A Journey of Discovery

The shrilling of a bell dragged Ginger from a deep sleep. He was instantly awake, his heart thumping and a feeling of sick apprehension in his stomach before he identified the sound and realised it was his alarm clock, summoning him to the start of his sick leave rather than an offensive sortie. He rose reluctantly, pulling on his dressing gown. There was no light under Biggles' door as he passed on his way to the bathroom, so he was careful not to make any noise. In the chill, early light of dawn, Ginger finished his toilet and, dressed in civilian clothes, went into the kitchen to make some breakfast. Quiet though he had been, Mrs Symes was waiting for him. Brushing aside his apologies, she insisted on cooking him what she called a "proper breakfast". The sound of their voices must have roused Biggles, who was always a light sleeper, for just then he entered the room and greeted the pair. Biggles and Ginger sat down to one of Mrs Symes' "specials" as Ginger recounted the events of the previous evening.

"She seemed pretty convinced we were all going to make it," he concluded.

"Well, you know what I think," said Biggles, putting a thin scrape of marmalade on his toast. "You'll either make it or you won't; if you make it, there's no need to worry. If you don't make it," he regarded Ginger sombrely, "you can't worry!" He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. Then he glanced at his watch and announced, "You'd better be making tracks. I'll come to the station with you and give you a hand with the luggage," he offered. "I doubt very much that we'll be able to get a taxi."

Biggles' prediction was correct. At fifteen minutes past six, the pair made their way onto the platform at Liverpool Street where the Norwich train was standing. Even at that early hour, the place was crowded, mainly with troops in uniform and sundry wives and girlfriends who had come to see them off to who knew what Fate lay in store for them. Cub was already there, idly looking at a poster that warned everyone that walls had ears. By his foot rested a long leather case that obviously held the object of his "business with Holland and Holland" that he had mentioned the previous day. He also had a small, leather suitcase. Unlike Ginger, he was in uniform. He turned and saw them, his face breaking into a smile. He and Biggles shook hands, chatted briefly and Cub promised he would pass on Biggles' best wishes to his father, Colonel Peters.

The engine hissed as it built up steam, announcing its imminent departure. Cub and Ginger got into the train and found an empty compartment. Biggles helped them stow the luggage. There was a moment of uneasy silence then Biggles clapped Ginger gently on the shoulder and said, "Take care of yourself, laddie. Have a good time." With that, he turned on his heel and alighted from the train. Ginger watched him weave his way through the throng until he had disappeared from view. He settled back in his seat to find Cub watching him intently.

The train gave a sudden jerk. A whistle blew. With a shudder and then with ever increasing speed, the train drew out of the station on its long journey eastward. Cub and Ginger talked desultorily. The journey seemed interminable with frequent halts for no apparent reason. When it was moving, the train clanked and rattled to the clacking accompaniment of the points. About lunchtime, as the train waited at yet another danger signal, Ginger produced the packed lunch Mrs Symes had thoughtfully provided for him and the two of them devoured it ravenously. Almost an hour later, the train eventually drew into the station where they were to alight. There was the usual flurry of activity as they disembarked to the accompaniment of shouts, whistles and clouds of steam. Ginger flicked a speck of soot off his sleeve.

Cub, meanwhile, had located his father who had come to meet them. Ginger greeted the Colonel punctiliously, having been warned that the old soldier was a stickler for the niceties. Colonel Peters was obviously in a good mood. Cub winked at Ginger as the Colonel took the leather gun case from his son and ran his hand lovingly over it.

"Have you got the motor car outside, sir?" asked Ginger innocently.

"Motor car?" the Colonel exploded. "Motor car? Don't you know there's a war on, boy?" he demanded indignantly. "We can't go using petrol! I've brought the dog cart."

Quite what the Colonel meant by this announcement Ginger was not sure, but when the party emerged from the station the sight that met his gaze caused him some surprise. Hitched to a rail in front of the station stood a chestnut hunter mare, harnessed to a gleaming black two-wheeled cart. Cub opened the louvered doors beneath the seats and stowed the luggage in the compartment that usually held the dogs. The Colonel took the reins and prepared to mount.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" he snapped as Ginger looked at the strange contraption, wondering how he was expected to get on. "We haven't got all day, you know!"

