Flight of Eagles

‘Refugee from the Nazis.’ He stood. ‘Time you had a bath too. What business would you be in?’

‘I’m a novelist,’ I said.

‘Would I know you?’ I told him and he laughed. ‘Well, I guess I do. You’ve helped me get through a bad night or two. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’ He stood and walked out.

I sat there thinking about it. Mystery piled on mystery here. The solution should be interesting.

We had dinner in the corner of the bar – sea bass, new potatoes, and a salad – and shared an ice-cold bottle of Chablis with Zec and Simeon. Denise and I both wore jeans and sweaters provided by the management. There were perhaps eight or more fishermen at the bar, three of them crew members of the lifeboat. The log fire burned brightly, rain rattled against the windows, and Tarquin steamed gently.

‘My dad used to tell me about Tarquin, the flying bear, when I was a kid,’ Simeon said. ‘I always thought it was a fairy story.’

‘So now you’ve finally learned the truth,’ Zec said. ‘You listen to me in future, boy.’ He turned to Denise. ‘Tell me where you got him.’

‘Antique shop in Brighton the other years,’ she said. ‘They told us he’d flown in the Battle of Britain with his owner, but they didn’t have any proof. I was always intrigued by the fact that besides RAF wings, he also wears Royal Flying Corps wings, and that was the First World War.’

‘Yes, well he would,’ Zec said. ‘That’s when he first went to war with the boys’ father.’

There was silence. Denise said carefully, ‘The boys’ father?’

‘A long time ago, 1917 in France, but never mind that right now.’ He nodded to Simeon. ‘Another bottle.’ Simeon went obediently to the bar and Zec said, ‘I last saw Tarquin in 1944. On his way to occupied France. Then all these years later, he turns up on a shelf in an antique shop in Brighton.’

He opened his tin, took out a cigarette and my wife said, ‘Could I join you?’ He gave her one and a light, and she leaned back. ‘Tarquin is an old friend, I think?’

‘You could say that. I took him out of the Channel once before. Nineteen forty-three. Went down in a Hurricane. Great fighters, those. Shot down more of the Luftwaffe than Spitfires did.’ He seemed to brood and as Simeon returned with the new bottle of Chablis, the old man said, ‘Harry, that was, or was it Max? We could never be sure.’

Simeon put the tray down. ‘You all right, Dad?’ There was concern in his voice.

‘Who, me?’ Zec Acland smiled. ‘Wasn’t there a book about some Frenchman who smelled or tasted something and the past all came flooding back?’

‘Marcel Proust,’ Denise said.

‘Well, that’s what that damned bear’s done for me. Brought it all back.’ There were tears in his eyes.

Simeon poured the wine. ‘Come on, Dad, drink up. Don’t upset yourself.’

‘My bedroom. The red box in the third drawer. Get it for me, boy.’

Simeon went obediently.

Zec put another log on the fire, and when Simeon returned with the box, Zec placed it on the table and opened it, revealing papers and photos.

‘Some of these you’ve seen, boy,’ he told Simeon. ‘And some you haven’t.’

He passed one of the pictures to Denise: the quay at Cold Harbour, a lifeboat moored, a much older model, Simeon on deck, a naval cap on the back of his head. Simeon and yet not Simeon.

‘I looked good then,’ Zec said.

Denise leaned across and kissed his cheek. ‘You still do.’

‘Now don’t you start what you can’t finish, girl.’ He fell about laughing, then passed photos across, one after another, all black and white.

The pub looked the same. There was a shot of an Army officer, engagingly ugly, about sixty-five from the look of him, steel-rimmed spectacles, white hair.

‘Brigadier Munro,’ Zec said. ‘Dougal Munro, Oxford professor before the war, then he joined the intelligence service. What was called Special Operations Executive. SOE. Churchill cooked that up. Set Europe ablaze, he said, and they did. Put secret agents into France, that sort of thing. They moved the local population out of Cold Harbour. Turned it into a secret base.’

He poured more wine and Simeon said, ‘You never told me that, Dad.’

‘Because we and everyone else here had to sign the Official Secrets Act.’ He shook out some more photos. A woman with Brigadier Munro. ‘That was Julie Legrande. As I said, housekeeper at the manor and ran the pub.’ There was another picture with Munro and an officer, a captain with a ribbon for the MC, a stick in one hand. ‘That was Jack Carter, Munro’s aide. Left his leg at Dunkirk.’

There were others, and then he came to a large brown envelope. He hesitated, then opened it. ‘Official Secrets Act. What the hell. I’m eighty-eight years old.’

If the photos before had been interesting, these were astonishing. One of them showed an airstrip with a Junkers 88S night fighter, the German cross plain on the fuselage, a swastika on the tailplane. The mechanic wore black Luftwaffe overalls. To one side was a Fieseler Storch spotter plane. There were two hangars behind.

‘What on earth is this?’ I asked.

‘The airstrip up the road. Yes, Cold Harbour. Night flights to France, that sort of thing. You foxed the enemy by being the enemy.’

‘Not too healthy if they caught you, I should have thought,’ Denise observed.

‘Firing-squad time if they did. Of course, they also operated RAF stuff like this.’ He passed her another photo. ‘Lysander. Ugly beast, but they could land and take off in a ploughed field.’

Another photo showed the Lysander, an officer and a young woman. He wore an American uniform, the bars of a lieutenant-colonel, and a string of medal ribbons. I could make out the DSO and the DFC, but the really fascinating fact was that on the right breast of his battledress blouse were RAF wings.

‘Who was he?’ I asked.

His reply was strange as he examined the photo. ‘Harry, I think, or maybe Max, I could never be sure.’

There it was again, that same comment. Simeon looked as bewildered as I did. I was about to ask what he meant, when Denise said, ‘And the young woman?’

‘Oh, that’s Molly – Molly Sobel, Munro’s niece. Her mother was English, her father an American general. Clever girl. A doctor. Trained in England before the war and worked in London during the Blitz. Used to fly down from London with Munro when a doctor was needed. It was all secret, you see.’

He seemed to have gone away to some private place of his own. We said nothing. The fire crackled, rain battered the window, the men at the bar talked in a low murmur.

Simeon said, ‘You all right, Dad?’

‘Never better, but better I’ll be with a large rum in me. I’m cutting loose a burden tonight, a secret nurtured over the years.’ He shook a fist at Tarquin. ‘All your fault, you damn bear.’

Simeon got up and went to the bar. Tarquin, still slightly steaming, sat there, enigmatic to the end.

Simeon, obviously concerned said, ‘Look, Dad, I don’t know what this is about, but maybe it’s a bit much for you.’

Again, it was Denise who cut in, leaning forward and putting her hand on Zec’s. ‘No, leave him, Simeon, he needs to talk, I think.’

He clasped her hand strongly and smiled. ‘By God, I said you were a woman of parts.’ He seemed to straighten.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘The pilot, the American, Harry or Max, you said?’

‘That’s right.’