Читать книгу Reluctant Hero - John Hickman - Страница 14

When the news broke, it was not the slag heaps of Wales, nor the pirates of Penzance, Cornwall. They were off to Canada.

‘Bloody hell! Where’s Canada?’ asked Olly.

‘I’m not sure, Olly.’

Neither Bill nor Olly wanted prolonged farewells, which was fortunate as no one came to see them off.

Ensconced into the deep bowels of a munitions ship bound for Canada, they left Southampton 29 May 1943. Lily was proud of her son. He was going abroad. Even her well-to-do brother, Charlie had never been overseas. No one in the family had been beyond Southend-On-Sea for holidays.

Olly braced himself for the sea air. ‘Aye, it’ll be a welcome change to go for a cruise.’

As the deck rails crammed with teary-eyed teenagers Bill and Olly explored below.

A blast from their ship’s horn signalled departure. Soon after they left the quay, the wind stiffened. In their wake seagulls circled and cried out. Bill thought they sounded like lost souls.

Not long and it was Bill’s cue to take his own special place at the deck rail. There he looked windswept and according to Olly, smelled interesting.

‘Aye, I’ll keep you company, Bill. But I’ll stay naught but upwind.’

Their sea passage was rough. As Bill leaned ever further to seaward he reminded himself between heaves. ‘I joined—the Air Force—to avoid—all things—fuckin’ nautical.’

Their ship suffered not only from a seesaw motion but a yaw. When they went below to eat or sleep, Olly was unaffected and ate as if he was a junkyard dog.

‘Does nothing put you off food?’ asked Bill. He looked green.

But Olly’s eyes were already drawn to the cheese plate.

‘Don’t you ever stop, Olly? That cheese is pitted and wobbles, bit like our faces after a big night out.’

‘Everyone’s in constant fear of being torpedoed, Bill. We might as well eat.’

Wrapped in his lifejacket, Bill braced against the ship’s motion while he pined for his white cliffs.

‘Aye, some are so bloody scared they never take off their life-jackets, Bill.’

But Bill was impervious to Olly’s taunts.

Olly refused on principle to wear his lifejacket. ‘There’s naught point. If summat happens and ship goes down out here, we might as well go down with her.’

Others smoked, read and wrote letters home while between times they turned green too but Olly was an exception. He was never seasick as he had a strong stomach.

While at the ship’s rail Bill realised no one wanted to chat. Others moved away rather than be drawn into Olly’s conversation.

‘Aye, if fear of being torpedoed isn’t bad enough there’s worry of being trapped behind them huge waterproof doors.’

‘They’re designed to close fast if water rushes in, Olly. Trouble is,’ continued Bill, between heaves. ‘No-one knows for sure, which side—of the doors—will be safe?’

‘Aye, everywhere below smells fetid and closed up.’

‘That’s because—it is—Olly!’ Bill composed himself. ‘Hell, none of this was on their brochure.’

The sky became blue as they approached the mighty continent. After days that felt like weeks they disembarked. Bill’s seasickness lifted the moment his feet touched shore.

‘Never was I so pleased to get off that fuckin’ ship, Olly. It was a joyless trip all round.’

‘Aye, but did you not offer up prayers while on board, Bill?’ smirked Olly.

‘I’ll offer up prayers to anyone until I’m on dry land, Olly.’

After an extended train journey they arrived at Saskatoon in Saskatchewan. Slap bang in the middle of wheat country.

The winter cold took on a new meaning whereas in summer the mercury soared to levels unheard of at home. Bill and Olly settled with no trouble into their new domestic groove.

On a Military Base run in cooperation by Allied forces they adjusted to this land of climatic extremes.

‘Aye, it’s the kind of cold freezes your snot and makes your bits and pieces shrivel up and disappear,’ said Olly.

In summer everything shone so much sunspots pulsed red and black across their field of vision. Mind-melting heat screwed with their brains. That and anything in between was the norm in Saskatoon. To the boy from Notting Hill, the sheer size of everything about Canada took his breath away and Saskatonians were friendly.

Near Base was a small town.

‘Aye, or at least a place with shops and a hospital,’ laughed Olly.

They saw a big sign, Drink Canada Dry.

‘Aye, Bill, let’s give it our best shot.’

Bill liked Canadians but some thought English people were uptight.

‘Aye, they’re not wrong,’ agreed Olly.

