Hanrahan reported that only our Sea Harriers’ counter-attack prevented an outright catastrophe. He described an enemy plane downed by a Harrier, cartwheeling right over his head till it crashed into the sea.
HMS Coventry wasn’t in the report.
God knows who’s winning and who’s losing now. There’s a rumour the Soviet Union’s feeding the Argentinians satellite pictures of our fleet, which is why they always know where to find us. (Brezhnev’s dying or dead so nobody knows what’s going on in the Kremlin.) Neal Brose said if that’s true then Ronald Reagan’ll have to get involved ’cause of the NATO alliance. Then World War Three might start.
The Daily Mail listed all the lies the junta are telling their people. It made me livid. John Nott, our Minister of Defence, would never lie to us. Julia asked how I knew we weren’t being lied to? ‘We’re British,’ I told her. ‘Why would the government lie?’ Julia replied that it was to assure us that our wonderful war is going swimmingly when in fact it’s going down the toilet. ‘But,’ went my answer, ‘we’re not being lied to.’ Julia said that’s exactly what Argentinian people’ll be saying right now.
Right now. That’s what freaks me. I dip my fountain pen into a pot of ink, and a Wessex helicopter crashes into a glacier on South Georgia. I line up my protractor on an angle in my maths book and a Sidewinder missile locks on to a Mirage III. I draw a circle with my compass and a Welsh Guard stands up in a patch of burning gorse and gets a bullet through his eye.
How can the world just go on, as if none of this is happening?
I was changing out of my school uniform when this dream of a silver MG cruised down Kingfisher Meadows. Into our driveway it swung, and parked under my bedroom window. Rain’d been spitting all afternoon so the hood was up. My first view of my sister’s boyfriend, then, was via aerial surveillance. I’d expected Ewan to look sort of Prince Edwardish, but he’s got exploding red hair, sooty freckles and a bouncy walk. He wore a peach shirt under a baggy indigo jumper, black drainpipes, one of those studded belts that sags loose off your hips, and winkle-pickers with white tube socks, which everyone’s wearing recently. I yelled up to Julia’s attic that Ewan was here. Thumps thumped, a bottle was knocked over and Julia muttered, ‘Bugger.’ (What is it that girls do before they go out? Julia takes aeons to get ready. Dean Moran says his’re just the same.) Then she yelled, ‘MUM! Will you get it?’ Mum was already hurrying down the hall. I took up my sniper’s-nest position on the landing.
‘Ewan, I presume!’ Mum used the voice she uses to put nervous people at ease. ‘A pleasure to meet you, at long last.’
Ewan didn’t look at all nervous. ‘Real pleasure to meet you too, Mrs Taylor.’ His voice was poshish but not as posh as Mum’s put-on posh.
‘Julia’s told us oodles about you.’
‘Oh dear.’ Ewan has a froggy smile. ‘That’s torn it.’
‘Oh, no no no,’ Mum laughed like confetti, ‘it’s all good.’
‘She’s told me “oodles” about you, too.’
‘Good, good. Well. Jolly good. Won’t you step inside while milady’s finishing her…well, while she’s finishing.’
‘Thanks.’
‘So,’ Mum closed the door, ‘Julia tells us you’re at the Cathedral School? Upper sixth?’
‘That’s right. Same as Julia. A-levels just around the corner.’
‘Yes, yes. And do you, er, enjoy it?’
‘The Cathedral School? Or the A-levels?’
‘Er…’ Mum did a smiley shrug. ‘The school.’
‘It’s a bit set in its ways. But I wouldn’t knock it. Too much.’
‘A lot to be said for tradition. Far too easy to throw the bath water out with the baby.’
‘I’d agree with you wholeheartedly, Mrs Taylor.’
‘Right. Well.’ Mum glanced at the ceiling. ‘Julia’s just getting her things together. Perhaps I could offer you a tea or coffee?’
‘That’s very kind, Mrs Taylor,’ Ewan’s excuse was seamless, ‘but my mother’s birthday dinners run to military precision. If she suspects me of dawdling, it’ll be the execution squad at dawn.’
‘Oh, I can sympathize with her! Julia’s brother won’t grace the dinner table until everything’s stone cold. Drives me to distraction. But I do hope you’ll eat with us one of these evenings. Julia’s father’s dying to meet you.’ (News to me.)
‘I’m afraid I’d make a dreadful nuisance of myself.’
‘Not at all!’
‘I might – I’m a vegetarian, you see.’
‘That’s a jolly good excuse to get out the cookery books and try something adventurous. You’ll