‘Looking at the old bomber, are you?’ Howard said. ‘I got my comeuppance in one of those. Over Essen. Twelfth of March, in ‘forty-five. Beware the Ides of March! I should have known I’d get the chop, especially with the number 12.3.45. Easy enough to remember.’
‘Nice plane,’ Richard said.
‘Roomy,’ Howard laughed. ‘For bombs.’ He visualised the plane as if with the power of both eyes, even more clearly, the twin tail and sturdy Rolls Royce motors, long camouflaged body and angled wings (dihedral they called it), gun turrets and greenhouse cockpit, a strong craft to look at, but he remembered it feeling as flimsy as paper among the flak. He saw it right enough. The last home before the dark. Nothing more vivid. He also took in the photograph of Laura in its silver frame close by, every feature responsive to the fingers he now and again ran over them. He would pick it up, saying to himself, or aloud if she wasn’t close: ‘What a lovely young woman you are,’ then wonder in what way age had altered her, which he could confirm as he touched her actual face.
‘Fate, you said?’ Richard turned. ‘Predestination? If I think about it I suppose I do. You have to in a way, don’t you?’
‘Life’s treated you all right?’
The abrupt change of topic showed he had to be alert in dealing with him. He hadn’t expected to talk on such matters, and the older man seemed to be guiding him, as if he thought being blind gave him the right. ‘Yes, certainly.’
‘Not that you’d complain, eh?’ Howard laughed. ‘You’re not the type. Nor am I. I’m a lucky man in many ways, having something to cope with which shapes my life. No arguing there. The eternal test of ingenuity keeps me alert.’
And young, as if both man and wife had stopped dead in their tracks. Richard took in the portrait of Laura, a palimpsest of youth. You could see from where her present beauty came. ‘I hope listening to the wireless does that in any case,’ he said, wanting to escape the topic.
‘That’s a bonus for me.’ Howard opened the door for Laura to come in with the tray, and Richard marvelled at his sharp hearing.
The cat slid from the telly to lap up a saucer of milk. ‘I hope I’m not butting in on your conversation.’
Richard took his cup. ‘We’re only on generalities. No shop yet.’ Behind the Lear-like aspect of the blind telegraphist was a lot waiting to be said, and Richard wondered how much he would be able to salvage from his long-stored accretion of radio clutter to meet it.
Laura enjoyed the accomplishment of having brought them together, already as familiar to each other as acquaintances who had met after some years. Their uncommon hobby had cemented two people who on the street would have seemed utterly different – and passed each other without thought. Yet a whispered word of mutual interest, and they would stop and talk. ‘What generalities, though?’
Richard laughed. ‘Oh, Howard happened to mention predestination, though I’m not too sure what it means.’
‘I always thought it had something to do with God knowing every step of your fate,’ Howard said. ‘It’s written out even before you’re born. And whatever you think might happen, or would like to happen, when you’re young, there’s nothing you can do about what will happen. You just do your best, enjoy life if possible, and get on with it.’
‘He sounds a rather indomitable old God.’ She came around with the milk, not altogether liking the subject, Richard thought, who didn’t know it took her back to the hospital where Howard lay wounded and blinded after the raid, when he had said much the same thing. They hadn’t talked about it since, so his ideas had altered little in all those years, though why had such talk come up at this moment?
‘No one can kick against Fate, in any case.’ Richard drank his coffee, hot as it was, even if only to have something to do in putting the cup down. Faced with a man who had been more in its grip than most he didn’t feel predestination to be the right subject so early on. Or maybe it was best to get it out of the way.
‘True,’ Howard said dryly. ‘Funnily enough, though, I dwell on it every day. Not for long, but I do. A survival exercise you might call it. Still, it’s strange the subject came up.’
‘Maybe it’s the common denominator of those who have a life long attachment to wireless,’ Richard suggested. ‘You can’t help but feel everything is foreordained, every dot and dash sparking the details of somebody’s fate into your ear.’ He turned to Laura. ‘Now we are talking shop. Didn’t take long, did it?’
She liked his levity of tone, as well as skill and diplomacy in keeping the chat going. ‘I’ll leave you both to it. I must put those lovely flowers in water, and tidy up the kitchen after supper.’
Richard tapped the rim of the cup with his spoon, as if she had taken their talk with her. Howard looked, if he could be said to, at the door through which she had gone, then lowered an arm to stroke the cat which, though silent, he knew to be there.
Richard saw him as being all the time alone in a place Laura could never reach. When they weren’t together Howard was somewhere on his own, unreachable and curled into himself. It was the only way he could get by, but even if he had never been afflicted he might still have been an unreachable loner. You couldn’t tell, though he imagined Laura got into his spirit and lodged there for her solace as well as his.
‘You sound as if you’re trying to send me a message.’
He lay his spoon in the saucer. ‘Same old restless fingers.’
‘Like all of us. The French call wireless operators “pianistes”, so I hear, because they play at the key and make a peculiar rhythmical noise. I suppose it does sound weird to other people, but to us it’s like listening to plain language.’
Richard thought it charitable to let someone do the talking who lived a virtual hermit much of his life. Which is good as far as I’m concerned because he’ll have little to judge me by, though it could be I’ll learn more from him than he will from me.
‘You might call us the high priests of morse. Funny how I sometimes feel one myself,’ Howard said. ‘We’re members of a secret society because we have access to spheres which let us clip into their traffic – unknown to those who are communicating. I often envy the way they go on so blithely, not suspecting a thing.’
He spoke slowly, yet a subtle urgency lay behind his words, sometimes as if he would stumble over the next, though he never did, choosing each phrase as if rehearsed beforehand in the darkness of his mind. Perhaps Howard thought he was speaking to someone who lacked one of the many senses developed through being blind, or who was without at least one extra sense which a man with sight couldn’t have. At the same time he seemed unaffected by Richard being a stranger, unselfconscious to an extent that he was on his own, or talking to a mirror in which he couldn’t see himself. Though finding it a peculiar experience Richard was neither offended nor embarrassed, simply standing to one side while Howard did the talking. He assumed he would get used to it, if he came to see him again, and for Laura’s sake, after another glance at the photograph of her as a young woman, he very well might.
‘For instance,’ Howard went on, ‘there was a time when I heard Chinese operators on the Peking to Turkestan run. Very peculiar morse they sent. Most had no idea of the rhythm, and it was hard at times to make sense of. Then Laura read me from the newspaper that when a Chinese airliner was hijacked the wireless operator killed the terrorist with an axe!’
Richard laughed with him, saw the smile lift his cheeks, an extension of the lips, the sound unnerving, like a hand scraping on cardboard. ‘Served the bugger right. Hijackers will become the unacknowledged legislators of the world if we’re not careful.’
‘It’s wonderful that the sparks did it,’ Howard said. ‘It must have made his day, after being bored so long at his key. I wish I’d been tuned in at the same time, when he sent his SOS. I’m always on the line for learning something