Canada was light years ahead of what Bill had left behind in London. Instead of narrow cobbled streets there were wide straight tarmac roads with modern motorcars instead of decrepit, horses and carts. Without horse dung, pavements shone like marble.

From Base to town was a short bus ride and en route stood a lonely wheat silo.

Olly craned his neck to see the top of it. ‘Aye, it’s so tall it reaches almost to the heavens.’

Silhouetted against the clear blue sky it stood out as a beacon and dominated the skyline.

‘You’re right, Olly. It towers above the other buildings. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think we have those in England.’

Then as the silo loomed closer, and closer, the town itself came into perspective. Beside a turn off to this one and only grain storage was a large sign with an arrow pointed to the obvious—To the Silo.

Olly and Bill thought that was hilarious.

‘Aye, it’s not likely to go to any other place, is it?’ laughed Olly.

On the silo in large letters was painted the abbreviated name of their town S’toon.

‘Not a bad idea if someone’s lost,’ commented Bill.

After what seemed an eternity in the heat of the crowded bus. ‘Everybody out! It’s the end of the line. This is as far as we go,’ bellowed the driver.

An unfair description, thought Bill. End of the line, as he put it, didn’t look so bad.

Although compared to London, Olly was right. It was a small place with shops.

Saskatoon wasn’t a town of blue bloods, but had a fair share of blue-collar backgrounds that strived towards middle-class.

At Base their three square meals a day changed from the reliable meat and three vegetables to better cuts; superb roasts and exotic fish like salmon.

Olly could hardly contain his excitement. ‘I naught miss their gritty Thames gravy. That fish was superb. Aye, look I’ve almost finished it.’

‘If I were a religious man, I’d pray for a miracle,’ quipped Bill.

‘Don’t blaspheme, might prove unlucky.’

‘All right then, I’ll have apple pie and ice cream instead.’

At home Bill had lived on a cheap diet of potatoes, stodgy puddings, tripe and offal as in hearts, liver and kidneys. He preferred the softer square cut from the middle of the Yorkshire puddings but Lily’s rule had always been whoever ate most pudding could have most meat. For Fred a meal without meat never quite hit the spot. Lily knew those who ate most squares of pudding, with a generous serve of gravy, would have less appetite for the expensive meat. But there had always been plenty of fresh greens on their plate, especially cheap cow cabbage.

In their Mess a steward asked Bill, ‘Would you like fresh flapjacks, Sir?’

Comfort food. Good stuff. Bring it on. And he liked being called Sir.

All he did was nod. He aroused interest when he ate his apple with his penknife.

‘Naught seen anyone eat an apple like that before,’ laughed Olly.

A magazine called Blighty was popular for drawings of pretty girls. It carried a cartoon of a cinema usherette asking a woman on the arm of a pilot saying, ‘I haven’t got two seats together, but would the lady care for a seat next to another airman?’

For Bill the sun shone on high every day. It was cloudless without a sign of greyness or drizzle. Framed in its endless crystal, clear blue, birds cart wheeled about.

Much as I hope to be doing soon, thought Bill.

It became the norm to imbibe and slurp copious quantities of alcohol, mainly beer, whisky, gin, even vodka.

Olly enjoyed a vodka. ‘Aye, it’s naught but a Russian holiday, Bill.’

Bill developed a taste for whisky with soda.

‘It tastes bloody good, Olly. Even from a tin cup.’

They acquired the art of crunching in a classy manner on a potato chip.

Bill savoured new tastes and had no trouble convincing himself he was doing his bit to support the local economy. He was introduced to the novelty of tea bags and blueberry and apple pie, helped down with lashings of extra creamy ice cream.

For a short time his thoughts ranged back to Eric. What a shame he hadn’t been assigned to this. Certainly here was nothing to cry about.

In winter it was so cold the indicator arms on cars froze. Before a right turn, the driver hurriedly opened and closed his door. To turn left, they did. Unlike England, houses were built almost entirely of timber but better designed, well insulated and double-glazed. Inside the front door was an entry vestibule where you changed clothes coming in or out, without affecting living conditions.

Canadian homes were snug in winter and cool in summer, unlike the slums of Notting Hill. Back home in the flat Bill often turned sideways to let someone pass due to lack of space. Here there was a feeling of vastness.

