Not Thinking of Death Read online

  ‘Churchill.’

  ‘First and foremost, certainly. Although – well, how much of his thinking was actually bad judgement – or romanticism – and how much a matter of trying to use the situation to oust Baldwin – the real issue between them being rearmament?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that still have been misjudgement?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Sir Innes nodded. ‘In fact it must have set back his rearmament campaign. A politician’s most passionate arguments tend to fall on deaf ears when he’s put a foot in it once too many. As Churchill certainly has.’

  Chalk shook his head. ‘I can’t claim to be very well informed, in those areas.’

  ‘Well…’ A shrug. ‘Blotted his copybook over India, didn’t he. Then the Gold Standard… But we were talking about Abyssinia – stopping Mussolini. Really poisonous fellow that, you know. Streak of violence in him right from childhood – stabbed a schoolmate in the bum with his penknife, at a very early age, never looked back since. Spent some period in Switzerland sleeping in public lavatories. I was reading a magazine article about him… And what about this Frenchwoman – actress – twenty times in one day?’

  ‘La Fontange…’

  ‘Odd thing to boast about, in public. Eh?’

  ‘Well – yes…’

  A fleeting image of Mussolini with long ears, like a buck rabbit jumping on and off… Sir Innes was saying, ‘And he has nothing to gain – according to what I’ve read – from meddling in that war. Except self-esteem – his own view of himself as Caesar sending forth the legions.’ Sir Innes paused, expelling a cloud of smoke. ‘The Germans, on the other hand, know exactly what they’re about. A major attraction to them, I’m told, is that Spain is a source of certain minerals which are vitally important to their own war industry. And of course a proving-ground for new weaponry and tactics. Bombing techniques for instance, as at Guernica – getting their eye in, eh?’

  * * *

  ‘If it’s not a painful subject—’ Eve Cameron-Green touched his hand – ‘your father was killed in 1918 – flying?’

  ‘Yes. In the Royal Naval Air Service. Over the trenches, but—’

  ‘Frightfully sad.’ She sighed. ‘Innes lost both his brothers. Within a few weeks of each other. He was in France himself too, at the time. Well, most of the time… Do you remember your father?’

  ‘Yes. And acute anxiety, I remember. My mother’s – much as she tried to hide it. But I was only eight when he was killed, and obviously we hadn’t seen much of him in the war years.’

  ‘Just on his leaves. Yes… Guy, of course, would only have been a toddler. And your sister – four or five?’

  ‘Five. She was twenty-four the other day.’

  ‘And starting a family, we’re told?’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  Sir Innes broke in, stuffing a pipe as he crossed the room towards them, ‘According to intelligence received, you’re contemplating matrimony yourself, Chalk. Is the report correct?’

  So they did know. He was happy to confirm it. ‘In a year or so, probably. We haven’t announced it yet. Time we did, I suppose.’

  ‘The lass is a pilot, flies her own machine, Guy told us?’

  ‘Yes. Her name’s Diana Villiers. She’s South African. Takes people joy-riding or on taxi trips. Business men going to conferences, or Nabobs to race-meetings. Over to France quite often – Le Touquet, that sort of thing.’

  Sir Innes took the pipe out of his mouth. ‘Are her people still in South Africa?’

  ‘In the Cape. Her father has horses – which actually win races, I gather. He also has a fruit farm. Beautiful place, going by the photographs.’

  ‘You haven’t been out there – or met her family?’

  ‘No. Met her in London – through a friend of mine who’d been on the South Atlantic station.’

  ‘Is she very pretty?’

  ‘I think so, Suzie.’

  ‘Well – let me guess. I have second sight, you know. She’s – oh, rather tall, blonde—’

  ‘Chalk Junior has been gabbing, hasn’t he.’

  ‘Might she—’ Eve Cameron-Green cut in – ‘if it’s not a silly thing to suggest – perhaps it’s much too far for her to come – might she be persuaded to pay us a flying visit here?’

