After a month, looking exactly the same, I turned up for my pay packet late on Friday afternoon, and we sauntered along to his favourite pub, a tatty place with stained glass doors and a chronic smell of fug. He oozed on to a bar stool, his bulk drooping around him. A pint for him, he said. I bought it, and a half for me, and he drank most of his off with one much practised swallow.
Hows the globe-trotting, then? He ran his tongue over his upper lip for the froth.
I like it.
Ill grant you, he said, smiling amicably, that you havent made a mess of it yet.
Thanks.
Though of course since I do all the spade work[37] for you at both ends, you bloody well shouldnt.
No, I agreed. He was, in truth, an excellent organiser, which was mainly why Anglia often dealt with Yardman Transport instead of Clarkson Carriers, a much bigger and better known firm. Simons arrangements were clear, simple, and always twice confirmed: agencies, owners and air-lines alike knew exactly where they stood and at what hours they were expected to be where. No one else in the business, that I had come across at any rate, was as consistently reliable. Being so precise myself, I admired his work almost as a work of art.
He looked me over, privately amused. You dont go on trips dressed like that?
I do, yes, more or less.
What does more or less mean?
I wear a sweater instead of my jacket, in and around the aircraft.
And hang up your jacket on a hanger for when you land?
Yes, I do.
He laughed, but without mockery. Youre a rum sort of chap[38], Henry. He ordered more beer, shrugged when I refused, and drank deep again. Why are you so methodical?
Its safer.
Safer. He choked on his beer, coughing and laughing. I suppose it doesnt strike you that to many people steeplechasing and air transport might not seem especially safe?
That wasnt what I meant.
What, then?
But I shook my head, and didnt explain. Tell me about Yardman, I said.
What about him?
Well, where he came from anything.
Simon hunched his great shoulders protectively around his pint, and pursed his lips.
He joined the firm after the war, when he left the Army. He was a sergeant in an infantry regiment, I think. Dont know any details: never asked. Anyway he worked his way up through the business. It wasnt called Yardman Transport then, of course. Belonged to a family, the Mayhews, but they were dying out nephews werent interested, that sort of thing. Yardman had taken it over by the time I got there; dont know how really, come to think of it, but hes a bright lad, theres no doubt of that. Take switching to air, for instance. That was him. He was pressing the advantages of air travel for horses whilst all the other transport agencies were going entirely by sea.
Even though the office itself is on a wharf, I remarked.
Yes. Very handy once. It isnt used much at all now since they clamped down on exporting horses to the Continent for meat.
Yardman was in that?
Shipping agent, he nodded. Theres a big warehouse down the other end of the wharf where we used to collect them. Theyd start being brought in three days before the ship came. Once a fortnight, on average. I cant say Im sorry its finished. It was a lot of work and a lot of mess and noise, and not much profit, Yardman said.
It didnt worry you, though, that they were going to be slaughtered?
No more than cattle or pigs. He finished his beer. Why should it? Everything dies sometime. He smiled cheerfully and gestured to the glasses. Another? He had one, I didnt.
Has anyone heard any more of Peters? I asked.
He shook his head. Not a murmur.[39]
How about his cards?
Still in the office, as far as I know.
Its a bit odd, isnt it?
Simon shrugged. You never know, he might have wanted to duck someone[40], and did it thoroughly.
But did anyone ever come looking for him?
Nope. No police, no unpaid bookies, no rampaging females, no one.
He just went to Italy and didnt come back?
Thats the size of it[41], Simon agreed. He went with some brood mares to Milan and he should have come back the same day. But there was some trouble over an engine or something, and the pilot ran out of time and said hed be in dead trouble if he worked too many hours. So they stayed there overnight and in the morning Peters didnt turn up. They waited nearly all day, then they came back without him.
And thats all?
Thats the lot, he agreed. Just one of lifes little mysteries. Whats the matter, are you afraid Peters will reappear and take back his job?
Something like that.
