The Lost Flying Boat by Alan Silltoe Read Free Book Online Page A

the body which came against me. He let out a cry, and fell into the road.
    Having hit someone who as likely as not hadn’t been following me at all, I thought it wise to run as far as my guilt would allow, especially since he might have been a policeman wanting only to check my passport. If he wasn’t alone in his work, assistants would be coming up to help. Perhaps Shottermill, who would leave no trick unturned, still wanted the flying boat to set off without me. Or maybe he didn’t want it to depart at all.
    Acting without consideration never did any good, and now reason must be elevated to a par with valour, whereby it seemed tactically right to flee. I turned to do so and – no great feat to vanish into the darkness – heard my name called as clearly as if a coil of rope had hissed around my neck:
    â€˜Adcock!’ A burly figure came towards me, brushing gravel from jacket and trousers. ‘You bloody fool.’ He didn’t seem angry until: ‘You’re like a fucking wolf.’ My blow had been a mere push, and he had only gone over on losing his balance at the drop of the kerb. He spoke in a North of England accent which I didn’t trust an inch: ‘It is Adcock, isn’t it?’
    â€˜You were following me.’
    His arm came close, and I dodged, but the gesture was to guide himself in the dark. ‘How could I catch you up if I didn’t follow?’ His hand was for me to shake. ‘But you walked as quick as if you’d just come off square-bashing. My name’s Bull, flight-sergeant air-gunner, as I once was. Came in this evening to join the crew.’ I shook the warm and meaty hand, which held on too long for my liking. ‘Bennett gave me some of that lovely coloured money, more than a monthly wage packet back home. Then I met Wilcox coughing his guts up in the lobby of that Flotsam Hotel and asked where I could eat pork pies and black puddings. So he says I’d better follow Adcock the Sparks who is just going out, because he knows the best places to get scoff. I tried to, but you walked bloody fast.’
    We went back towards the middle of town. I was unable to show instant comradeship for someone who had caused me to panic so ignominiously. ‘Sorry about the thump.’
    He laughed, and became more likeable. ‘Wasn’t much, was it? Like a kitten with mittens playing dobbie! I might have done the same in your place, only the poor sod I did it to wouldn’t have got up in a hurry. Still, as long as you make up for your tap at me by finding some nice grub.’
    â€˜You won’t get pork pies and pints.’
    â€˜Ah well!’ He held my arm, as if he might lose me again.
    â€˜Wine gets you drunk quicker.’
    â€˜That’s what I’ll have, then, if you recommend it.’
    I asked how many gunners we were taking on. There seemed no end to them.
    â€˜Two, besides me and Nash. I came down with my old oppoes Armatage and Appleyard. You’ll be as safe as houses with us. We’ve shot coffins out of the sky many a time!’
    All we needed was a navigator. As things stood, Bennett would fly the plane, Nash and the gunners guard it, Wilcox maintain it, and I would be all ears cocked against the world. But without a navigator on a long flight over the ocean we would not reach our destination. Though Bennett had a First Class Navigator’s Licence, he couldn’t fly the crate and do that job properly, because while the navigator took star-sights in the astro dome a good pilot had to keep the plane level and steady.
    We faced each other, as well as chips and chops and chunks of bread and bottles of red plonk in between. It suited him fine. He poured a tumbler and drank it like cold tea. He was thirty years old but seemed middle-aged. Civvy life had been so dull he had joined the Merchant Navy, doing any work he was put to: ‘As well as being a gunner, I’m a rigger and a steward – a