A Piece of the Sky is Missing. David Nobbs

she had once been Europe’s foremost female unicyclist. It was, however, rather a one-way relationship. Miss Flodden and Mr Marshall left insulting notes about tidiness and unlocked doors, and, rumour had it, bathed together. He never saw them and didn’t like them. Dr Strickman was inaccessible, with his shifty eyes, his strange-shaped parcels from Munich and his cryptic telephone calls. And he didn’t really know Mr Pardoe, who ran three launderettes, one of which, near Westminster Bridge, was named ‘The Diplomat’.

      He went to the phone and rang Sonia again. Still no reply.

      He met Mrs Palmer, going upstairs.

      ‘Hullo. How are you?’ he said.

      ‘Lübeck,’ said Mrs Palmer.

      ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’

      ‘Lübeck,’ she said again, more slowly. ‘I was telling you about the time I had to step in and do the high wire act, due to the indisposition of the Amazing Esperanto. I couldn’t remember where it was. Well, I have done. It was Lübeck.’

      It was at least six months ago, that conversation.

      ‘It must have been a great thrill,’ he said, knowing that this meant ten minutes’ more reminiscence, but not minding in the least.

      Then he rang Sonia again. Still no reply. He felt vaguely ridiculous, ringing her again and again, as if she knew and was laughing at him for his persistence.

      There were various people he could ring, various friends. But he wasn’t going to plead for company.

      On Saturday he was going down to Cambridge to see Elizabeth. He’d met her at a party over the weekend. They seemed to hit it off, but what chance did he stand alongside all those undergraduates?

      He switched the television on, but didn’t see it. He was thinking about Frances now. That, he still thought, had been love.

      Things hadn’t worked out. He’d had bad luck. Somebody up there didn’t like him. Too many jokes, perhaps. He saw God for a moment as a stern face, listening patiently to all his jokes, then saying ‘Heard it’. Not much future in telling jokes to the omniscient.

      He smiled, then the smile died. He switched the television off. His thirst was becoming stronger. He would go round the corner to the Blessington Arms.

      The phone rang. Please let it be for me and let it change my luck and my whole life.

      Dr Strickman wasn’t in. He took a message. ‘Eliminate Rathbone.’

      He rang Sonia. No reply.

      He went down the stairs and met Dr Strickman.

      ‘There’s a message for you. Eliminate Rathbone,’ he said.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Dr Strickman calmly.

      He went out, past the trusses and ointments, and headed towards the pub.

      All the regulars would be standing by the bar. Sometimes he went to the pub frequently and sometimes he didn’t go there for weeks. He was familiar there, he was known, but he wasn’t a regular. Being a regular was incredibly boring, and yet he resented not being one.

      Perhaps Kevin, the actor, would be there, or John, the West Indian bus conductor who wrote poetry and had a university degree, or O’Connor and Tooley, or Bert, the confectioner with a fund of reminiscences about East Africa. More probably there would be no-one, just a few silent regulars, one on every other bar stool, watching the television.

      But he didn’t feel sad. Everything was going to be all right. He would get a new and better job, move into a new and more cheerful house, and marry Sonia.

      He had had his joys and his sorrows, and he would have his joys and his sorrows again.

      He ordered a pint of bitter and a straight malt whisky, to celebrate the fact that there was nothing to be sad about.

      Chapter 6

       Joys

      November, 1953. Robert is up before the War Office Selection Board. Deep in the sodden Hampshire downs he has undergone a series of illuminating tests. He has climbed ropes, swung from trees, erected flagpoles, outlined briefly the history of the British Empire, and planned the urgent evacuation of the small resort of Seatown (pop. 10,000). He has also attempted, unsuccessfully, to organize the passing of a large oil drum across a very wide ditch with three very short planks. Clearly passing large oil drums across wide ditches with short planks is his Achilles Heel.

      Robert feels that on the whole he hasn’t done too badly. He hasn’t distinguished himself, but he has passed muster. Yesterday at breakfast he told a colleague that if he passed muster he was going on to take advanced muster. The colleague hasn’t sat next to him at any meals since then.

      During all these tests Robert has asked himself why he is here, trying to become an officer. And he has been unable to think of any answer, except that it was expected of him, and that his basic training unit at Catterick was so awful that he leapt at any chance of getting away from it.

      Now, at his final interview in that gloomy country house, surrounded by bare wet trees, he thinks of another answer.

      ‘What’s your father do?’

      ‘He’s dead, sir. He was a lawyer.’

      ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Sorry he’s dead, or sorry he was a lawyer? ‘Did he die in the war?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      They seem pleased at that.

      ‘Why do you want to become an officer?’

      ‘I want to order the lower classes around, sir.’

      They take this seriously, and seem surprised, but not displeased.

      ‘What qualities do you think are needed by a successful officer?’

      ‘Loyalty, cruelty, insensitivity, stupidity and courage, sir.’

      January, 1955. The snow is thick in B.A.O.R. In Munster, Westphalia, the wind is bitter cold. The wind howls through the B Block ablutions, whistling round Robert’s legs.

      He was drunk last night. He went out with Stephen. They met Scouse Edwards, Taffy Lewis and Geordie Wilkinson. They all got drunk. Robert picked a fight with Connolly, a driver. He was lucky the M.P.s didn’t pick him up. He had terrible hiccups when he signed in at the guard room, but Sgt Clarke just smiled. Not a bad chap, Nobby.

      He works a shift system, and although today is Thursday it is his day off. But Thursday is also C.O.’s inspection. He has to get up early and make a tidy bed-pack. He has to square off his large pack, small pack and basic pouches. And then he has to go out, because the living quarters are out of bounds for C.O.’s inspection.

      But he can’t go out. He is too ill. He goes to the lavatory and is sick. He sits there, hunched up, shuddering gently in the wind.

      He hears footsteps. The C.O.’s inspection.

      The lavatory door does not extend to the ground, and he raises his feet so that they are not visible beneath the door. He jams his feet against the far wall and remains seated.

      He hears the little procession enter the ablutions.

      ‘Smell of sick,’ says the C.O. ‘What was for breakfast?’

      ‘Poached eggs, sir,’ says the orderly officer.

      ‘Treacherous chaps, poached eggs,’ says the C.O.

      He hears the grunts and exclamations of keen inspection. Then his doorknob rattles.

      ‘This door won’t open,’ says the C.O.

      His doorknob rattles again.

      ‘This door won’t open, sarn’t major,’ says the orderly officer.

      ‘Saaarrrrhh.’

      The