He was an awkward bastard, he said thoughtfully. Stood on his rights. Always arguing; that sort of chap. Belligerent. Never stood any nonsense from foreign customs officers. He grinned. Ill bet theyre quite glad to see you instead.
I dare say Ill be just as cussed in a year or two.
A year or two? He looked surprised. Henry, its all very well you taking Peterss job for a bit of a giggle[42] but you surely cant mean to go on with it permanently?
You think it would be more suitable if I was sitting behind a nice solid desk at Anglia? I asked ironically.
Yes, he said seriously. Of course it would.
I sighed. Not you too. I thought you at least might understand. I stopped wryly.
Understand what?
Well that who ones father is has nothing to do with the sort of work one is best suited for. And I am not fitted for sitting behind a desk. I came to that conclusion my first week at Anglia, but I stayed there because Id kicked up a fuss and insisted on getting an ordinary job, and I wasnt going to admit Id made a mistake with it. I tried to like it. At any rate I got used to it, but now now. I dont think I could face that nine-to-five routine ever again[43].
Your fathers in his eighties, isnt he? Simon said thoughtfully.
I nodded.
And do you think that when he dies you will be allowed to go on carting horses round the world? And for how long could you do it without becoming an eccentric nut? Like it or not, Henry, its easy enough to go up the social scale, but damn difficult to go down. And still be respected, that is.
And I could be respected sitting behind a desk at Anglia, transferring horses from owner to owner on paper, but not if I move about and do it on aeroplanes?
He laughed. Exactly.
The world is mad, I said.
Youre a romantic. But time will cure that. He looked at me in a large tolerant friendship, finished his beer, and flowed down from the stool like a green corduroy amoeba.
Come on, he said, theres time for another along the road at the Saracens Head.
At Newbury Races the following afternoon I watched five races from the stands and rode in one.
This inactivity was not mine by choice, but thrust upon me by the Stewards[44]. They had, by the time I was twenty, presented me with their usual ultimatum to regular amateur riders: either turn professional, or ride in only fifty open races each season. In other words, dont undercut the trade: stop taking the bread and butter out of the professionals mouths. (As if jockeys ate much bread and butter, to start with.)
I hadnt turned professional when I was twenty because I had been both too conventional and not really good enough. I was still not good enough to be a top rank professional, but I had long been a fully employed amateur. A big fish in a small pond. In the new-found freedom of my Yardmans job I regretted that I hadnt been bolder at twenty. I liked steeplechasing enormously, and with fulltime professional application I might just have made a decent success. Earth-bound on the stands at Newbury I painfully accepted that my sister had brought me to my senses a lot too late.
The one horse I did ride was in the amateurs only race. As there were no restrictions on the number of amateur events I could ride in, few were run without me. I rode regularly for many owners who grudged paying professional jockeys fees, for some who reckoned their horses stood more chance in amateur races, and for a few who genuinely liked my work.
All of them knew very well that if I won either amateur or open races I expected ten per cent of the prize. The word had got around. Henry Grey rode for money, not love[45]. Henry Grey was the shamateur to end all shamateurs. Because I was silent and discreet and they could trust my tongue, I had even been given cash presents by stewards: and solely because my father was the Earl of Creggan, my amateur permit survived.
In the changing room that afternoon I found that however different I might feel, I could not alter my long set pattern. The easy bantering chat flowed round me and as usual it was impossible to join in. No one expected me to. They were used to me. Half of them took my aloofness to be arrogant snobbery, and the rest shrugged it off as just Henrys way. No one was actively hostile, and it was I, I, who had failed to belong. I changed slowly into my racing clothes and listened to the jokes and the warm earthy language, and I could think of nothing, not one single thing, to say.
I won the race. The well pleased owner gave me a public clap on the shoulder and a drink in the members bar, and surreptitiously, round a private corner[46], forty pounds. On the following day, Sunday, I spent the lot.
I started my little Herald in the garage in the pre-dawn dark, and as quietly as possible opened the doors and drifted away down the drive. Mother had invited yet another well-heeled presumptive virgin for the week-end, together with her slightly forbidding parents, and having dutifully escorted them all to Newbury Races the day before and tipped them a winner my own I felt I had done quite enough. They would be gone, I thought coolly, before I got back late that evening, and with a bit of luck[47] my bad manners in disappearing would have discouraged them for ever.
