Chapter Sixteen
A Simple Plan
It took a while, but I formulated a simple plan. Play it by ear, wait for developments, and try to relax and enjoy myself.
I hailed a cab and had the driver take me to Barclay’s Bank, where I picked up a wad of cash. While I didn’t have any hard and fast plans, I had a funny feeling things were going to change. Then I had him take me on to the Savoy, so that I could get my things together. No matter where I stayed tonight, it wouldn’t be here. Not that it wasn’t nice.
As I paid off my bill, the concierge told me he had a message, and handed over an envelope. It was addressed to a certain Captain Tucker.
“That’s not for me,” I said hurriedly.
But he had spoken to the man who took it in over the counter.
I wanted to get out of there. Impatient. Still, he insisted.
“It is for you, sir. They definitely said your room number.”
The hotel man brought his assistant over.
“What did this gentleman look like?” I asked.
He described Smith-Barry’s driver to a ‘T.’ At that point I whipped out the old buck knife and slit it open. Sure enough, it was a promotion.
“Congratulations.” Grinned the two hotel employees.
Dear Will,
Congratulations on your long-overdue promotion. Looking forward to seeing you this weekend at Holly Brook House, directions given below, bring a guest, etc. Bernie is expecting to meet you, so be a good chap and put on your party face.
Signed, Smith-Barry.
There was a hand-drawn map enclosed, and a phone number. A copy of my captain’s papers.
Thanks.
“Just what I needed.” I muttered as the bellman arrived to remove my luggage, small enough that I could have taken the bags in one hand.
The group stood around beaming like they were my best friends.
I tipped them all pretty heavy.
The cab driver took me back to Betty’s place, and since I was flush with cash, I stopped and picked up a couple of bottles of a nice white wine of good reputation. The driver accepted his money and a tip, thanked me and politely withdrew towards his vehicle. The maid opened the door, and I carried on into the foyer, and tried rather unobtrusively to just sort of drop my bags behind a marble boot-bench, festooned as it was with acanthus, grape vines, cherubs, et al.
Catching sight of myself in the mirror, there was the air of the faintly ridiculous about me. Ever the sophisticate. Try to remember not to pick my nose.
“Is Betty home?” I asked, with just the hint of a quaver in my voice.
The maid pretended to not hear my nervousness.
“She’s usually along about now. I’ll put the wine in the kitchen.”
Putting my coat on the rack, I resisted the impulse to simply drop it over my luggage.
The figure in the mirror looked like a little lost boy, and not the newest, most dashing, handsomest, and most fearless captain in the RFC. Maybe it would grow on me. Like a wart. The newest wart in the whole Royal Flying Corps. If this was coincidence, why was Smith-Barry the one informing me of the promotion?
I had a real bad feeling about this one. The maid came back with a scotch for me, although I’m not much of a scotch drinker. They simply didn’t have good Canadian rye whiskey. It did rip the dust from the throat.
The maid had a small glass of sherry while we waited, then came a bustle in the front hall. The maid left the room, and then Betty walked in.
“Will. I’m so glad you stayed.” She said in a school-girly, happy voice.
I was half-breathless, and when we got close she almost leapt into my arms. Lifting up, as we hugged, suddenly her feet were dangling in the air.
She was squealing and giggling, as I kissed her over and over again. I looked into her shiny brown eyes. Things might not be so bad after all.
After a time, I let her take her shoes and scarf off.
“Have you eaten? I’m hungry.”
I told her in unconscious humor, “I’ve been saving it up until you came home.”
We kissed again, long and deep.
“So have I. But let’s get some dinner first, shall we? My instinct tells me we’re going to need our energy.”
“You have the most beautiful mind.” I grinned, as she showed off some things she had brought home for our dinner.
What a lucky young man I was.
The maid, who pretty much laid all the preparations, and got none of the credit, took off for the day. Apparently, she lived nearby or somewhere in the building. Maybe she had instructions and an understanding mind. What maid wouldn’t mind the odd evening off? The important thing was that she was gone. Betty and I chaffed each other like two old friends as she sliced up some cheese and I grappled with a wine-cork.
We got out some green onions, and lettuce, and a couple of other items and laid them out on the wooden island in the kitchen. It was like a casual little dance, as we moved around the room, getting things ready. Plates clinked, as I put down the bottle on a cheerful, maple-topped table.
“My father often had breakfast here. But that was long ago.”
