The Small Back Room

by Nigel Balchin

Genres: War & Military

Synopsis

A true modern classic, THE SMALL BACK ROOM is a towering novel of the Second World War. Sammy Rice is a weapons scientist, one of the 'back room boys' of the Second World War. A crippling disability has left him cynical and disillusioned - he struggles with a drink problem at home, and politics and petty pride at work. Worse still, he fears he is not good enough for the woman he loves. The stakes are raised when the enemy begin to drop a new type of booby-trapped bomb, causing many casualties. Only Sammy has the know-how to diffuse it - but as he comes face to face with real danger, all his old inadequacies return to haunt him. Can he, at last, prove his worth and put his demons to rest?

Release date: September 10, 2015

Publisher: Weidenfeld & Nicolson

Print pages: 224

Sample

I

IN 1928 my foot was hurting all the time, so they took it off and gave me an aluminium one that only hurt about three-quarters of the time. It would be all right for a bit, and then any one of about fifty things would start it off and it would give me hell.

It struck a bad patch in the car coming back from Graveley with Colonel Holland. I tried kicking my shin with the heel of my other foot, which sometimes helped. But that meant wriggling about, and old Holland glared, so I stopped.

We drove for about twenty minutes after leaving Graveley without saying a word. I knew the old boy was in one of his bad moods and as I didn’t feel very sweet-tempered myself I didn’t start anything. People coming away from Graveley are usually a bit snappy. I suppose the bangs do it. Finally I think old Holland reached a stage where he had to be rude to somebody or burst. Anyhow he let out a loud snort and said:

“Now I suppose your people will send in a report saying that’s a marvellous weapon.”

I said, “That depends on the figures.”

Old Holland just said, “Figures!” and snorted again.

I knew it was no good arguing with him in that mood. Every now and again he liked to do the plain-dumb-soldier act, and then the only thing was to let it go. He said:

“If you boys would stop playing with figures and start learning a bit about soldiering, we should save a lot of time. Or you might try using your eyes. That would do.”

I said, “You don’t like it?”

“I think it’s a bloody useless contraption.”

“Why?”

Old Holland shook his head. “Just army conservatism,” he said wearily. “Just the army’s usual trick of shooting things down.”

He was always pretty bitter about these development jobs. Most of the army people were. They had a good deal of reason. Nobody took enough notice of what they said, and then if the thing went wrong they had to carry the can back.

“Well, go on,” he said suddenly. “You tell me. You saw the thing and you’ve got eyes. What’s wrong with it?”

I wasn’t having any. I had my own views about the Reeves, but I knew that Waring and the Old Man had been talking to people about the thing and wasn’t sure what they’d said. I just shook my head and said something about seeing the figures first.

Old Holland gave an extra loud snort and said:

“God make me patient. Have you ever seen a tank?”

“Yes.”

“Well, they move don’t they? They crawl about. They zigzag. They don’t like being shot at and they try to get out of the way. They don’t just drive in a straight line posing for their photographs while you shoot at them with your bloody contraptions.”

I said, “You don’t think the Reeves is easy enough to lay?”

“I think the type of chap we’ve got to use wouldn’t get a moving tank in his sights in a week.”

“Reeves chap was hitting them all right.”

“Of course he was. What is he? A trained engineer who’s done nothing but muck about with that thing for months; even now he has a hell of a job with it. You people seem to think that if you can train a research chap to do something in a laboratory by six months hard practice, we can train an ex-farm hand to do it in the field in ten minutes. Your feet aren’t on the ground, you scientific chaps. That’s your trouble.”

I didn’t say so but this was just what had struck me. The thing was pretty, but darned complicated. All the same I was sorry Holland had taken against it. If Waring and the Old Man were for it, it would mean another row, and I was sick of rows. As far as I could ever see, whenever we had a row with one of the services, we were always right. Dead right, except that they had to use the stuff and trust their lives to it whereas we hadn’t.

“I never quite understand about your outfit,” said old Holland suddenly. “What d’you call yourselves?”

“I don’t think we call ourselves anything,” I said. “We’re just Professor Mair’s research group.”

“Who d’you come under?”

“Nobody. Professor Mair has a lot of contacts, of course. He’s an old friend of the Minister’s.”

“Oh, I know that” said old Holland. “I’ve got reason to. But you haven’t got any establishment or any terms of reference or anything old-fashioned like that?”

“Not as far as I know. We just tackle any job we’re given.”

Old Holland shook his head. “Y’know this game’s spreading,” he said. “The country’s crawling with this and that chap’s tame research outfit. They don’t belong to anybody. They don’t report to anybody. They’ve got no responsibility and a lot of power. It isn’t right, y’know. It isn’t right. You’ve got some Service personnel?”

“One or two.”

He shook his head. “Don’t see how it’s done. They must be on somebody’s establishment. And what’s-his-name— what’s he?”

“Waring?”

