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barbs across the inside of his thigh. “Stupid bastard!” Cattermole shouted.
    â€œDon’t you talk to me like that,” Stickwell said. He was very angry, but he was also on the wrong side of the wire; and he was a lot shorter than Moggy.
    Fanny Barton finished the run first. The fog had begun to fade, and Kellaway saw him fifty yards away, running as easily as most people walk.
God, what a splendid-looking chap he is,
the adjutant thought.
I wish I could draw him. I wish I could draw his smile.
As the figure came closer he imagined Fanny Barton’s smile, the way it began with the eyes, wide-set above high cheekbones, and then suddenly reached the mouth and stretched the slim lips sothat they made deep, bracketing creases outside them; and then just as quickly the smile faded and left Barton’s usual expression: alert, watchful, ready.
    â€œWell done, Fanny,” Kellaway said, and was rewarded with that flash of smile. “Jolly good show.” The others were soon in sight, their wet gym-shoes pattering on the roadway like faint applause. Barton jogged up and down while they came in, everyone mud-streaked and panting dragon-breaths. “Jolly fine, damn good effort,” Kellaway called out. “Sterling stuff. Rule Britannia.” Billy Starr was the last to finish. They cheered him in, and he ran the last ten yards backward.
    â€œTruly magnificent,” the adjutant said. “Has anyone seen Moggy and Sticky? You should have lapped them.”
    No answer.
    â€œHow odd,” he said.
    â€œThose blasted cows are following us,” Stickwell said.
    â€œThey’re not cows, they’re heifers,” Cattermole told him.
    â€œThanks very much, Moggy. That’s a great help. When the buggers trample me to death I’ll feel a lot better for knowing they’re not cows. Bloody hell, there’s millions of them.”
    The fog had lifted a little, and the field they were trudging across was indeed full of cattle, many of which were trotting after them.
    â€œThey’re just curious, Sticky. Ignore them.”
    â€œOh, sure. Ignore a dirty great horn up my rear end. Let’s get out of here.”
    Stickwell began running. The cattle increased speed to a slow gallop. By the time he had covered fifty yards a small herd was cantering after him.
    Cattermole plodded on, watching them fade into the fog. Several minutes later, when he caught up, Stickwell was on the other side of a fence and he was throwing lumps of mud at the animals. “Bloody brutes tried to eat me,” he complained.
    Cattermole climbed the fence. They walked along a farm track and met a man mending a gate. “Which way to Kingsmere aerodrome?” Stickwell asked.
    The man looked at them and tossed his hammer from hand to hand. “How do I know you’re not German spies?” he asked.
    Stickwell glared. “What makes you think German spies gowandering about Essex in their underwear, covered in shit and chased by wild bloody cows?”
    â€œHeifers,” Cattermole said.
    The man whacked the gatepost a few times while he thought about that. “Go back the way you came,” he said. “Take the second turn on the left, and Kingsmere’s three mile straight on.”
    â€œThree
miles?” Cattermole said faintly. “Three
miles?”
    â€œHe’s lying,” Stickwell said. “He thinks we’re spies, he’s deliberately sending us the wrong way.”
    The man contemplated his gatepost and gave it another whack. “Now get off my land afore I set the dogs on you,” he said.
    â€œCome on, Sticky,” Cattermole said. They trailed back the way they had come.
    Shouts of challenge, and unoriginal insults, and howls of pain, and hoots of laughter echoed along the corridor. Fanny Barton lay in a hot bath and listened: that was Moke Miller’s laugh, so it must be Fitz Fitzgerald trying to pick a fight with Mother Cox, since Moke and