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“Yes. We always thought it was something to do with the Russian Revolution. Keep going along this road and turn left.”
The turning led to a narrow lane, with the base’s perimeter fence on the left-hand side.
“And now pull in here. There’s often cars here, and no one takes any notice,” said Anathema.
“What is this place?”
“It’s the local Lovers’ Lane.”
“Is that why it appears to be paved with rubber?”
They walked along the hedge-shaded lane for a hundred yards until they reached the ash tree. Agnes had been right. It was quite grate. It had fallen right across the fence.
A guard was sitting on it, smoking a cigarette. He was black. Newt always felt guilty in the presence of black Americans, in case they blamed him for two hundred years of slave trading.
The man stood up when they approached, and then sagged into an easier stance.
“Oh,
hi, Anathema,” he said.
“Hi, George. Terrible storm, wasn’t it.”
“Sure was.”
They walked on. He watched them out of sight.
“You know him?” said Newt, with forced nonchalance.
“Oh, sure. Sometimes a few of them come down to the pub. Pleasant enough in a well-scrubbed way.”
“Would he shoot us if we just walked in?” said Newt.
“He might well point a gun at us in a menacing way,” Anathema conceded.
“That’s good enough for me. What do you suggest we do, then?”
“Well, Agnes must have known something. So I suppose we just wait. It’s not too bad now the wind’s gone down.”
“Oh. “ Newt looked at the clouds piling up on the horizon. “Good old Agnes,” he said.
ADAM PEDALED STEADILY along the road, Dog running along behind and occasionally trying to bite his back tire out of sheer excitement.
There was a clacking noise and Pepper swung out of her drive. You could always tell Pepper’s bike. She thought it was improved by a piece of cardboard cunningly held against the wheel by a clothes peg. Cats had learned to take evasive action when she was two streets away.
“I reckon we can cut along Drovers Lane and then up through Roundhead Woods,” said Pepper.
“’S all muddy,” said Adam.
“That’s right,” said Pepper nervously. “It gets all muddy up there. We ort to go along by the chalk pit. ’S always dry because of the chalk. An’ then up by the sewage farm.”
Brian and Wensleydale pulled in behind them. Wensleydale’s bicycle was black, and shiny, and sensible. Brian’s might have been white, once, but its color was lost beneath a thick layer of mud.
“It’s stupid calling it a milit’ry base,” said Pepper. “I went up there when they had that open day and they had no guns or missiles or anythin’. Just knobs and dials and brass bands playin’.”
“Yes,” said Adam.
“Not much milit’ry about knobs and dials,” said Pepper.