“You look beautiful.”
She was one of them girls where you had to look. It didn’t hit you in the face, not at first. My first impression was that she was big and tall for a girl, not beautiful, or petite, or, vivacious, or any of the other words that you see in magazines or those mail-order catalogues retailers use to educate people as to their needs.
Delicious smells filled the room. The last rays of sun were reflected faint and rose-colored on the low-lying clouds to the west. Through the trees in her back garden, other homes could be seen, distant through the branches, the twinkle of lights coming on here, and there. Standing close behind, I wrapped my arms around her. We stood like two spoons, swaying a little as she stirred a pot of something warm and good.
Humming a little tune, I kissed her head, her hair, her eyes, her nose, her chin, her ears, thoroughly, one by one.
“Uh, oh.” She giggled. “There’s trouble sneaking up on me.”
Taking a little nip at the nape of her neck, she shivered in my arms.
“Just getting hungry. Like a big hungry tiger.”
“Gives me goose pimples, just thinking about it. Are tigers anything like the big, bad wolves I’ve been hearing so much about?”
Gently turning her head, I swept down for a kiss on the lips.
Still standing close behind her, I cupped her breasts firmly, and my crotch was held up tight against the small of her back.
I ever so gently chewed on the back of her neck.
“Worse.” I vowed.
Be that as it may, we had our dinner, a couple of roasted lamb chops, salad, potatoes, green beans, some kind of cheese sauce, the wine, all washed down with a vision of Betty.
Finally, I got around to telling her about the promotion.
“That’s great. Will. I’m so happy for you.” She exclaimed, but I tried to explain my misgivings.
“I have to tell you, I just don’t know. It’s awful sudden, and then there was this crazy little idea I had.”
“Someone somewhere must have thought it was a good one.” She pointed out.
“Yeah. But I’m not the man to be put in charge of it. I’ve never led men at all. I’ve never even been considered for so much as flight leader, or even a corporal when I was in the infantry.”
“You’ll be fine, Will. Your students did well, didn’t they? You are a lieutenant already, aren’t you?”
“Who’s your old man?” I asked, off on a tangent.
Didn’t really want to burden her with my job, my personal problems. Time enough for that later, if later ever comes.
She mentioned a name, but it didn’t click in at first.
After all, they do say tomorrow never comes. Stick to the romantic stuff. God knows I needed it. I needed to love someone. I didn’t feel so afraid anymore. With Melissa, there was an ache, almost an acknowledgement deep inside that it was hopeless.
I can’t say it any better.
“He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it was a while ago, three and a half years now.” She explained. “My mother lives in Sutton in our country house, although she stays at a friend’s in the season. She may turn up here sooner or later. It’s a good thing I thought of that. You might be frightened half to death if you woke up with mother standing next to the bed.”
“Gulp. Yes, I might.”
She laughed at the look on my face.
“It’s not as bad as that, really, but it is an interesting picture.” We chuckled a little.
Her real name was Elizabeth, which I loved. But for some reason, when she was a young girl, the name Betty stuck to her and she had just learned to live with it.
“Um, so you’re basically a rich person, then?” I asked like an idiot.
This was no fancy apartment building, converted and divided up into flats, like many an oversized Victorian mansion in any large city. This was her house. The whole bloody house was hers.
“This is your house?” I gaped.
“Whose did you think it was?” She asked in seriousness, catching onto my sudden turn of mood.
“It’s okay, Will. No need to panic.” She added quietly.
“I’m sorry.” I stammered. “I, I, I grew up on a little dirt farm. I joined up for various reasons, but one of the main reasons was a small but regular pay-cheque at the end of each and every month. Something quite novel for a farmer, at least at the time.”
The lure of the lake ships was money, the Army paid money…hard cash money.
“I hear it’s gotten a little better, in the last letter from home.” I added, and then the conversation sort of trailed off.
We just sat and looked at each other.
What would your mom think? I wondered, but could also supply my own answer.
“I understand. It could be intimidating. I wonder what your family would think if they met me? Would they think I’m some toffee-nosed snob? I’d be nervous.”
“Betty…this sex thing…” I began, and oh, God, it was hard to start this conversation.
She just waited, putting down her fork and taking a drink.
“If we’re going to do this again…”
“Try and stop me.” She murmured, staring deeply into my eyes.
I wish she wouldn’t do that right now. Makes it awful hard…to think.
