The Road Between Us by Nigel Farndale Read Free Book Online Page A

warden.’
    The man gives a dismissive grunt and half turns his back again.
    Charles stares at the letter. An ‘education camp’ doesn’t sound as if it would be a particularly difficult place from which to escape. A few guards perhaps, but if the inmates are expected to work as well as attend classes, presumably they will be going in and out all the time.
    In moments of desperation, Charles has considered volunteering for the Red Cross, in the vain hope that he might be able to join one of their concentration camp inspection teams. But he knows this is unrealistic. Of course they won’t use an ex-RAF officer, not when the country is at war and the Red Cross is supposed to be neutral.
    But anything would be better than the monotonous routine of his life here at the club these past nine months, waiting every day for word from Anselm. He keeps himself busy painting at night while doing his Air Raid Precautions training during the day, a course that has mostly involved simulated fire-fighting, blackout patrols and stretcher-bearing. But this is more pretence. More phoniness for this phoney war.
    Feeling emboldened by the whiskey now, Charles mulls over the new idea he has had for getting himself to France: persuading Eric to sail over there with him as part of the rumoured evacuation of the BEF. It seems a long shot, but …
    The drinker on the stool is studying him again. ‘You’re that queer, aren’t you?’
    Charles folds the letter and slips it back into his pocket. He does not make eye contact.
    ‘I’ve heard about you,’ the man continues. ‘Bloody queers. Shouldn’t be allowed in here.’
    The porter has appeared and is clearing his throat. ‘Your caller is on the line again, sir.’
    Charles reaches the front desk before the porter. ‘Funf? We were cut off.’
    ‘Yes, yes. I know. Look, Charlie. I can’t just drop everything …’
    Charles doesn’t fill the silence.
    ‘Hello? Are you still there, Charlie?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What have you heard?’
    ‘That they, the Admiralty, need shallow-draught boats to help with the evacuation, to act as a shuttle. The navy can’t get close enough to the shoreline with their destroyers.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘No one is saying. Calais, I should imagine.’
    It is Eric’s turn to be silent for a moment. Then he clears his throat and says: ‘ The Painted Lady isn’t really seaworthy. I was planning on giving her a proper overhaul this summer.’
    ‘I could get over there this afternoon. Make a start. Is she still at the Isle of Dogs?’
    ‘My patients will need …’ Eric’s protestations are sounding weaker.
    ‘It would only be for a day, two at most.’
    There is a longer pause while Eric weighs this. ‘I couldn’t get there until at least seven tonight.’
    ‘Great. I’ll see you there. You won’t regret this, Funf.’
    ‘I already am.’
    By the time Charles steps on to the deck of The Painted Lady , wearing gumboots, an off-white submariner’s rollneck and a duffel coat,Eric is already on board whistling to himself as he repairs a bilge pump. ‘Ah, there you are, Charlie,’ he says. ‘Merry Syphilis!’
    Charles gives a wide grin as he remembers their crosstalk routine. ‘And a Happy Gonorrhoea!’
    Inside, The Painted Lady seems more ornate than the last time he saw it, with a mahogany drop-leaf table and a scattering of oriental rugs. It smells different too: mildewy, sour. Eric, however, is exactly the same; still a short, barrel-chested man with smooth skin that looks like freshly scrubbed teak. Though he is only a few years older than Charles, his fair hair is already going silvery. And with his blustering, distracted manner, this transforms him momentarily into the hopelessly late but time-obsessed White Rabbit.
    ‘Good to see you again, Funf.’ Charles extends his hand. ‘I’ve missed you.’
    Eric has no volume control, emphasizing words erratically and punctuating his monologues every so often with a friendly, snuffling laugh. ‘No