cheque they’ll lock me up.”

  “And a damn good one. You don’t have to get out of your seat. He’s coming over. Maybe he’d like to join us for lunch with his girlfriend.”

  “I can’t afford it, Max.”

  “Then you shouldn’t invite me to lunch. I’m a popular lad. Plenty of people would like to buy Max Pearl lunch.”

  “You invited me.”

  “After you asked to be invited. Under false pretences. Gerry, old buddy! Come and join us. Bruno here is paying for lunch. Who’s the new girl? Have you finished making Holy Knight?”

  “Why I came over, Max. We have a problem. Your client, Gregory L’Amour, wants to go to England.”

  “When?” said Bruno jumping up from his seat.

  “Right away, Bruno. How nice to see you. Gregory doesn’t give a damn about the film all of a sudden. He’s gone all heroic. Wants to go down in flames. Genevieve won’t marry him. Can’t you help?”

  “I’m sure he can, Gerry. If you buy him lunch. Bring the girl right over.”

  “Didn’t you recently get married, Max? Second or third time?”

  “The day an old man stops looking at a pretty girl he might as well be dead. It was the fourth, and more expensive the bigger the age gap.”

  “Why are you laughing, Max?”

  “Better ask Bruno. He knew Greg was going to England before any of us. He’s going to write a sequel, The Real Hero. Make me a fortune. If you’re a good boy I’ll sell you the film rights.”

  “How long do you need him to finish the film?” asked Bruno.

  “A month, if we concentrate on just filming his scenes.”

  “I’ll have a word with Genevieve. Wouldn’t it be best if we cross to your table, Mr Hollingsworth?”

  “The world’s gone arse about face.”

  “I thought it was arse over tit,” said Max, picking up his glass and the bottle of wine.

  “That comes later when the real war starts. I’m calling this part the Phoney War in my column.”

  “Nothing phoney in Poland.”

  “We weren’t in that one,” said Bruno. “We only think of what affects ourselves.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159