The Last Houseparty by Peter Dickinson

defensive battle in the desert—but it means I’ve got to go and take a look-see what the chances are. You know they’ve grabbed all our fighter cover and sent it off to Greece? These things are sitting ducks, without fighter cover.”
    The major slapped angrily at the nacelle of the Lysander. He had seemed to become more and more agitated as he spoke. The mechanic simply looked at him, unconsciously turning a large wrench over and over in his hands. The sweat and oil gleamed on his forehead and cheeks.
    â€œI do wish you’d give a bit, Vince,” said the major. “But if you won’t you won’t. Still, there’s something I hope you’ll do for me. Listen. It’s been pretty tricky keeping Snailwood going. It was bad enough before Uncle Snaily died, but at least I had power of attorney then and the lawyers were tolerably helpful. But as soon as he was out of the way Aunt Ivy started to take the line that you were the one who was supposed to inherit and started throwing injunctions around and so on and it’s become pretty well impossible. Uncle Snaily left things in a total mess, as you’d expect. Mercifully Zena’s married an American and gone to live in New York, but that’s the only bright spot. I’ve been just about able to cope, with Joan’s help. But if I catch it on some hare-brained op. my general’s dreamed up—I don’t mind saying I’ve got the wind up about this one—Aunt Ivy’s going to take the line that with me out of the way you’re the heir, no matter what I’ve put in my will. Down with aunts.”
    There was a pause. The major’s last three words had had almost the intonation of a question.
    â€œSir?” said the mechanic.
    â€œAll right. I shouldn’t have tried it. The point is, your mother …”
    â€œPardon me interrupting, sir. My mother’s passed on.”
    â€œNot as far as I’m concerned, Vince. She’s alive and kicking in my world, and more of a nuisance than ever. If I thought the only reason you’d cleared out was to be shot of her, I wouldn’t have blamed you. I don’t blame you anyway, damn it. But …”
    â€œPardon me, sir. Mr Toller told me …”
    â€œQuite right. I’ll leave you alone. But assuming I come back in one piece—and really there’s no reason why I shouldn’t—things have been quiet enough, in all conscience. If only they hadn’t withdrawn those bloody fighters … Think it over, won’t you, Vince? There’s nothing I’d like better than a good long talk. Leave a note for me with the mess waiter, or someone, and we’ll wander out under the desert stars and talk as though there’d never been any war and Zena had never come to Snailwood.”
    The appeal in the major’s voice was very strong. The mechanic hesitated, nodded and began to turn back towards his work. He paused.
    â€œYou won’t say anything to anyone about this, sir?”
    â€œWhat? No, no, of course not. Fact, I’ve already told Toller you’re the chap who used to service the Jowett. If it’s any inducement to you, Vince, I’ve a bottle of Scotch in my kit. Carry on then, Aircraftman.”
    The major’s salute deliberately mimed the total superiority of the officer caste. Back in his role, he lounged into the sun-glare and out of sight. The mechanic stood where he was, gazing apparently without seeing it at the Lysander, but there was a sense of intelligence gathering itself to a focus to consider a problem. His hand teased unthinkingly at his upper lip. Suddenly he drew a deep breath and then shuddered, as if deliberately disrupting the image that had formed itself in his mind. He returned to his work.
    Owing to the exigencies of war the inquiry into the loss of the Lysander did not take place for nearly three weeks and was in any case brief. Aircraftman Mason was a witness. He