‘Unlucky?’ There was something very wrong about this litany.
‘Yes. Apparently he didn’t look where he was going.’ Audley’s expression became curiously blank. ‘But then, we do look where we’re going. And we do seem to have the most damnable bad luck too. Our “useful researches” always seem to end up unusefully, I must say!’
Fred remembered Osios Konstandinos. ‘But they’re not all dead
– ?’
‘No, not all dead, my dear chap.’ Audley perked up suddenly. The elusive Number 16 isn’t dead, we think –“Sweet-Sixteen-and-dummy4
Never-Been-Kissed”! And we’re going for Number 21 – “Key-of-the-Door” – this very night ... in the wee small hours, when he shouldn’t be expecting us. And Number 21 is rather important in the scheme of things, I suspect.‘
‘Why?’ Fred hit the question-button quickly, and therefore naturally; although as he did so he knew that it was another attempt on The Crucial Question, from what Audley had just let slip.
‘ Why?’
‘Because he knows Number 16.’ Audley looked down. ‘You’ve finished your drink ... so now we’ll go – right?’
Fred looked down. ‘Yes – yes, of course – ’
The rain still slanted down in the courtyard, and the wet smell of earth and darkness mingled with the enveloping sounds of rainwater dripping off roofs and cascading over blocked guttering all around them.
Fred shivered, although it wasn’t really cold – although it wasn’t really cold, through the thickness of battle-dress, even remembering how it would be now under the stars on the beach in Greece, this night. Because the cold was inside him now.
‘This way,’ Audley pointed. ‘And let me do the apologizing.’
‘Of course.’ He shivered again, involuntarily. ‘What’s so important about Number 16, David?’
‘I rather think that he’s the only one we’re really interested in.’
Audley pointed again, towards a bright doorway. ‘“Sweet Sixteen”
– let’s hope he lives to be kissed!’
Fred slowed deliberately. ‘Why do we want him?’
dummy4
‘God only knows!’ For the first time Audley touched him, trying to propel him into the light. ‘Nobody tells me anything – I just do as I’m told.’
‘But you must have some idea.’
‘Oh yes!’ Audley grinned at him conspiratorially. ‘A lot of people hunting Germans these days – it’s open season on Nazis, of course.’
Fred frowned. ‘But you said . . . these were decent chaps, David?’
That’s right.‘ The grin widened. That’s what makes it interesting: we seem to be trying to save these particular Germans for posterity. The only trouble is ... they don’t seem to want to be saved.’
3
Fred hunched himself miserably under David Audley’s umbrella, in the midst of utter darkness and the enveloping noise of the rain descending through the forest canopy above, which damped down every other sound, just as the young dragoon had promised.
‘ This is how it must have been,’ Audley had said, just before he’d disappeared into the dark, but without explaining what he meant; and then, ‘ Don’t go to sleep, Fred, for God’s sake – otherwise I’ll never find you again.’
He lowered the umbrella for a moment to let the rain refresh him –
mustn’t go to sleep . . . must think of something, anything – even the madness of dinner –
Dinner . . . dinner under candlelight winking silver-gold on cut dummy4
glass and heavy cutlery, served off delicate bone china boasting a many-quartered coat of arms, which were not the arms of any British unit, least of all TRR-2!
Loot! he had thought, but without daring to ask, as he had felt the weight of the glass and cutlery, and the lightness and strength of the plates, one after another. Or . . . not loot, but the legitimate spoils-of-war – remember where you are, Fred! But, loot or spoils, it had been unreaclass="underline" unreal places, unreal people, unreal conversation, unreal candlelit setting, unreal food –
‘Deer ham, Herr Major – thinly sliced, slightly smoked . . . what you would call “venison”, Herr Major. Upon a leaf of the lettuce, with the cranberry sauce. And also with the horseradishes sauce –
so!’
‘Interesting word, “venison”.’ (Voice from down the table, not directed at him.) ‘Middle English, of course –Old French, too . . .
“Venery” – “Venerer” – “venison”; “hunting”, “huntsman”,
“hunted flesh”.’
‘“Venery”, Philip? I thought that was to do with sex, not animals.
Same thing though, I suppose.’
‘Not the same thing at all, Alec. Same spelling –different root.
That venery is from “Venus” – like “venereal” –’
‘Hah! Don’t have to hunt for that, by God! Whole bloody army’ll be rotten with it by this time next year, mark my words. Once the fratting really starts – when everyone’s got his own woman.’ (Harsh voice, with the faintest Scottish roll to each ‘r: big angular face, with arched nose above a mouthful of teeth.) dummy4
’Interesting though, I would agree.‘
‘I didn’t mean that. What I meant was that all hunted flesh was originally “venison”, not just the deer. Boar, hare – any game animal. It was all venison.’
‘Oh aye? And would that include the two-legged variety, then?’
‘Pheasant, grouse –’
‘Och no! I mean man, old boy! The best game of all –the gamest game . . . our game, tonight – ’
Fred straightened up, conscious suddenly that he had slumped back against the trunk of his tree again.
Stand up straight – shoulders back – umbrella vertical –feet firmly placed (it was hard to keep them firm in the soft forest detritus into which they kept sinking) – mustn’t doze off (the utter darkness was disorientating: how the hell would Audley find his way back to this particular tree, for God’s sake?). Then he remembered the silly little metallic toy Audley had given him, which was still clenched in his hand.
‘It’s two clicks for the assault group, and one click in recognition,’
Audley had said. ‘ But if you hear three clicks, that’ll be me. And then you give four clicks back. And once I’ve left you, then you give me four clicks every five minutes, until you hear me. And then, when I give you three back, you give me four again. Right?’
It had sounded juvenile. But then Audley had said: ‘ The Yank paratroopers used it on D-Day, in Normandy –it’s a clever wheeze, Fred.’ And then it hadn’t been so childish –
dummy4
He pressed the toy: click-click-click-click!
Nothing. Only the sound of the rain –
‘Herr Major . . . Haul Brion, ’34 – please?‘
‘A good year.’ (Audley’s mouth was full of deer ham.) ‘Eh?’
The best since ‘29, Captain David.’ (Otto bobbed agreement.)
‘Besides which, it’s the best wine we have with us. But if you want to enjoy it then steer clear of the horseradish.’ (The voice was friendly, slightly slurred.) ‘Alec McCorquodale – Frederick Fattorini, is it – ?’