Central heating was new to Bill. Efficient use of cheap coal dust was transported from a storage area, with what looked like a giant worm screwed into the furnace. No heavy coal scuttles to fill and cart from basement coalholes to upstairs. And there was less mess. Heat was distributed through radiators to maintain an even temperature.

Life seemed better organised than what he was used to and provided luck went his way, he felt sure he would soon learn to soar like an eagle.

Bill gambled at cards and tried his hand at golf. Not long and he’d reaffirmed he was useless at the one and unlucky at the other. ‘It’s an expensive game of marbles if ever I’ve seen one. Destined to ruin any man’s self esteem, Olly.’

Olly didn’t agree. He enjoyed a game of golf.

Bill had never been in favour of tattoos and thanked his lucky stars he’d never succumbed to those dubious badges, as in ‘L.O.V.E.’ or ‘H.A.T.E.’ on his knuckles. No tribal tattoos or licence numbers would be attached to any part of his anatomy. Nor was ‘left leg’ going to be affixed comically to his right.

Another cadet, Richard, had applied for a short-term commission. A bit of a toff, he appeared to move in a perfumed cloud. Trim from all angles he’d been sent to RAF Desford, England. He was reassigned to Canada when the powers realised home was too dangerous for aristocrats, due to an overactive Luftwaffe.

Richard agreed with Bill. ‘Ignoring significant problems like being captured and wanting to be someone else, the question remains, why? From a purely practical point of view, old chap, why would anyone want to stamp themselves with such horrible candle-snuffing words mindful of some indelible idea they once had?’

Bill was super impressed with the way Richard expressed himself. ‘You know, you’re right. Makes perfect sense.’

‘Doesn’t help much if you need to disappear or change your identity,’ winked Richard.

Olly nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, and a bloody good argument against getting summat like a tattoo in first place, if you ask me.’

All three comrades-in-arms agreed, and took an oath of allegiance then and there. None of them would get drunk and add any form of captions to their skins. And should one of them waver the other two would be self-sacrificing and rescue him from his insanity.

Bill started to feel comfortable. He’d never enjoyed any degree of camaraderie. In Olly and Richard’s company, for the first time in his life, he felt enthusiastic to participate.

Richard was everything Bill imagined the epitome of an ideal Oxford University graduate to be. Pompous, yes, but he was not the usual chinless wonder. He fitted Bill’s mould of how the perfect head master should behave in an expensive school. When they first shook hands it had been firm but friendly. He’d looked Bill squarely in the eye, and Bill liked that too. The sort of gaze that belonged on an older man but almost as if he had a light around him. Bill understood why, with his privileged background, the RAF had earmarked him for a commission. He carried himself so well it was unthinkable he didn’t already have a batman to look after him. Heterosexual, privileged and intelligent, thought Bill.

Bill wondered at the absurdity of him and Olly trying to rescue Richard from having a tattoo, if he wanted one. Quiet and well spoken he was without doubt the most English sounding man Bill had ever heard.

‘Aye, sounds perfect fuckin’ Oxbridge to me, old chap,’ mimicked Olly.

‘Richard behaves more as if he’s on a sabbatical than about to go to war.’

In a way they all were.

‘In hindsight, chaps, perhaps I was ill advised to interrupt my promising career as a professor of philosophy to volunteer and pursue this dream of madness,’ announced Richard thoughtfully. ‘I mean. Do I really want to join the RAF and become a pilot? Then again, it would be nice to learn to fly at their expense.’

Olly suspected another reason Richard might have been keen to leave England was the break from other men’s wives, who from oblique mention in discussions, pursued him.

‘Aye, Bill, we’re in the presence of a true walking penis. He’s summat of a working theory, for sure.’

Admiration for their well-groomed home grown aristocrat with the large bushy style droopy moustache shone in their eyes. There was something special about Richard. Without doubt he was a ladies’ man. From his groomed hair down to his trimmed fingernails he displayed impeccable manners. Whenever he came into social interaction with women even if he had no intention of asking them out, he was a traditionalist. Old-school rules applied. He held doors open for busy cooks, moved errant chairs out of the way for waitresses and always maintained a degree of sociable eye contact. There was always a clutch of adoring ladies who lived to be in his presence.