  * * *

  Driving south in his little car on the Sunday evening, his thoughts were first that Guy was a very lucky young man, and second that it was going to be marvellous to see something of him – much more than he had in the past few years. And if Diana would come up too – what more could a man ask for? Incredible… She would come, he felt sure; they’d already discussed her flying up to Glasgow, if or when it fitted in with whatever other commissions she might have.

  Inverherive was astern now – as much as there was of it. Crianlarich a mile or so ahead. A turn to starboard there would bring him down to the top end of Loch Lomond. On the port beam he had Ben Lawers bulking hazily against fading blue sky: ahead, Ben More, and back on the quarter Ben Lui and more distantly Ben Cruachan. Beautiful, all of it. It was some years since he’d been up here, but he knew the country reasonably well and he’d checked the map to remind himself of the landmarks. Might make some weekend tours, he thought, show Diana around – if she was ever up here for long enough.

  He’d acquired this little Austin about a fortnight ago, never having owned a car before but feeling that it might be advantageous to have one up here. At that stage he’d envisaged its main use as transport for himself – and others, no doubt – between the shipyard and wherever he found digs; he’d still been dithering, tempted by the idea of a car but prudence suggesting it might be wiser to settle for a bicycle, when he’d found this vehicle on offer in a garage in Fareham for thirty pounds. Fareham because he’d been at Blockhouse then, the Gosport submarine base. He’d beaten them down to twenty-seven pounds ten shillings with a tank full of petrol thrown in: not a bad deal, he’d thought – although it was a large enough investment for a lieutenant living on his pay. The car had only done a few thousand miles, and an engineer from the flotilla had looked it over for him and found nothing wrong.

  It was brown. On his way up north he’d diverted by way of Brooklands, the field Diana was operating from in her Fox Moth, to show it to her and to say goodbye. She’d prowled round it – tall and blonde, and that pantherish walk of hers… Every time he saw her again after yet another period of separation the sight of her really did almost take his breath away.

  She’d stopped at the passenger side, smiling at him over its rain-wet roof.

  ‘Well, d’you like it?’

  ‘I’d better, hadn’t I?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Love me, love my dog?’ She patted it. ‘It’s sweet, anyway. And you could always change the colour, couldn’t you. Bit drab, isn’t it? Where are we going for lunch?’

  She was off that afternoon, to fly some motor-racing people from Croydon to Le Mans. And he hadn’t been able to leave Portsmouth until that morning and was due on the job at Barlows’ on the Monday. He’d said to her over the telephone from Blockhouse, the night before, ‘How about flying us to – well, what about Biarritz?’

  ‘One day.’ She’d laughed. ‘Why not?’

  ‘In a way, I’m serious.’

  ‘For “serious”, read “impatient”?’

  ‘Certainly – I admit—’

  ‘Or “importunate”. And the telephone, my pet, is hardly the ideal means of communicating that kind of—’

  ‘You’re right. We’ll discuss it tomorrow.’

  ‘See you then, anyway. It’s got to be a very quick and early snack, mind.’

  ‘I’ll be with you by noon.’

  ‘Bye, darling…’

  That was how it was. For various reasons an early marriage wasn’t on the cards, and meanwhile if he didn’t love her enough to wait…

  He did. He’d sworn to it about a hundred times.

  He told her at Brooklands – answering her question about lunch – ‘Anywhere, as lo
ng as it’s close. One thing about this paintwork, though, is it won’t show dirt. Shower of rain occasionally, Bob’s your uncle!’

  Her Fox Moth – successor to the Puss Moth she’d had before – was blue and silver, and had cost her seven hundred and fifty pounds – late last year, when he’d been on his way back from Aden. The same amount of money would have bought a new Rolls-Royce, she’d told him.

  This little vehicle was all right, though. Certainly no Rolls: you couldn’t hear the ticking of the clock, for instance, partly because it didn’t have one. But it got along all right. Suzie had said she loved it.

