Doctor Who_ Last of the Gaderene - Mark Gatiss [5]
He snapped his eye shut and snuffled to himself, enjoying the warmth of the breeze which stirred at his curly grey hair and the pressed neatness of his summer blazer. His face was deeply tanned except for one whole cheek which was badly scarred and remained white as an aspirin.
Another jet chose that moment to boom across the sky like the echo of a distant thunder clap and Whistler sat up sharply, his beady green eyes fiery with indignation. ‘Blast those things!’ he bellowed to no one in. particular. ‘Can’t a fella get a moment’s peace?’
A softer, sweeter voice drifted down the garden in response. ‘Now, now, sir. No need to get yourself into a lather.
You were just as bad in your day.’
Whistler smiled to himself as the comfortable plumpness of his housekeeper, Mrs Toovey, hove into view. She was carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. ‘That was different,’ he grumbled in response. ‘We were fighting a war, remember.’
‘I remember,’ said Mrs Toovey gently.
She set the tray down on a table next to the Wing Commander and began to pour the tea. Whistler watched her with quiet satisfaction, enjoying the rich orange colour of the liquid and the diffused sunlight filtering through the delicate bone china of the cups.
Whistler slurped his tea and shot another venomous look up at the sky where the jet streams had formed a crisscross grid of cloud. Wild horses wouldn’t get him up in one of those modern things. He’d seen them up close, of course. Fast enough, pretty enough. But not a patch on the crates he’d flown in the forties. By God, they knew how to design a plane in those days. He let his gaze wander across the garden.
It was large and beautifully tended, with a large barred gate at the far end which led directly on to one of Culverton’s small roads. Close to the gate was a bulky tarpaulin which occupied much of the land beneath a cluster of lime trees.
Whistler gave it a little smile and then turned as Mrs Toovey began speaking again.
‘Today’s the day, then, sir,’ she said with a sigh.
‘Mm?’
Mrs Toovey gave a sad smile which creased up the sides of her squirrel-like eyes.
‘The aerodrome, sir. Officially closed as of today.’
Whistler set down his tea cup on the table and shrugged.
‘Oh that. Today is it?’
Mrs Toovey gave him an admonishing look. ‘As if you didn’t remember, Wing Commander. Sitting there, pretending you’re not fussed about it when it’s been getting your blood pressure up, regular as Big Ben, these past six months.’
Whistler harrumphed and fiddled with one of the buttons of his waistcoat. ‘Can’t say I care one way or another now.
Country’s gone to hell in a handcart and that’s that.’
Mrs Toovey smiled to herself. ‘Max Bishop says there’s going to be some sort of announcement tomorrow morning.’
‘Who?’
‘Max Bishop. At the post office. He says there’s some people arrived and they want everyone to come to the church hall tomorrow at ten.’
Whistler, who didn’t think much of Max Bishop, looked round and frowned. ‘What do you mean, some sort of announcement?’
‘What I say,’ muttered Mrs Toovey, pulling a crumpled tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan. She sneezed suddenly.
‘Ooh,’ she said, dabbing at her nose. ‘Bloomin’ hay fever.
There’s nothing worse.’
Whistler cleared his throat. ‘I thought it was all decided.
Defence cuts. Aerodrome mothballed. Isn’t that what the men from the ministry said?’
Mrs Toovey shrugged. ‘Max says it’s not the Ministry of Defence that want to talk to us. It’s someone else.’
Whistler stretched back in his deck chair and closed his eyes. ‘Well, I’ve said my piece. No one wanted to hear. So this particular old soldier is going to quietly fade away.’
He crossed his hands over his chest; a splendid figure still with his precisely clipped grey moustache