ate Moscow. He’d always wanted to do that.
‘Then we land a vast seaborne invasion just where Jerry doesn’t expect it – somewhere like . . . I dunno . . . Normandy . . .’
A row of determined cake forks hit the sugar near Caen. Reggie ate Paris.
‘Then we catch the buggers in a pincer movement between the British and the Russian advances . . .’
The salt and pepper pots advanced across Europe like great silver tanks. Reggie ate Berlin.
‘And that’s exactly what would have happened in the last war if the Bolsheviks hadn’t surrendered – could be we end up racing for Berlin. Of course, the Americans would
be jolly useful if . . .’
Clive waved a hand in the air demonstrating an all too obvious conclusion. Reggie eyed London, the last biscuit on the map. That tantalising crispness, that elusive
hint of almonds. Clive ended his gesture with his hand flat on top of it. He wolfed the macaroon before Reggie could make his move.
‘Well? Whaddya think?’
Reggie made a mental note never to mention any of this to anyone in case they thought him as cracked as he thought old Clive to be.
‘Wizard,’ he said, and brought a smile to the old man’s lips. Pity about the macaroon, he thought.
Reggie waved bye-bye to Clive and drifted all afternoon. If he ever had to account for his movements that day he could probably have done no better than ‘here and there’. He picked
his way through the splendour and devastation of London and found himself oddly unmoved by either. When, he thought, you’ve seen your own house knocked off the face of the planet, you tend to
take a bit of bombing in your stride. By six o’clock he was sorely in need of a wee dram and discovered that by pure chance his feet had led him to Pall Mall and to the steps of Pogue’s
– a gentleman’s club of which, again by pure chance, he happened to be a member.
As he went up the steps he bumped into his brother-in-law, Archie Duncan Ross, the elder brother of the first Mrs Ruthven-Greene, coming down.
‘Archie, I was just going in for a snifter.’
Ross was shaking his head sadly.
‘Complete washout, old boy – the Hun put one right through the roof, through five ceilings and into the wine cellar last night.’
‘The swine! My God, the 1912 Margaux!’
‘Broken glass and red puddles, I’m afraid. But there is good news.’
Reggie felt there could never be good news again. The 1912 Margaux – good God, the Nazis were ruthless. First his house, now the finest drop of claret in the city.
‘I hear,’ said Ross, ‘That there is Krug ’20 to be had at the Dorchester.’
§ 13
Champagne always gave Reggie insomnia. Hence he had lived much of his adult life with insomnia. If it had ever crossed his mind that there was cause and effect operating
between the two, then he might well have regarded it as a poor choice. Between booze and no booze, no booze was on a hiding to nothing. He had long ago learnt to while away the hours with a good
book or, failing the availability of a good book, any book, preferably taken with a light snack and a cup of cocoa. His chosen snack was one of his favourites – cheddar cheese with Kep sauce.
His chosen book was The Flying Visit by this chap Peter Fleming. He had been given the book by the author’s brother, Ian Fleming – a colleague in the spook trade (Navy, mind,
arrogant shits the lot of ’em, senior service as they always managed to remind you), and he had to admit, it was a bit of a hoot. You see, Hitler gets it into his head to fly over to Britain
and bale out . . .
Reggie slept. Reggie dreamt.
He was in the middle of a large field. He was sitting behind the wood and glass partition of a railway-station booking office gazing out upon a railway designed very much after the fashion of
Heath Robinson, involving a lot of gear wheels of varying size, a few hydrogen-filled balloons, several sets of bellows and an awful lot of much-knotted string – indeed, string seemed to be
‘Then we land a vast seaborne invasion just where Jerry doesn’t expect it – somewhere like . . . I dunno . . . Normandy . . .’
A row of determined cake forks hit the sugar near Caen. Reggie ate Paris.
‘Then we catch the buggers in a pincer movement between the British and the Russian advances . . .’
The salt and pepper pots advanced across Europe like great silver tanks. Reggie ate Berlin.
‘And that’s exactly what would have happened in the last war if the Bolsheviks hadn’t surrendered – could be we end up racing for Berlin. Of course, the Americans would
be jolly useful if . . .’
Clive waved a hand in the air demonstrating an all too obvious conclusion. Reggie eyed London, the last biscuit on the map. That tantalising crispness, that elusive
hint of almonds. Clive ended his gesture with his hand flat on top of it. He wolfed the macaroon before Reggie could make his move.
‘Well? Whaddya think?’
Reggie made a mental note never to mention any of this to anyone in case they thought him as cracked as he thought old Clive to be.
‘Wizard,’ he said, and brought a smile to the old man’s lips. Pity about the macaroon, he thought.
Reggie waved bye-bye to Clive and drifted all afternoon. If he ever had to account for his movements that day he could probably have done no better than ‘here and there’. He picked
his way through the splendour and devastation of London and found himself oddly unmoved by either. When, he thought, you’ve seen your own house knocked off the face of the planet, you tend to
take a bit of bombing in your stride. By six o’clock he was sorely in need of a wee dram and discovered that by pure chance his feet had led him to Pall Mall and to the steps of Pogue’s
– a gentleman’s club of which, again by pure chance, he happened to be a member.
As he went up the steps he bumped into his brother-in-law, Archie Duncan Ross, the elder brother of the first Mrs Ruthven-Greene, coming down.
‘Archie, I was just going in for a snifter.’
Ross was shaking his head sadly.
‘Complete washout, old boy – the Hun put one right through the roof, through five ceilings and into the wine cellar last night.’
‘The swine! My God, the 1912 Margaux!’
‘Broken glass and red puddles, I’m afraid. But there is good news.’
Reggie felt there could never be good news again. The 1912 Margaux – good God, the Nazis were ruthless. First his house, now the finest drop of claret in the city.
‘I hear,’ said Ross, ‘That there is Krug ’20 to be had at the Dorchester.’
§ 13
Champagne always gave Reggie insomnia. Hence he had lived much of his adult life with insomnia. If it had ever crossed his mind that there was cause and effect operating
between the two, then he might well have regarded it as a poor choice. Between booze and no booze, no booze was on a hiding to nothing. He had long ago learnt to while away the hours with a good
book or, failing the availability of a good book, any book, preferably taken with a light snack and a cup of cocoa. His chosen snack was one of his favourites – cheddar cheese with Kep sauce.
His chosen book was The Flying Visit by this chap Peter Fleming. He had been given the book by the author’s brother, Ian Fleming – a colleague in the spook trade (Navy, mind,
arrogant shits the lot of ’em, senior service as they always managed to remind you), and he had to admit, it was a bit of a hoot. You see, Hitler gets it into his head to fly over to Britain
and bale out . . .
Reggie slept. Reggie dreamt.
He was in the middle of a large field. He was sitting behind the wood and glass partition of a railway-station booking office gazing out upon a railway designed very much after the fashion of
Heath Robinson, involving a lot of gear wheels of varying size, a few hydrogen-filled balloons, several sets of bellows and an awful lot of much-knotted string – indeed, string seemed to be
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