“At the very least we might want to think about some protection.” And holy shit.
Did I blush beet red. But I barely knew this girl, intimate though obviously we were, and so warmly we felt for each other. And I was curious…I mean really curious about the relationship. She was something to write home about. That was not in dispute.
It’s like we fit, somehow. Of course I wasn’t used to talking about sex. No one was in those days. Sure, soldiers in trenches, (and schoolboys in the RFC,) talk about their coarser experiences in life, (and some not so coarse,) and some of my pals and friends were married. Quite frankly, a lot of the talk was bullshit, and we all knew it.
This was real, and it mattered a lot to both of us.
I had never, ever discussed sexual matters with a girl, or a woman, or a very fine lady, such as this person before me now.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Will. I guess I threw myself at you, in some ways.”
“Betty, I want to kiss you all over. I want to make mad, passionate love to you. But I think you should…maybe we should…think about things.” I trailed off, waiting for some response.
“I brought a packet of condoms home from the chemist. I wasn’t embarrassed to buy them at all.”
I was stunned at that one. She was truly amazing. I guess she had a pretty good idea of the way to a man’s heart. I bit my lip. She had a lot more courage than I did. Brains, too.
I hadn’t even gotten to the thinking stage yet.
“Well. I’m not married. Just thought you might like to know. And since I am falling madly, head over heels in love with you, I just thought it might be a good idea to sort of like, er, ask you what you think, once in a while.”
“I brought a packet of condoms home from the chemist.”
“Fine. Be that way.” I vowed. “Well, if anyone asks, you are mine, all mine: and I don’t take kindly to poachers.’
“If anyone asks.” She howled. “If anyone asks?”
Apparently I had struck a sore spot.
I started laughing.
“I bet you do get a lot of suggestions, you poor, sweet, innocent thing.”
“Let’s finish our dinner.” She suggested.
***
That was my first experience with conjugal bliss.
I won’t bore the reader with our sexual discoveries. If the reader is married, and has enjoyed sexual relations, then you don’t need me to draw you a picture, and if the reader is young and pure of spirit, I do not wish to despoil your innocence. Nor do I wish to overly engage the prurient interest of misguided youths.
Suffice it to say that we fell very deeply in love, very quickly. The intimacy grew by leaps and bounds and hour by hour. One of the things that impressed me, and amazed and delighted me, was her mind. Betty had a damned good brain.
I know some men will tell you otherwise, but a mind is a beautiful thing when a woman has one. When I talk about intimacy, first there was the physical intimacy of our love. Then there was a period of getting to know each other, who we were and where we came from. This can be surprisingly important in a relationship. I doubt it could have worked if she was an Aleut or Patagonian, no matter how intelligent or beautiful—and the days flew by.
In the mornings, I had a decent but rather small breakfast, with Betty and the maid, then Betty would go off to the library where she volunteered. She took it seriously enough and could have drawn a wage in any business I ever heard of.
The maid puttered about, supervising things generally. Other people came in to clean, and garden, pick up and deliver laundry, et cetera. I went out to a couple of motor dealers and in my own clumsy but methodical fashion began to pick the brains of the staff. After a visit here, and a visit there, I found the car I wanted was in great demand. Certainly there were motors for sale. Mostly big, heavy, luxurious machines that an eastern despot might envy.
Fuel was rationed. Tires were hard to get, and the little cars were the ones people wanted. Finally, I got fed up. On a whim I went to see a man someone mentioned.
He was just going along to lunch. A paper sign hung in the window. He was locking the door. I introduced myself and offered to go along to the pub with him.
“I’ll buy.” I said, and that clinched the deal, not that he needed a free lunch.
He impressed me as a man who knew what he was talking about. His hand had a dry, pleasant roughness when we shook. He had a strong grip too, but was sensible about showing it off. The man who tries to crush your hand when you meet has some kind of underlying problem.
Bill Petersen was a tall, well-built, barrel-chested, tow-headed Dane of a man. One could easily imagine him wielding the berserker hammer in a mad rage if he got going. His piercing blue eyes, perfect teeth and broad shoulders no doubt stood him in good stead with the ladies.
“So, you race motorcycles.” We sampled our stout, with its fine, creamy head lapping up and over the edge of the glass.