In this way he occupied himself with women in much the same way as an angler might toy with a fish. Sometimes he little by little reeled them in; otherwise he’d let them run a while. Any who might not enjoy his sport could break away. Like any good sports fisherman he revelled in using light line for his purpose that could be easily broken-off. In contrast to his aristocratic ways, he avoided whenever possible wearing a tie or buttoning his shirt at the neck, around which hung a thick silver chain. From it swung a heavy medallion in the shape of a large key.

‘Aye, what’s the fuckin’ big key for, Richard?’ asked Olly.

‘A trinket, old chap, given me by Pater to commemorate my twenty-first.’

Sometimes Richard’s fingers rested on the key, and as with any habit he would fondle or pull at it. That he came from money was obvious but he was a socialist at heart.

An unusual combination, thought Bill. A true noblesse oblige who cared for underdogs, and was more supportive of Bill’s struggle with his lower working class background, than most. Bill felt whenever he came into contact with Richard he was in the presence of a quicker and livelier mind than his own. How gifted, and to have such fine prospects at his feet.

Bill wished he was more like Richard who became something of an unofficial mentor to him. He confided with Richard about his feelings towards his dad, Fred. Richard seemed to understand.

‘Your dislike for your father is unceasing and all consuming, Bill. But only because your world has been too small, my friend, and within, your father assumes an outsized significance.’

How profound and clever, to be able to put the sentiment into those fine words.

Over the next few weeks it was as if they were back at school. They were given homework and plenty of it. Richard took it all in his stride but Olly and Bill struggled.

‘Did you do any revision for your tests, Olly?’ asked an instructor kindly.

‘Aye, some, Sir.’ Olly looked worried.

‘Congratulations! You hid it well.’ Their instructor shook his head sadly.

Others were less congenial and took every opportunity to point out their shortcomings, which annoyed Olly and Bill.

‘A fool shows his annoyance at once, but a prudent man overlooks an insult,’ whispered Richard.

Over a few drinks in their Mess the three comrades came to know each other better.

‘Aye, I went to Glasgow Veterinary College because it was only place would take me. Their finances about as shaky as their academic standards.’

‘I was at Oxford University when I wrote to the Air Ministry,’ recalled Richard. ‘I told them I would take leave of absence if I could fly an aeroplane. It took about six months to get a reply with an application form. Their letter was signed, ‘Your most obedient servant.’ I thought at the time, what delightful manners the Royal Air Force have.’

Olly and Richard laughed but Bill looked serious. ‘I left school at fourteen without any qualifications to do anything. You could say due to my deficient scholastic abilities and obvious lack of toast master skills in Notting Hill, I became an apprentice manufacturing jeweller—to eat.’

They nodded.

‘Is Notting Hill a place?’ asked Richard.

‘Yes. But if you found yourself in Notting Hill, you wouldn’t like it there. It’s as if even the sun doesn’t hang around unless it has to.’

It was apparent the three colleagues were from entirely different backgrounds. Bill might have come from the poorest part of London but now he lived and worked in the company of others from better origins. He could see an opportunity to make friends on a level par, as their blue uniforms of the same rank bore no distinction. But inside Bill felt more as if he stood out like a prostitute among brides.

‘Being under twenty-one at the time I received a letter from Pater. Come and see my roses before the heat spoils them,’ Richard said.

Olly and Bill exchanged glances.

‘When I arrived, I met the family hanging up on the walls as usual. All painted life size. Then Pater showed me his new carpet. In effect the old boy informed me he’d also heard from the Air Ministry. He said they’d advised he needed to give his consent to my joining the RAF before I would be invited to attend a selection board for a Short Service Commission.

When I went for my interview all they were interested in was, which newspapers I read, what games I played, and did I shoot or ride?’

‘What about your father’s carpet?’

‘Oh, that! He’d had it stretched out in a spare room for inspection. Do you think I should walk on it or hang it on the wall? he asked.’

‘And your response?’

‘I looked at the closeness of the weave, drift at the uneven margins, and told him to walk on it.’

Olly was impressed. ‘Wow! Being clever must mean you’re shortlisted as an officer for sure, Richard.’

‘It would appear so, old chap. Instructions as to what I should take in the way of clothing included my Saville Row dinner jacket. But now I’m thinking do I really want to join the RAF to become a pilot?’

‘Aye, but it’s a bit late now to change your mind and go home.’

‘I suppose it is old chap.’

In some ways Bill thought Richard, an idle young gentleman and a poor deluded bastard. But he liked him.