Charlotte Gray by Sebastian Faulks Read Free Book Online

tired."
    That afternoon he went to see Landon, the squadron commander, to ask if there was any chance of a transfer; he had heard that, now the testing was over, some new Typhoon squadrons were being formed.
    Landon sighed and picked up a paperknife from his desk.
    "That little mosquito-sting we sent you on, Gregory. The day trip to Le Havre. Wasn't that excitement enough? Because I can tell you, it was bloody hard to organise. We are an enlightened service, as you know, but we draw the line at throwing planes away."
    "I understand."
    "You know what I told them in the end? I told them it was just a clapped-out Hurricane that nobody wanted to fly and that the pilot was a flak-happy bloody nuisance." Gregory said nothing. He never knew if Landon was telling the truth.
    "Anyway, you don't want to test Typhoons. They're death traps from what I've heard. They're all going arse over dp when they dive.
    Something called "compressibility" Also you can't see a bloody thing at the back."
    Gregory shrugged.
    Landon swung his polished shoes up on to the desk. He was pressing down some tobacco into a pipe, which he occasionally settled between his teeth, then removed, then, to Gregory's irritation, began to repack. He never seemed to light it.
    "I could probably arrange for you to have some leave, if that would help. I'm sure you're due some."
    "I don't want leave. What would I do? Hang around with those idiots at the Cavendish or the Bag o' Nails?"
    "You could go on a walking tour of Scotland."
    "I could."
    Landon took a heavy petrol lighter from the desk and rolled the wheel slowly on the flint. A blue flame almost engulfed his hand. When it had settled, he lifted it towards his pipe, held it horizontal, then snapped the lid shut on the flame and put his pipe back on the desk.
    Next to it was a letter from the Air Ministry he had received that morning. He pulled it towards him.
    "There is one other option. Something I've just heard about. But I don't really think it would suit you. It means flying at night. In bombers."
    "In bombers? I couldn't do that."
    "You don't actually drop bombs. Let me explain."
    Charlotte Gray was drinking tea in the kitchen. In the week she had been in the flat she had pushed back the tide of chaos. Not too much she didn't want to seem obtrusive; but there was now a small impetus towards order: at least the bath was clean and the bread was put back in the bin.
    She was a dreamy starter of the day, didn't like to talk for the first hour of wakefulness Her sleeps were like death. She was sunk many levels down below the light of everyday and her waking was like being drawn from the bottom of a fathomless well. The odd thing was that while she found it hard to speak and therefore avoided company, her brain worked at its fastest, so she could anticipate at once what people meant and was frustrated by their inability to express it. Her fear that she would have to be bright in breakfast conversation had proved groundless. Daisy left the flat by eight to be early at her desk; whatever the excesses of the previous evening, she would be pounding down the stairs, toast in hand, to be at work before the others. The first half-hour could not be fun: Charlotte saw the level of the aspirin bottle in the bathroom, heard the early-hours returns and Daisy's whispered cautions counterpointed by a deeper voice. But her resilience seemed limitless, and the storm-force of her evening return was anticipated by telephone calls forecasting parties.
    Sally departed ten minutes after Daisy, leaving sometimes a grinning Terence to clog the bathroom basin with his sticky shaving soap and his moulting badger brush. Sally was a secretary at the headquarters of a charity who were particular about punctuality.
    Dr. Wolf did not begin his consultations until ten; he liked Charlotte to be there by nine-thirty so he could go through the post with her and settle her with things to do while he consulted. Even allowing for Charlotte's morning