London - Edward Rutherfurd [584]
It was unfortunate that the AFS administration had not done so well in the matter of provisions. Percy only had some rice, cabbage and a tray of corned beef which, it seemed to him, had a rather greenish look. “It’s not much of a meal,” he had remarked to Herbert.
There was nothing to do but boil the rice and wait for the first drone of the German planes as they passed – sometimes directly overhead – on their way to central London. Darkness had long since fallen and Herbert was busily playing a music-hall number when Percy, who had walked to the door to look out, heard the sound of a single approaching engine coming straight towards him, saw two lights and then, after a brief pause, something huge and fiery red that made him tremble.
“Oh, my God,” he said.
Admiral Sir William Barnikel stood six foot three; his chest was reminiscent of the prow of a battleship and his beard was huge and red. He looked exactly like the descendant of Vikings that he was. “My grandfather Jonas was an ordinary sea captain,” he would admit modestly enough, “and before that we discovered the family were common fishmongers.” Having little knowledge of the City, the admiral had no understanding of the importance of the members of the ancient Fishmongers Guild. But whatever his antecedents, once Barnikel was on the quarterdeck he was a stupendous leader of men.
The authorities had taken a calculated risk in putting the admiral in charge of a large part of the London Auxiliary Fire Service. “He is not always diplomatic,” certain bureaucrats gently suggested. His bellow could astound a frigate. “It is not a diplomat we need,” Churchill himself had remarked, “but a man to raise morale.” And so Admiral Barnikel’s mighty heart and mighty temper had been let loose upon the AFS.
It was his great red beard that Percy now saw bearing down upon him as the Admiral arrived unannounced, as was his habit, to inspect this little outpost of his vast domain.
“Oh, my God,” he murmured again.
The firemen all followed the admiral round. “More sandbags by that door,” he jovially commanded. Then, seeing the piano, he roared: “Give us a song!” As Herbert bashed out Nellie Dean, he boomingly joined in. “Well done.” He clapped Herbert on the back. “Best I’ve heard in any station. But is that piano in tune?”
“Not quite,” Herbert confessed.
“Tune it, man!” he bellowed.
He inspected their uniforms and boots, pounded his fist on a cracked helmet until it disintegrated, produced a fresh one from his car and told them all that they were heroes. Then he entered the kitchen.
“Who’s in charge here?” he demanded.
Percy nervously said he supposed he was.
“But you just prepare what they give you?”
“Yes, sir,” Percy replied truthfully. “And thank God,” he said shortly afterwards, “that I did.”
Having given the rice and cabbage a disgusted glance, Barnikel began to inspect the corned beef. If there was one thing Admiral Sir William Barnikel understood, it was rations. A well-fed ship, he knew, was a contented ship. He also knew that many of the fire-fighters still suspected that nobody really cared about them. He lifted up a slice of the greenish corned beef with a fork, eyed it and sniffed it. He took a bite, chewed it, screwed up his face and spat it out.
“It’s gone off!” he bellowed. “This is the food they supplied for your men? Good God, you’ll all be poisoned!”
And then Barnikel became very angry indeed. He twisted the fork so violently that he almost knotted it. His great fist pounded the kitchen table so hard that one of its legs fell off. He seized the tin tray of corned beef, marched outside with it, and hurled it away over the station roof into the sky – as far as anyone knew it might have landed in Berlin, for it was never found again. Then he went in to the telephone, called headquarters and ordered them to put a proper dinner in a staff car and bring it round to Crystal Palace immediately. “If necessary, you can send my own supper too.” He turned