  Suzie, he thought, picturing her in his mind: young Guy was a very lucky fellow… Crianlarich coming up ahead now. A left turn would have taken him through Glen Dochart to Killin and Loch Tay. Some other time: with Diana on board, perhaps. That salmon-leap under the Dochart bridge, she’d have to see it…

  This afternoon, during an introductory tour of the Campbell-Green estate – Rufus driving this Austin, and Suzie in the back with two terriers named Tartar and Minx – Sir Innes had explained that although the life at Glendarragh was idyllic as far as he and his wife were concerned, they were very conscious that their daughters weren’t going to find it so at all, after any length of time. In recent years they’d never been at home for longer than a school holiday – and as often as not had had friends to stay, in any case – but now – ‘Take Suzie, there. Adores the place, happy as a lark to spend all day on a horse and as often as not completely on her own – eh?’

  ‘Well, that’s true, I am!’

  ‘It won’t last, you see. For one thing because despite appearances you’re no simpleton—’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘—and young people need to consort with other young people. Isn’t that so?’

  She’d told Rufus, ‘It’d break my heart to leave. Truly. I’ve longed to be home!’

  ‘And now you are, and revelling in it. And as long as it lasts, my dear girl, nothing could delight your mother and I more. But how long will it be before you begin to feel marooned here?’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so keen to put me off the place!’

  ‘My dear girl, you know perfectly well—’

  ‘I’m completely happy – honestly!’

  ‘You know you’ve got Guy coming for six or eight weeks, don’t you. But what if you hadn’t?’ He’d glanced sideways, at Rufus. ‘This is my point, you see. Eve and I are stuck here. And God knows I’ve no complaints. I’ve reached an age when – well, often enough I look around and ask myself was ever a man born luckier… Oh, look there now– look down there!’

  ‘It’s beautiful…’

  He’d stopped the car. Presently, driving on, climbing a dirt hillside road, Sir Innes began again. ‘What I was saying is we know we’re going to lose ’em – inevitably, I suppose it happens to all parents – but we don’t want to before we have to. That’s what it comes down to. I know they’ll always come back, after they’ve flown the coop – depending on circumstances, of course, and their husbands – but that’s something else, nothing to do with having them here fulltime, a family complete unto itself. Alastair’ll always come, I’m certain – whenever he gets a leave. But there again, you see, with a war coming—’

  ‘That again…’

  ‘Yes, Suzie. Plain truth of it is that this summer – well, Eve’s right, could be the last normal, happy one we have for a long time. So let’s make the most of it, we thought – liven the place up a bit – have a few chaps like you and Guy around. As I said, with him in the offing we don’t have to give another thought to this one—’

  ‘Oh, don’t you!’

  ‘– but Patricia’s rather a different case. After Cambridge and quite a bit of London this glen of ours could seem like the back of beyond almost, at first sight. In some ways I suppose it is. And she doesn’t quite share Suzie’s country interests.’

  ‘She does – actually.’

  ‘Nothing like to the same extent.’ He looked at Rufus again: ‘Anyway, we want to make this a summer to – well, to look back on.’

  They’d stopped for a distant view of grazing deer – hinds, and some small calves with them. Driving on again, Suzie told him – returning to the subject of the summer’s planned festivities – ‘There’s one special weekend – end of August – that’ll be a real hoolie.’

  ‘Silver wedding, Chalk. I suppose it’s what’s made us think this all out to the extent we have. Milestone in one’s life, eh… But – do your best to be with us for that one, will you?’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll mark it down. Silver – twenty-five years—’

  ‘Married in 1912. Little knowing what we had coming to us then, by George…’

  Suzie urged him, ‘Your fiancée – Diana – ought to fly up for that weekend. Do persuade her?’

  ‘I’ll try. If she could, and you had other friends coming up, she might bring them.’

  ‘Gosh, what fun! How many can she fit into her – Fox, did you say it is?’

  ‘Yes. Fox Moth. It has a cabin that holds four, and she drives from an open cockpit behind. But for longer trips if she does without a fourth passenger she can carry extra fuel. Technically – allow me to impress you with this – it’s a De Havilland DH83.’

  ‘I am impressed!’

  ‘Me too. I’m completely ignorant about aeroplanes.’

