Damned Good Show by Derek Robinson Page B

didn’t like him, Charlie,” Philly said.
    â€œBecause he was obsessed with his banjo,” the bishop said. “There is more to marriage than the banjo, which is perfectly useless for procreation, for instance.”
    â€œWe’re going to procreate, aren’t we, darling?”
    â€œMorning, noon and night.” Langham was amazed at his owncandor; but nobody else seemed to notice. “Here, there and everywhere,” he added. Still no effect. Philly was asking the bishop if he had backed the horses she had tipped at Kempton Park.
    A superb cheese soufflé was served, with a Provençal rosé.
    â€œHave you noticed,” the bishop said, “how we keep fighting our wars in
northern
France, where the wine is lethal, instead of, say, the Rhône valley, where it’s at least robust?”
    â€œCharlie was in the Trenches,” Philly said.
    â€œWere you really?” Langham said. “What did you think of the Royal Flying Corps?”
    â€œWe thought they made a jolly good target.”
    â€œYou mean you fired at them?”
    â€œIf they came close. Mistakes happen in war. We made our mistakes before they could make theirs.”
    â€œTalking of mistakes,” Philly said. “I had drinks at the American embassy yesterday. Joe Kennedy reckons this war is a poor joke. He says France hasn’t got the guts to fight, and England hasn’t got the money.”
    â€œKennedy’s just an old bootlegger, mummy,” Zoë said. “He’s a dreadful thug. Everyone knows that. He doesn’t understand Europe.”
    â€œHe’s a successful thug. Bought and sold the Democrat vote in Massachusetts, didn’t he? After Massachusetts, Europe is a kindergarten, believe me.”
    â€œThis is a silly question,” the bishop said to Langham, “so feel free not to answer. Are we going to win?”
    â€œAt a canter,” Langham said; which at least made Philly laugh.
    Pears in red wine. Coffee. Brandy.
    Mother and daughter went off to discuss wedding plans. The men strolled in the grounds.
    â€œRemarkable lady,” the bishop said. “I can’t imagine what it was like to be married to her. Good food but not much rest, probably.”
    â€œWho gave her the title?”
    â€œLord Shapland. Second husband. Killed when his airplane crashed, poor devil.”
    â€œIt’s a quick way to go.”
    â€œMm.” The bishop decided not to pursue that subject. “Some say he was her third husband. Rumors of a liaison in Texas with an oil millionaire. The Church is awfully sticky about divorce. I prefer to turn a blind eye.”
    â€œShe’s not at all what I expected. Very forceful. I must admit I’m glad Zoë isn’t a bit like her mother.”
    â€œNo.” The bishop thought about it. “I mean yes.” He cleared his throat. “Shapland left Philly a vast amount of property. She’s a major landowner, you know.”
    â€œI do know. She’s just given this place to me. Well, to us.”
    They turned and looked at the building. From this angle, a separate chapel and a stable block were visible.
    â€œYou’ll need a bicycle to get from the bathroom to the breakfast room,” the bishop said. “I’d sell it, if I were you.”
    Langham was shocked. “But it’s a wedding present.”
    â€œThen buy a tandem. Put the butler on the front seat. You’ll need all your energy, once you’re married.”
3
    When the Friesian Islands came into view they were the wrong size and shape. They were also twenty minutes late. Hunt couldn’t believe it.
    For nearly two hours his trio of Hampdens had cruised across the North Sea, seeing nothing but cloud above and water below. The cloud was gray tinged with black, the water was gray spiked with white. At first Hunt was able to let the automatic pilot do the flying. Then the cloud base came down to a thousand feet and the