A steady two and a half hours driving northwards found me at shortly before ten oclock turning in through some inconspicuously signposted gates in Lincolnshire. I parked the car at the end of the row of others, climbed out, stretched, and looked up into the sky. It was a cold clear morning with maximum visibility. Not a cloud in sight. Smiling contentedly I strolled over to the row of white painted buildings and pushed open the glass door into the main hall of the Fenland Flying Club.
The hall was a big room with several passages leading off it and a double door on the far side opening to the airfield itself. Round the walls hung framed charts, Air Ministry regulations, a large map of the surrounding area, dos and donts[48] for visiting pilots, a thumb-tacked weather report and a list of people wanting to enter for a ping-pong tournament. There were several small wooden tables and hard chairs at one end, half occupied, and across the whole width of the other end stretched the reception-cum-operations-cum-everything else desk[49]. Yawning behind it and scratching between his shoulder blades stood a plump sleepy man of about my own age, sporting a thick sloppy sweater and a fair sized hangover. He held a cup of strong coffee and a cigarette in his free hand, and he was talking lethargically to a gay young spark who had turned up with a girl-friend he wanted to impress.
Ive told you, old chap, you should have given us a ring. All the planes are booked today. Im sorry, no can do. You can hang about if you like, in case someone doesnt turn up
He turned towards me, casually.
Morning, Harry, he said. Hows things?
Very O.K., I said. And you?
Ouch, he grinned, dont cut me. The gin would run out. He turned round and consulted the vast timetable charts covering most of the wall behind him. Youve got Kilo November today, its out by the petrol pumps, I think. Cross country again; is that right?
Uh-huh, I nodded.
Nice day for it. He put a tick on his chart where it said H. Grey, solo cross.
Couldnt be better.
The girl said moodily, How about this afternoon, then?
No dice.[50] All booked. And it gets dark so early therell be plenty of planes tomorrow.
I strolled away, out of the door to the airfield and round to the petrol pumps.
There were six single-engined aircraft lined up there in two rows of three, with a tall man in white overalls filling one up through the opening on the upper surface of the port wing[51]. He waved when he saw me coming, and grinned.
Just doing yours next, Harry. The boys have tuned her up special[52]. They say you couldnt have done it better yourself.
Im delighted to hear it, I said smiling.
He screwed on the cap and jumped down.
Lovely day, he said, looking up. There were already two little planes in the air, and four more stood ready in front of the control tower. Going far? he asked.
Scotland, I said.
Thats cheating.[53] He swung the hose away and began to drag it along to the next aircraft. The navigations too easy. You only have to go west till you hit the A-1 and then fly up it.
Im going to Islay, I smiled. No roads, I promise.
Islay. Thats different.
Ill land there for lunch and bring you back a bit of heather.
How far is it?
Two seventy nautical miles, about.
Youll be coming back in the dark. It was a statement, not a question. He unscrewed the cap of Kilo November and topped up the tanks.
Most of the way, yes.
I did the routine checks all round the aircraft, fetched my padded jacket and my charts from the car, filed my flight plan, checked with the control tower for taxy clearance, and within a short while was up in the sky and away.
Air is curious stuff. One tends to think that because it is in visible it isnt there. What you cant see dont exist, sort of thing. But air is tough, elastic and resistant; and the harder you dig into it the more solid it becomes. Air has currents stronger than tides and turbulences which would make Charybdis look like bath water running away.
When I first went flying I rationalised the invisibility thing by thinking of an aircraft being like a submarine: in both one went up and down and sideways in a medium one couldnt see but which was very palpably around. Then I considered that if human eyes had been constructed differently it might have been possible to see the mixture of nitrogen and oxygen we breathe as clearly as the hydrogen and oxygen we wash in. After that I took the airs positive plastic existence for granted, and thought no more about it.