Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson Read Free Book Online

reason behind it.”
    â€œI knew a boy at Clifton whose uncle is General Gore Gore Gore Plantaganet Finbar-Gore,” Langham said.
    â€œPoor chap.”
    â€œKnown as Gore-Blimey, for short.”
    â€œMake yourself a drink, while I get changed.”
    â€œWhat I really need is a ham sandwich. I missed lunch.” Langham sucked in his cheeks and crossed his eyes.
    â€œDon’t
do that.
Please.”
She was upset; he stopped at once. “I can’t stand it when …” She never completed the sentence; instead she embraced him and kissed him on the lips several times.
    â€œPerhaps the ham sandwich is unimportant,” he said; but his gastric juices spoke softly and contradicted him.
    â€œNo, no, obviously you must have food, you poor thing, we’ll go to the Savoy, they always have everything …”
    â€œI’m sure they do, my sweet embraceable you,” he said gently.“Unfortunately I don’t. Especially money. The banks were closed by the time we—”
    â€œOh …
cobblers,”
she said. “Whatever that means.” She went to a desk and came back with a bundle of notes. “Here.”
    â€œFifty quid.” Two month’s pay. “You scarcely know me.”
    â€œWell,
you
scarcely know
me.”
She stood, hands on hips, bright-eyed, more delicious than a plate of ham sandwiches. “So now we’re quits.”
    That night they went to several parties. Compared with RAF Kindrick, this was Shangri-la with knobs on. Zoë seemed to be plugged into an endless network of pleasure; they began in a penthouse in Soho, moved to a Chelsea studio, to a townhouse in Belgravia, to a huge cellar in Notting Hill where a roulette wheel was doing big business. After that he stopped asking where they were going. Who cared? As long as Zoë knew, and the taxi-drivers knew, and the drinks were big, and she was welcomed everywhere (which made him instantly popular too) and the young and beautiful of London were having a bloody good time, many of them in uniform, damn good types, damn good music, damn fine party, then who gave a damn? He liked music. Never realized how much. They were in the cellar, dancing, when he told her: “I would say you’re like thistledown, but I can’t pronounce thistledown.” The music stopped. He went over to the band and asked them to play ‘Embraceable You,’ and turned and saw Silko with his arms around two redheads.
    â€œThese are my twins,” Silk said, speaking carefully. “I’m in love with one. She’s the one who hasn’t got a mole on her bottom, but she won’t show me, so I don’t know where I stand.”
    â€œYou can’t stand,” one redhead said. “If we let go,” she told Langham, “he falls down.”
    â€œHave you got somewhere to stay tonight?” Langham asked him.
    â€œCan’t tell you, because … I don’t know where I stand.” Suddenly he cackled with laughter. His knees folded.
    â€œWe’ll look after him,” the other redhead said.
    â€œI’ll meet you at the Ritz,” Langham said. “Day after tomorrow.”
    â€œBloody good joke, that,” Silk said.
    Then the band was playing, and Langham was dancing again. “Apologies,” he said. “Should have introduced. That was Silko.”
    â€œSilko was blotto,” Zoë said. Not criticizing. Just observing.
    â€œBravo Silko!” he said, and she smiled; so he said, “Bravo Silkoblotto pronto Groucho Harpo Brasso Blanco!” and she laughed, so he quit while he was ahead.
    Next morning he woke up in her apartment. He was on the couch. Luckily it was a big couch. The royal aroma of freshly brewed coffee promised to wash all his sins away. He sat up, the blanket fell off, he was in his underwear. He never slept in his underwear. NCOs and Other Ranks slept in their underwear. Also convicts in American films. He saw