Page 33 of The Berlin Agent (John Cook #2)

The Cross was quiet. I nodded to familiar faces as I carried two pints to my usual table in the corner.

Doc drank half of his pint in one gulp, his face grim.

‘You’ve got something to tell me,’ I said. Not a question.

He knew me better than to pretend he didn’t know what I was talking about. We’d sat at this table most evenings for the better part of twenty years.

He pulled a pamphlet from his inside pocket and laid it on the table. It was well thumbed. Slips of paper marked -favourite pages.

It was a flimsy publication. Cheap paper. Government issued.

‘Joining Up?’

A Handy Guide For Every Recruit

All you want to know!

6d

There was a picture below the text. A drum, with a Union Jack, an anchor, and a pair of RAF wings. Designed to -appeal to a young man like Eric. But Doc wasn’t a young man. He had responsibilities. A wife. Children.

I couldn’t look at him, so I flicked through the pamphlet. It was mostly advertisements. Ovaltine (Ask for Ovaltine at your canteen. Best for health – for sleep – for nerves). -Gillette (On all fronts, men of self respect use Gillette). -Julysia Hair Tonic (Handy flasks! Ask for Julysia at your NAAFI canteen).

‘You’ve decided,’ I said. An observation, rather than a question.

I put the pamphlet on the table. It sat amidst our empties and curled beer-mats like a grenade with its pin removed. The air felt heavier.

‘I have.’

‘What does Jane think?’

He drank more, looking at the blackened fireplace. Avoiding my eyes.

‘She understands,’ he said. He was bad at lying. He didn’t believe it himself.

‘When do you go?’

‘I don’t know. They’ll call me when they’re ready. It’ll be Aldershot.’

I remembered my own journey to the barracks at Aldershot, a lifetime ago.

‘No point me telling you we need you here,’ I said.

‘No.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you’ve built a backlog of rounds you owe me. Better drink up and get buying.’

‘I thought we were even.’

‘Last Christmas,’ I said. ‘You were getting them in, and Jim got festive behind the bar, gave you a free round. The summer before that, you said you were going to be late. You didn’t show up, I had to drink yours.’

‘What about all the times we’ve gone back to mine for a whisky after?’ he said.

‘Doesn’t count,’ I said.

He finished his pint.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Can’t leave you complaining I’m a cheapskate.’

He got up and went to the bar. Easier that way, not having to look at each other.

*

We didn’t talk more about his joining up. He was a grown man and he’d made his decision. Instead, we spent the rest of the evening on the usual subjects. Doc was always good for a few stories about his patients, suitably anonymised of course.

‘I’ve been thinking about the Leckies,’ he said, later in the evening. ‘They’re not the only ones who’ve been encouraged to leave.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Former patient of mine. Lived up on the Forest. Top of the hill somewhere. Gooch. Left suddenly a few months ago.’

‘Where did he go?’ I asked.

‘I’ll dig out his forwarding address,’ he said. ‘Let you know.’