“Yes. Mair’s second, eh?”

I hesitated for a moment and the old devil was on it like a knife. “Or reckons he is anyhow?”

I said, “Well, I suppose in practice he is. Rob Waring’s a very capable bloke.”

“I can well believe it,” said the old boy. “Don’t like him myself but I should think he’s capable of anything.”

I thought of doing my usual act about R.B. being very charming and a grand chap to work with and so forth. But my foot was hurting and somehow it hardly seemed worth while with old Holland. He would have known anyhow.

We stopped and put him down at the bottom of White-hall. He stood up on the pavement in his British Warm, and shook himself like a big dog. He was a huge old boy and he looked pretty good.

“Well, good-bye,” he said with a grin. “Remember, feet on the ground and don’t look at figures too much. Make you cross-eyed. Good-day to you.” He stumped off and I started in to kick my shin good and hard. It helped a lot.

It was nearly six o’clock when I got in. Till was poking away at his calculating machine with his glasses up on his forehead. I didn’t say “Hallo.” Till hated people to say “Hallo” or “Cheerio” however long they’d been away, It made him uncomfortable. He liked just to start as if you’d been there all the time.

Till said, “There’s an extraordinary thing here, Sammy.”

“What?” I said. I knew Till’s extraordinary things.

“You know those penetration figures?”

“Mm.”

“Well, there’s a positive correlation between penetration and the height of the man firing.”

“Easy,” I said. “The taller the man, the more rarefied the atmosphere and the less the air resistance.”

“You think that might be it?” said Till, putting his spectacles down and blinking.

“Might be?” I said. “It’s obvious. At least it would be if they hadn’t all been lying down when they fired. As it was, I suppose the longer chaps were nearer the target. How the hell did you get their heights anyhow?”

“I thought they might be interesting,” said Till vaguely. “But if they were lying down, it’s very puzzling isn’t it?”

“What is the correlation?” I said. “About o.o1?”

“Oh no,” said Till, hurt. “It’s about 0.09.”

“Well, that’s lower than the correlation you got between Roman Catholicism and weight lifting ability, so I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

Till shook his head. He wasn’t satisfied. He never was satisfied.

“It’s a very odd thing anyhow,” he said. “How did you get on?”

“Middling,” I said.

“Think it’s any good?”

“God knows. Holland hates it.”

“The soldiers always do,” said Till, like a child repeating its piece. “They make emotional decisions without reference to the facts.”

I went into Waring’s room but instead of Waring there was Susan. All the furniture had been moved and she just had a typing desk.

“Hallo,” I said. “What’s happed to R.B.?”

“Gone into the inner room,” said Susan with a grin.

“What ho!” I said. “Impossible to pass without stating your business to his secretary, eh?”

“That’s the sort of thing. He’s bagged a carpet too.”

“Is he in?”

“No. He’s just gone to see the Minister with the Old Man.”

“Been a busy day altogether it seems,” I said.

“You bet it has,” said Sue, a bit viciously. “Not a moment has been wasted from R.B.’s point of view.” She looked at me pretty hard and said, “For the love of Mike sit down, Sammy, you look tired.”

I sat down and said, “I am. Darned tired.”

“Foot all right?”

“Fairish.”

“Why not push off?”

“Want to see R.B.”

“Well, I’ve no idea what time he’ll be back,” said Susan. “In fact he may not come back at all.” She looked at me for a bit and then said in a low voice, “Look darling— why not go home and take some of your stuff? I shan’t be long.”

I said, “Cut out the darling stuff. You know the rules.”

“Yes, sorry. But why not go home? I don’t think R.B. will come back.”

I said, “I think I’ll hang on for a bit. I want to tell him about the trials of the Reeves.”

“Is it any good?”

“I doubt it.”

“That won’t suit R.B. He thinks it’s marvellous.”

“Why?”

“Well, the Old Man has told the Minister it is, so it must be.”

I said, “You’re very bitter about him to-day. Has he been filthy to you?”

“Filthy?” said Susan. “He’s been sweet. Like having your week’s sugar ration in one cup of tea. I think the Career must be going well.” She looked at me with her lovely big grey eyes very cold. “Why don’t you start having a Career, Sammy? I could put you in the way of it in five minutes. It’s quite easy.”

I was just trying to think of the answer to that one when the door opened and Waring came in. I felt myself going pretty red. Not a soul in the place knew about Susan and me, but it always felt as though it must stick out a yard.

Waring was looking very big and handsome—rather like a film star playing a successful business man. I noticed that he’d started wearing a stiff white turn-down collar, and I thought, “He’ll be carrying an umbrella next.”

Waring said, “Hallo, Sammy—this is fine! I hoped you might be back. Come in.” He started towards the inner room, pulling off his overcoat as he went. He pulled it off his big shoulders like a boxer taking off his wrap.

“You’re in new quarters,” I said, as we went in.