Cub pointed out the metal step and Ginger swung himself up onto the conveyance in much the same manner as he climbed into his Spitfire. The difference between the two means of transport, he discovered, was that the Spitfire did not move as he was trying to get aboard. The Colonel growled at the mare, who laid her ears back, and Cub applied some much needed assistance in the form of a well-timed push. When they were all aboard, the Colonel flicked the mare with his whip and they were soon spanking along out of the town.

Ginger was not sure he really enjoyed the new experience. The mare's trot set up a yawing that left him feeling slightly seasick. Cub beside him seemed totally unaffected. Despite the sunshine, the wind was cold and Ginger, attired more for city living than an open air life, began to feel decidedly under dressed. He was just wishing he had worn his flying jacket when the Colonel slowed the mare to a walk before turning into a rutted drive which meandered through fields. As the cart lurched round the last bend a large farm house came into view. The building was draped in ivy and looked as though it had been nestling in the landscape for several centuries. As the Colonel swung the cart round to draw up in front of the door, an old man, bent and bandy legged, hurried out of the stable yard to take the mare's head. The Colonel exchanged a few words with the wizened groom before alighting with an athleticism that would have done credit to a man half his age.

Cub and Ginger followed him. Cub retrieved the luggage and the old groom led the mare away. As Ginger picked up his suitcase, Cub saw the initials HRH stamped in the leather. Overcome by curiosity, he asked Ginger what the HR stood for. Ginger blushed deep crimson and mumbled that he would rather not say, admitting that his mother had been very fond of romantic fiction. "Let's just leave it at Ginger, if you don't mind," he pleaded. "Everybody calls me that."

Cub shrugged to indicate it was of no consequence and they went into the hall. The floor tiles were uneven but the furniture gleamed with the result of years of loving polish. A bowl of late summer roses stood on the sixteenth century coffer that occupied pride of place along the left-hand wall, scenting the air with their heady perfume. A flight of stairs led up to a broad landing lit by a stained glass window. The staircase wall resembled a portrait gallery with ancient, dark canvases in heavy gilt frames showing a variety of men and women in old costumes.

"Leave the luggage in the hall," instructed Cub. "We can take it up later." He pushed open a broad, oak door and ushered Ginger into the drawing room. Ginger took in the dark, oak panelling and huge inglenook fireplace, in which, despite the time of year, a log fire was burning cheerfully.

Seeing the direction of his gaze, Cub remarked, "We're lucky we can get plenty of logs from the estate. We're counted as 'south' here as far as the coal ration goes, but the wind whips across from Siberia with nothing in its way. You'll find it very cold," he warned his guest as he led him across to where the Colonel was already ensconced in an armchair, reading the paper.

"Sit down, my boy," invited Colonel Peters. "Do you play bridge?" he asked Ginger hopefully.

"I'm afraid, I don't, sir," replied Ginger apologetically, finding a seat on the edge of the sofa nearest the fire. Cub sat beside him.

"Hmph, pity," grumbled the Colonel. He looked at his watch. "Ring the bell, Nigel," he continued, "Let's have some tea."

The meal, when it arrived, was beautifully presented and featured home grown produce. Cub had been correct in asserting that the food at his home was better than in London, thought Ginger.

Cub had also been correct about the cold, Ginger reflected. The side of his body nearest to the fire was roasting, but an icy draught chilled the rest of him. He began to appreciate why Cub continued to wear his uniform when he might have been in mufti and bitterly regretted not having packed more woollens. He recalled being told that cities were always a degree or two warmer than the countryside and wished he had paid more attention when he made his preparations.

After tea, Cub showed Ginger up to his room. It was on the second floor and had a magnificent view over the marshes. When he had deposited Ginger's suitcase, Cub demonstrated how to fix the blackout so not a chink of light showed. "The Warden is very hot on infringements," he warned his guest. "A little power has gone to his head, frankly," he opined, "but if you show so much as a glimmer he'll take great pleasure in fining us."

