The Final Flight by James Blatch (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

A memory floated in. She played cricket with her brothers on the sand, to the bemusement of the locals. Later, she became annoyed with her mother, always pushing her to make friends with the other girls in the campsite.

She entered the village, casually glancing around to ensure she was alone before pulling on the heavy, cast-iron door of the bright red phone box.

Millie rolled out of bed and made his way to the spare bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He slowly drew open the curtains, trying not to make any more noise.

The sun was climbing; he guessed it was about 6AM. A movement outside caught his eye: a figure wandering along the road from the direction of the peace camp. A slip of a girl. Somebody’s daughter. How would he feel if, instead of studying maths at Oxford, Charlie was living in a field?

He moved away from the window to a wonky filing cabinet that sat in the corner of the room. An untidy pile of paperwork, to be filed, lay on top.

He opened the top drawer and winced as the rollers complained at the lack of lubrication.

The file he wanted was nestled at the back.

CHARLIE – OXFORD.

Along with Charlie’s formal letter of acceptance from the college, were a series of introductory leaflets for the new student.

He scanned the first few, but saw only notes about college rooms with a heavy accent on the rules they must obey. NO FEMALE VISITORS seemed to be a recurring theme.

On the fourth sheet of paper, he found details of Charlie’s tutor.

Professor Leonard Belkin FRS, CBE.

It was too early to call.

Back in the bedroom, he placed the folded contact sheet under his Alistair MacLean novel and got back into bed.

He re-awoke to the sound of Georgina on the phone downstairs. Squinting at the alarm clock, he was surprised to see it was after 9AM.

Georgina’s conversation reverberated through the house. Some mention of a new department store in Salisbury.

“We’ll go together. What larks!”

He wondered what plans were being hatched, fearing they would involve him.

A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Georgina was climbing the stairs; she poked Millie’s spare tyre as she passed.

“Ow!”

“We’re going to have to get you a bigger towel.”

He put his hand on his tummy. “It’s all paid for.”

“Well, let’s get back into our Sunday walks.”

She disappeared back into the bedroom.

Millie followed. “Been making plans?”

Georgina adjusted her make-up in front of the dressing-table mirror. “We’re going into Salisbury with the Mays.” She spoke through contorted lips as she applied a red coat of lipstick. “There’s a brand new department store. Turner’s.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t be too excited, Millie. You and Rob can always disappear off to the pub early.”

She closed the lipstick with a flourish.

“Right, well, I’m going to get milk.” Georgina danced down the stairs. “Be ready by the time I’m back.”

Millie heard the door open and shut.

He retrieved the letter from under The Guns of Navarone. He shuffled down the carpeted stairs, holding the towel in place, leaving damp footprints in his wake.

He lifted the green telephone receiver and dialled.

The phone rang four times; Millie tapped his foot.

Finally, a woman answered. She spoke slowly in an ancient, shaky voice.

“Oxford, five-four-four-one. Professor Belkin’s residence.”

“Oh, hello. I was hoping to speak to the professor, please.”

“May I ask who is calling?” said the woman, enunciating every word.

“My name is Milford.”

She set down the receiver.

“A Mr Milford for you, Professor.”

Another age went by.

“Hello, young Charles. How can I help you on a Saturday?”

“Actually, it’s not Charlie. It’s his father here.”

“Oh. Hello, Mr Milford. What can I do for you? I hope everything is well?”

“Yes, it’s all fine. This is all rather unusual, but I wonder if I could speak to you about a matter of some urgency to me and one which is, I’m afraid, rather sensitive.”

“Is this to do with Charles? Is everything normal at home?”

“No, I mean yes, everything is normal but no, this is not about Charlie. It’s about me. I need your help.”

“My help? Goodness, this sounds exciting. Please ask away.” The professor had a warm, whimsical quality to his voice.

“As I say, it’s rather sensitive, but in simple terms I need to do a lot of repetitive mathematics. Rather too much for the human mind. I don’t think it’s too complicated, just beyond the normal powers of a human. At least it would take an inordinate period of time. And I recall you have a bombe. Is that what it’s called?”

“We used to have, as you say, a bombe, but I’m afraid it has recently completed its last calculation. It’s currently dismantled and I believe in a skip behind the mathematics department. Such a shame. The old girl had a hand in winning the war, you know.”

“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” Millie sat down on the small bench next to the telephone table.

“I’m sorry about that,” said Belkin. “But it’s all about the computer now and we needed the space.”

“You have a computer?”

“Yes, we do.”

“That might be even better.”

“Might it? It’s an IBM mainframe. It uses different methods of inputting the numbers from the bombe. I’m afraid it’s all rather specialised. Punch cards and magnetic tape.”

“I have magnetic tapes.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but they’re for a different computer. Will yours be able to decipher them do you think?”

“Honestly? I have no idea. I have a small army of technicians who do all that stuff. I have a vague notion of how the numbers are laid out. Something called ASCII. But beyond that I can’t really say.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps we could try it. If you would find that helpful?”

“That would be wonderful. Maybe I could drop the tape off for you today?”

“Today? You are in a hurry, aren’t you, Mr Milford?” The professor paused. “Am I right in thinking you are an officer in the Royal Air Force?”

Millie heard the car pulling back into the drive.

“I am, Professor, and I am very much in need of some help. I must