“When he talks of pony rides, that means he wants to propose to me,” she told Stevens.
“I’d marry him, like a flash,” Stevens said. “I’ve always fancied being a countess.”
“Last time I was cruelly rebuffed,” Borodin told him. “She doesn’t deserve me. But it’s too good a day to be stuck in a train. Nature calls.”
“Bugger nature,” she said. “I’ve just treated a case of piles, a bloodshot eye and a dislocated finger, so nature doesn’t impress me.”
“In case you were wondering,” Stevens said to him, “those three medical conditions were in no way related.”
“If it’s rather a long way,” she said, “what exactly are your plans for lunch?”
“Chef’s picnic basket. Caesar salad. Ripe melon. Cold beer.”
“You’re in charge here,” she said to Stevens. “Feel free to amputate anything below the rank of flight sergeant.”
“The iron grip of privilege. Bloody officers.”
Borodin was right: it was a perfect summer’s morning. The cloud had gone, and the air had the extra clarity that comes with sunshine after rain has washed the colours brighter. At first the ponies galloped just for the fun of it. When they slowed to a walk, she said, “It’s quiet. All the guns have stopped.”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean we won the battle?”
“No. The Red Army didn’t win, either.”
“So it’s a draw.”
“Probably both sides simply ran out of shells. It often happens. There will now be an interval for refreshments.”
“Oh.” She thought about that. “Suddenly Moscow seems rather a long way away.”
“Look,” he said. “A green woodpecker.” It flew, and made a good show of green plumage and red head. “Not to be confused with the black, grey-headed or great spotted woodpecker. Russia has them all.”
“I don’t care. I cruelly rebuff them all.” She clapped her heels and the pony galloped through the long grass.
They rode through woods and meadows and parkland and reached the river. The ponies splashed into the water and drank. “I have a sense of déjà vu,” she said. “So let me make it clear that I wouldn’t marry you if you were Adam and apples were sixpence a pound. That’s a split-cane fly rod by Hardy’s of Alnwick, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”
“Uncle let me borrow it. Belonged to Gerard Pedlow.” He sat on the bank and assembled it. “Do you fish?”
“Never. But Father had fly rods all over the house. Very boring man. Look: you fish away. I’m going for a walk.”
Half an hour later he walked upstream and found her sitting next to a waterfall. “Lunch,” he said. He put down the picnic basket.
“I’ve been studying this waterfall. It seems to me that it was made for sitting under.”
“Don’t think so much. Go and do it.”
“I will if you will.”
She took off her uniform until she was wearing only her shift. He stripped until he wore only his shirt. He followed her. The river fell onto a shelf that made a conveniently smooth seat. The first impact of the water was a shock; then it became silkily smooth.
“I don’t know why we’re being so coy,” she said. “Coy people make me want to hit them.”
“Leave it on, it’s far more revealing. I think you wear it as an armour against my tremendous appeal. You don’t like to admit that we are destined for each other.”
“There you go again. Romantic novelettes. All jam and no bread.”
After a while they climbed out and sat in the sun. He opened the basket. They ate the melon and the Caesar salad and drank the beer. She said, “The truth of the matter is you’re not in love with me, Peter Borodin. A man like you, good looks, charm, nobility, you’re always in love with someone. Here, with me, you’re just marking time because there’s nobody else within reach.”
“Oh dear.” He was startled. “Am I such a bounder? I had no idea…”
“I don’t blame you. It’s how you are. You can’t help bounding.” She began sorting out her clothes.
They rode home, and as the trains came in sight she said, “I’m glad I met you, and I wish I knew why. No, I don’t. I don’t give a damn why. But we don’t have to marry everybody we’re glad to meet, do we?”
“That depends on the degree of gladness.”
“No, it doesn’t. And for God’s sake stop bounding.”
Next day the aircraft were repaired and ready for operations again. Wragge had them test-flown and waited for orders. In mid-afternoon a solitary locomotive brought Denikin’s liaison officer. He strolled with the C.O. on the landing ground and explained that his orders were that there were no orders at present. Denikin wished the squadron to remain at full strength and to conserve ammunition and bomb stocks until they were needed for another assault.
And when would that be?
As soon as the losses in the first assault could be made good.
A week?
Almost certainly in a week. Perhaps ten days. Supply trains were on their way. Every urgency was being applied. The Red Army had withdrawn with heavy losses. Definitely in ten days the attack would begin. Success was inevitable.
Wragge took him to The Dregs for tea. He asked him if Denikin had been impressed by the destruction of three large enemy bomber aircraft, and the officer smiled and said it reflected much credit on the White artillery units which had shot them down. He ate two toasted muffins with Gentleman’s Relish, and shook hands, and the locomotive carried him away. Wragge watched it get smaller. “Stinking fish,” he said. “What a swindle.” The words did not express his feelings. “Great masses of truly stinking fish,” he said. Still not enough.
A BIG, BUCCANEERING ACTION
Usually the ground crews complained because they were overworked, although secretly they enjoyed the pressure, the sense of achievement. Now they had nothing to do and that was not what they wanted either. The squadron quickly became slack and sluggish. Ball games were tedious. Everyone had his pay and there was nothing to spend it on except poker, and even poker became dull. Wragge worried, but he could think of no solution.
He discussed the problem with Oliphant and Borodin.
“We can’t just sit here for ten days,” he said. “I mean, look around. There’s nothing. We’re fifty miles from Orel, and God knows that was a dump.”
“This ceasefire, or stalemate, or whatever it is,” Oliphant said. “Not good for morale. We came hotfoot from Taganrog, jumping from one landing field to another, the chaps quite liked that, it appealed to their sense of adventure. Now this. And The Dregs has run out of cheese and bacon.”
“Russians don’t eat bacon,” Borodin said. “Ham, sometimes.”
“Can’t have eggs and bacon without bacon.”
“Lacey can get us bacon, I expect,” Wragge said. “Anyway, bacon’s not crucial. But Uncle tells me he’s had some applications for leave from amongst the ground crews. Leave, for God’s sake.”
“Well, they’re bored,” Oliphant said. “We’ve lost half the squadron. They’re kicking their heels. Cheesed off.”
“Sometimes I wish those idiot bandits would attack us again,” Wragge said. “Give the troops something to do.”
“Beware of wishes for they may be granted,” Borodin said.
“I’ll tell you what part of the trouble is,” Oliphant said. “This country’s too damn big for us. The chaps have begun to feel lost. Maybe it suits the Russians, that’s fine, good luck to them. Not us. People can cope as long as they’re on the move. Once they stop, have time to think, look around, see thousands of miles of bugger-all in all directions — no offence, Count — they ask themselves, what in God’s name am I doing here?”