  ‘I’d absolutely love to fly…’

  Sir Innes muttered, ‘Break your damn neck. Plenty of easier ways… See up there – Rufus? Those high crags? There’s an eyrie up there – golden eagles. One chick hatched about a month ago – Suzie and Alastair were up there soon after. There were two eggs, he’d been keeping an eye on ’em.’

  ‘It’ll be getting its feathers by now, but it was just a ball of white fluff when we saw it.’ She laughed. ‘Ball of fluff with this little angry face in the middle of it, glaring at us. Alastair said if it was up to him, he’d shoot it.’

  ‘He’d do nothing of the sort.’ Sir Innes shook his head. ‘You’re so easily taken in!’

  There was an argument then, as to whether eagles did or did not take new-born lambs, and whether Alastair meant what he’d said or had only been teasing her, knowing how protective she felt towards them. In her view, having golden eagles on the place was well worth a few sickly lambs that probably wouldn’t have lived in any case. Her father took up the teasing, then, pointing out that a lot of people would say that was a brutal attitude to take.

  ‘Only because they’re ignorant. Far more lambs are taken by foxes – which the eagles take – huh? Well, they certainly take fox cubs if they get half a chance…’

  He’d been given yet another invitation – by Suzie’s mother, when he’d been on the point of leaving. She’d asked him whether he had any personal friends in other ships or submarines in Clyde yards who might like to come out for a weekend.

  Suzie had murmured, ‘For Patricia, huh?’

  ‘No, Suzie, that is not—’

  ‘Daddy was rattling on about it this afternoon – young men so thin on the ground, keep the girls at home, Suzie’s all right because she’s got Guy—’

  ‘I’m quite sure he didn’t mean it that way at all. He certainly wouldn’t have been as – blatant as you make it sound.’ She turned back to Rufus. ‘But we’ll be having a biggish party here in August—’

  ‘Your anniversary.’

  ‘Oh, they told you—’

  ‘A hoolie – whatever that—’

  ‘It’s a word Suzie favours. Actually it’s of Hindu origin. Brought back here by old soldiers, I imagine. Anyway, young men are few and far between. Everyone we know has daughters. And Alastair may not be here to bring his friends – you realize, Suzie – if he’s been posted by then?’

  * * *

  To a large extent, of course, the welcome they’d extended to him stemmed from the two existing Chalk/Cameron-Green friendships – Suzie’s with Guy, and Patricia’s with Betty. He’d come in on the same ticket, so to speak
. He cautioned himself, negotiating the long curve of road bending gradually southward toward Ardlui, not to take too much advantage of it. He had to keep in mind that he was here to build a submarine: at this stage, in fact, he was that submarine’s acting CO. Not at all a situation in which to risk falling down on the job by giving it less than his full attention.

  He’d ring Diana, anyway. Have a word with Guy too. He frowned – with the loch ahead of him, its water lead-coloured in this failing light. Headlight time… He was frowning at the recollection of Guy’s threat about Spain. It might have been just talk, of course: in which case the best thing would be not to mention it, risk stirring up something which might otherwise continue to lie dormant. Better just keep an ear to the ground and be ready to quash any such notion if it was mooted.

  * * *

  Chalk asked me – more than half a century after the weekend he’d been describing – ‘Is it going to work, d’you think? Will you be able to translate these random recollections into a lucid narrative?’

  ‘Can’t see why not. It’s what I’m for.’

  He smiled. Captain Rufus Chalk, DSO and bar, DSC and bar, RN (Retired). ‘Comforting – I imagine – to know that.’

  ‘Well – let’s say it’s my way of scratching a living. But answering your question – as we agreed, I’ll be bridging any gaps with a touch of novelist’s licence – bits you may be vague about or where events were beyond your ken anyway – and you can approve or disapprove the end-product – within reason?’

  ‘As long as it ends where I say it ends.’

  ‘That’s agreed.’

  He’d made this point before. Despite which his eyes were on mine, and insistent, as he repeated it. Blue eyes in a tanned, still well-muscled face: amazing, really. Telling me, ‘No novelist’s licence beyond that point. No further research elsewhere, either. Full stop.’