The beer was not warm as some, particularly the Yanks, have complained, yet neither was it cold, the way a Canuck may have ordered it. It was wet. It was deep, and it had one hell of a personality. It had a good, fruity nose about it. It was the perfect stout, and I said so. Glad to have that settled, he reached for a smoking pouch and I began to take out the makings.
“What can I do for you?” He asked as we waited for food.
“I need transportation. I was hoping to find a small car, a two-seater, or maybe even one of those three-wheelers I keep hearing about. But maybe a motorbike is the way to go, Do you have anything for sale right now?”
I thought about that.
Carte blanche, that wasn’t the way to go with a salesman.
“Are you single or married?” Bill asked. “Where are you stationed?”
He had other questions.
“What are your plans? Racing, touring, putt-putting to Sunday School?” Things like that.
Pretty good questions, and it took a moment to figure out just exactly what my goals were for this vehicle.
“Well, it’s got to have a good turn of speed and it has to be easy for RFC types to work on. It’s got to carry me and possibly my girl. I haven’t actually asked her if she’ll get on one yet. But I hope so.”
And on and on, as he asked the questions.
“You mentioned a three-wheeler. That might be fine. I don’t know how that would work out, but you might consider a sidecar.”
“That might work." I agreed. “They are removable, right?”
“Yes, and I even have a design for a removable roof, in case your lady friend is the kind that likes hats with lots of fruit salad on top.”
I grinned.
“I don’t think she’s that sort, but every once in a while it does rain around here.”
Bill’s eyebrows crept up.
“Huh. On that note, I think it’s my turn to buy. Hello. Here’s our grub.” He intoned majestically.
Bill enjoyed his brew. He enjoyed everything intensely.
He had good old English fish and chips, and I had steak and kidney pudding.
“I’ve often wondered how they cook these things.” I murmured. “Tastes good, though.”
“Boil the piss out of ‘em.” He said it with a shrug.
Jesus H. Christ, I never would have thought of that.
The guilty realization came that I was enjoying his company. Not only did I miss the mates on my old squadron, but I also missed a few friends at Gosport, which suddenly seemed very far away and remote in time. To make a long story short, it became clear I liked and trusted him enough. Inviting myself to his shop to look at the machines was no problem.
***
“Lots of power. There’s no substitute for cubic inches.” I told Bill.
We walked in the dim light of a London ‘pea-souper,’ but it wasn’t far and I had a big long coat.
“You and I are going to get along just fine.” He grinned. “Now come and have a look, and tell me if you’re not impressed.”
I was impressed, all right.
He didn’t have any front displays other than the fly-specked pages in the big bay windows, bulging out into the very street, but in the back room he had twenty or thirty machines. All in various stages. Still, the frames looked good. The engines looked good. My eye fell on the tool racks, some good lights, and a clean bench. No smell of urine. The alleyway outside the big back door was relatively clean, for the neighborhood.
“Now, this one here, the seat is being re-upholstered, and the rims are going to get some brand-new tires. I have a line on some good ones now.”
“How big is the engine?” I asked.
“Two hundred-fifty-cc’s.”
“Too small.” I said, and Bill agreed.
“What have you been flying?” He asked.
“Well, I’ve flown RE-8’s, Camels briefly, SE-5’s, a few other aircraft.” I replied.
“This bike here and this one here have five hundred-cc engines.” He pointed out.
They seemed more or less complete.
“I’m not in a hurry.” I assured Bill. “I’m an old horse trader from way back.”
Peterson blinked a little when he heard that.
“Bill. What about this one here?” Pointing to one that was big and black, with a huge motor, and stacks coming out of the carburetors.
It had a megaphone exhaust-pipe, handlebars pointing down and out, and it looked fast.
“You know, I’ve had to turn a few people away. I figured they didn’t know what they were getting into.” He sighed. “That one’s mine.”
Do I have to whip out the photograph of my team? Doesn’t he sense an easy sale?
“C’mon, Bill.” I chided him, bristling with confidence.
“Look.” He sighed. “I’ll build you an eight-fifty. We’ll save the sidecar for later. We’ll save the full-race treatment for later. If you don’t mind.”
“Yeah. All right.” I agreed.
We got to work on a price, and delivery, and accessories. It was a fun sort of afternoon for a little old farm boy.
A little cash in the pocket feels pretty good, but then I spent my whole life broke and poverty-stricken. And I do know the value of a dollar.
I left a hundred pounds for a deposit and continued on my way.
Images. That Louis guy, with a bit of help from the internet.
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