Ginger nodded in understanding and promised to be careful.

Cub took him down the corridor to the bathroom at the end. Although the bath had the statutory line around it, it was so large Ginger estimated it probably held the equivalent of two normal-size regulation baths. It had a metal screen attached to the end with a ferocious array of plumbing. Cub smiled at the look on Ginger's face. "I advise you not to try getting the shower to work," he counselled. "It's extremely temperamental." Ginger nodded, thoughtfully.

"Dinner is at eight," continued Cub. "The Lord Lieutenant is coming. Black tie," he added casually.

"What!" gasped Ginger, appalled.

Cub regarded him sympathetically. "Don't tell me, you haven't brought a dinner jacket."

Ginger nodded, dismayed. "Biggles hates to dress for dinner," he explained. "We never bother at home. I haven't even packed my uniform, which would have done at a pinch."

Cub thought for a moment. "I have a spare which might be a reasonable fit if we turn the trousers up," he murmured. "Come and see." He led the way back down the corridor to his room which was next to the one allocated to Ginger.

Cub's bedroom shared the same magnificent view over the stark, flat landscape. It still had many of the trappings of his childhood; sporting trophies, rosettes, tennis racquets, a cricket bat, books lining the wall. Jutting out from the wall was a huge, four poster bed, which Ginger eyed with curiosity. The bulbous, dark oak posts were heavily carved and he ran his fingers over the raised pattern, fascinated by the workmanship.

Seeing Cub watching him, Ginger coloured slightly and withdrew his hand, almost guiltily. "I've only ever seen them in books," he confessed sheepishly, with a faintly embarrassed grin. "I didn't know people still used them."

Cub, who had taken the bed for granted because it had always been there, was charmed by Ginger's naivety. It reminded him that for all his apparent sophistication, Ginger still had a lot of experience of the world to gain. He went across to his wardrobe and began to sort through the clothes. Eventually he found what he was looking for and fished out an evening suit.

When Ginger slipped on the jacket, it fitted so well it might have been made for him. As, however, he was several inches shorter than Cub the trousers needed to be taken up, a feat which Cub accomplished surprisingly well. Ginger stood in front of the mirror admiring his dinner-jacketed reflection.

"You'll do," opined Cub. "Here's a boiled shirt, some studs and a tie." He hesitated, "You can tie a bow tie, can't you?" he asked, thinking Ginger's education might be lacking in certain sartorial areas.

"I'll call you if I need help," Ginger assured him with a wry smile.

At five minutes to eight o'clock, the dinner gong reverberated through the house. Ginger, his face still glowing from a hot bath, and feeling rather conspicuous in his borrowed finery, made his way downstairs. Cub overtook him as he reached the hall.

"Just time for a swift sherry, if you'd like one," he offered as they reached the drawing room door, but Ginger declined and moments later, Cub was making the introductions to the Lord Lieutenant of the County, his wife and Cub's aunt, Lady Honoria, who had taken the opportunity of visiting her brother-in-law by travelling over from the county town with the Lord Lieutenant.

As Biggles was not one for high society, Ginger's experience of it was extremely limited but the dinner was not such a fraught affair as he anticipated it might be. The guests proved unexpectedly good company and there was much laughter and light conversation. Ginger kept his wits about him and limited his remarks to subjects he was familiar with, watching covertly and learning all the time. Cub silently approved his friend's perspicacity. The Colonel clearly intended that the mere fact that there was a war on should not allow any relaxing of standards. The silverware gleamed, the crystal sparkled and there was the wizened groom who had met the dog cart that afternoon to wait at table. There was no wine to accompany the meal, for which the Colonel apologised, saying he could not bring himself to drink the Algerian muck that was now available, but Ginger did not feel a lack. He also declined the whisky the Colonel offered him afterwards. He felt he had exorcised that particular demon. 'We don't booze and we don't brood,' Biggles had told him. His experiences in the Argentine had been cathartic. He no longer felt the need either to booze or to brood. As he stood in the hall with the Colonel and Cub to see off the Lord Lieutenant and his party, Ginger felt he had come of age.