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

ask for your absolute discretion, and that you don’t mention this conversation to anyone, including my son. Can I visit you today?”

“Why not? Rhodes Cottage, in Merton Street. It should be easy to find.”

Millie scribbled down the address and directions next to the telephone number, just as the door opened and Georgina breezed into the room.

“Goodbye.” He hung up.

Georgina stared at him. “Millie, you’re not even dressed, for goodness sake! And who on Earth was that on the telephone?”

“Charlie.”

“Our Charlie?”

“Yes. Look, I feel bad that I missed dropping him off at the beginning of term and he called to ask about my cricket bat. I thought I would deliver it to him. Give me a chance to see his new rooms.”

Georgina put down the car keys on the sideboard in the hallway.

“You’re going to deliver your cricket bat to Charlie?” She tilted her head at him.

“Yes.”

“In Oxford?”

“Yes. He has an end-of-term match, and he wanted to borrow it.”

“But Charlie gave up cricket at school.”

Fishing rod. I should have said fishing rod.

“I know. But they’ve invited him to play and he wants to and I said yes.”

She pulled a silk headscarf from a coat hook and draped it over her hair. “I see. So you won’t be coming to Salisbury with Mary and Rob? And you’ll need the car.”

“Please don’t make a thing of it to Rob. Tell him I’m very sorry to miss it and that we’ll see each other at the cocktail party tonight. Tell him I’ll drive.”

“OK,” she said, and finished tying the scarf under her chin. “Well, give him my love. Of course, we’ll see him in three weeks.”

In his college cottage, Professor Leonard Belkin sat at the kitchen table with a copy of The Times, folded to reveal the cryptic crossword.

After solving one clue, his mind wandered to the unusual telephone call.

“Mrs Lazenby,” he called out.

A small woman in her eighties appeared at the kitchen doorway.

“We are expecting a guest, Mrs Lazenby.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked, looking at the kitchen clock.

“Today.”

“Today?”

“Today,” he confirmed.

He watched as she turned this news over in her mind.

“What time are we expecting this guest?”

“This very afternoon, would you believe?”

“Shall I fetch some tea from Danbury’s?”

“I think a selection of cakes from Danbury’s would be most excellent.” He thought for a moment. “I think it best not to mention this visit to anyone.”

“Anyone?”

“No-one, perhaps I should say.”

“I would never—”

“Mrs Lazenby, I know you would not. I’m just being cautious.”

She nodded to the man whose house she had kept for thirty-seven years. “Of course, Professor.”

As she left the room, Belkin picked up his pen to continue with the crossword.

He read the clue—An amble in Provence (4)—and entered the letters r-o-v-e into the empty boxes.

Too easy. He tapped his ballpoint pen on the newspaper.

An RAF officer requiring statistical enquiries in absolute secrecy. A little more tricky.

As he passed the turn to Abingdon, Millie spotted a lay-by ahead and pulled the car over.

He took out the instructions again and checked the AA road map.

He pulled away again, having memorised the route.

Twenty-five minutes later, he drove along Oxford High Street, slowing for distracted shoppers as they stepped into the road. He thought of Georgina, Mary and Rob, doing the same in Salisbury, although he had no doubt that they had probably found themselves in The Haunch of Venison for a little pick-me-up and a sandwich by now.

He turned into King Edward Street and drove to the end before turning onto a narrow, cobbled lane, passing an ancient sign announcing Merton Street.

Small cottages hugged either side of the road as he slowed to a crawl and read the names. He stopped the car outside a set of closed wooden double gates marked RHODES COTTAGE.

He was suddenly aware that Charlie’s college rooms were nearby. Hopefully, his son had found his way into a pub for lunch.

He got out and approached the faded green front door. There was no immediate response to his knock, but eventually, the door opened, and an elderly woman stood in the shadows.

“Do come in, Mr Milford. I’m Mrs Lazenby.”

Millie glanced at his car. He imagined Charlie cycling past and stopping in surprise at the sight of his father’s distinctive red Rover.

“Do you think it would be possible to open the gates such that I might park there?”

Mrs Lazenby slowly closed the front door. Millie stepped back and looked up at the low building. It was a sweet little place, but on closer inspection, the window frames were rotting and the paint was peeling from the door.

He heard a noise to his left and saw the brown gates opening inwards.

Moving them back was a short man, with wisps of grey hair, baggy beige trousers, a white shirt and, despite the heat, a cardigan and tie.

“It’s best to reverse in and drive forwards out,” said the professor. “You are statistically less likely to kill a student on a bike that way, although I have never run the actual numbers on that.”

Millie got back into the Rover and pulled forward before loudly crunching the gears in search of reverse. As he backed in, he was glad to see the professor close the gates in front of him.

He picked up one of the reels of tape and secreted the remaining five under the passenger seat.

As he climbed out of the car, the professor beckoned him toward a side entrance. Although only five feet ten, he had to lower his head to pass under a wonky beam with more peeling paint.

The cottage was cool. The ancient wattle and daub walls were crumbling, and it smelled of damp. A grandmother clock ticked in the hallway.

He squinted at a souvenir plate on the wall. His Majesty’s Silver Jubilee 1910 – 1935.

The place was a time capsule; a world away from the bustling, modern environment of TFU.

Mrs Lazenby, complete with flowery pinny, showed Millie into the kitchen where he and Belkin sat opposite each other around a small square table.

She poured the tea with great care.

The professor regarded him. “How was