“Yes,” he said carelessly. “I got tired of the bloody telephone ringing, so I moved in here for peace and quiet.” He hung the big dark coat on a hanger and picked up his despatch case. “Excuse me for just a second, Sammy. I want to settle this stuff.”

He dived back into the outer office. I glanced round the room. Waring had done himself very well. He had a whacking great partner’s desk about six feet square, with a leather top. There were three telephones on it, with a filter extension to Susan. One was a green Secret phone. He had a big leather swivel desk-chair and an arm-chair for visitors. The whole thing made our rabbit-hutch upstairs look pretty poverty-stricken.

I heard Waring say to Susan, “Three copies of that. Marked ‘Most Secret.’ One to the Minister, one to Professor Mair and one for me. There’s a note to go with the Minister’s. I’ll give you that later. As quickly as you can, please.”

Susan said, “It’ll take about two hours.” I looked at my watch. That would mean that she wouldn’t be home till nine.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but it’s a very urgent matter,” said Waring in his remotest voice.

“Will Professor Mair be here to sign the note?” said Susan. “He usually goes about now.”

“Never mind about that,” said Waring sharply. “I’ll sign it.”

There was a sharp “zip” which was Susan taking something out of the typewriter with a jerk. Waring came back and shut the door.

“Now then,” he said. “Why not sit down and be comfortable?” He grinned his boyish grin and patted the arm-chair. “Look Sammy. Chair. Beautiful, padded, comfortable arm-chair. Especially for important visitors like you. Try it. Nothing happens. It doesn’t give way and tip you into a cold bath or anything, honest it doesn’t.”

I sat down and said, “You’ve gone very grand.”

“Well, to tell you the truth I was getting a bit fed up with Manchester carpentry tables and chairs,” said Waring lighting a cigarette. “When you think of the stuff that we turn out here it seems a bit hard if we can’t have civilised furniture. Look at that bloody place you and Tilly work in. Some of the finest and most valuable stuff in the country comes out of that den. And look at the conditions you work in. It makes me wild.” He opened his green eyes very wide and looked positively indignant.

I said, “Well, it was darned nice of you to get yourself this stuff just for my sake.”

It was no good of course. It never was any good hitting R.B. He just roared with laughter and said:

“Go on, you bitter old devil. All I mean is that now you can kick up a fuss and say you won’t stay in that dump, while I roll about in luxury.”

I said, “I never notice. Besides the sales side always has to have flash offices. It impresses clients.”

“Well anyhow, you certainly ought to have a room of your own, without that darned machine of Till’s clicking all the time.”

I said, “I might speak to the Old Man about it.” I knew I shouldn’t, but it was the quickest way to shut him up.

“I should,” said Waring. He settled back in his chair. “Now tell me about the Reeves gun. Good show?”

“Moderately,” I said. “The whole thing was quite well laid on. The gun was there and the ammunition was there. There was a range, and only a few people went to Gravesend or Grantchester by mistake. So as these parties go, it wasn’t bad.”

“What did you think of it?” said Waring eagerly.

“I’m not sure yet. I haven’t seen any of the figures. It’s certainly an ingenious affair.”

“It’s a bloody marvellous weapon,” said Waring.

“Maybe,” I said a bit doubtfully. “Plenty of snags at present.”

“Oh, it isn’t perfect,” said Waring, waving a hand. “It needs cleaning up. But that’s easy.”

“I’m afraid old Holland took against it,” I said.

“He would!” said Waring. “He always takes against anything.” He smiled at the end of his cigarette. “Luckily it doesn’t matter what Holland thinks. The thing has been sold above his level.”

“Sold?”

“Yes. I made the Old Man take me round to see the Minister, and I put it across to him. He’s all steamed up about it.”

I was a bit shaken.

I said, “What did you sell it to him on? What the Stars Foretell for this week? Or just intuition?”

Waring shrugged. “The idea’s right,” he said shortly. “Anyhow, we shall soon have the facts. When are you getting the figures?”

“Over the next week. We should be able to get out a report in about ten days.”

“Fine.”

I said, “It will be if the figures say what we want.”

Waring laughed. “They’ll bloody well have to after what I told his nibs.”

“Holland thinks the laying’s too difficult.”

“Oh, to hell with Holland,” said Waring irritably. “If he had his way we should just be coming on to the rifled musket about now.”

“He’s got brains,” I said.

“Ganglia,” said Waring. “I wouldn’t put it higher than that.”

“What’s more, he knows his job.”

“Oh God!” said Waring. “How sick I am of these people who know their jobs!”

He got up and slapped me on the shoulder. “You’re losing your nerve, Sammy. You’re letting medal ribbons impress you. It’s a bad thing to do. Nobody gets medals for having brains. I’d back the stuff you and Till turn out; against an Omdurman medal any day.”

I didn’t say anything. I was pretty tired of being bracketed with Till anyhow.

Going out I passed Susan. She was crashing away on the typewriter, and she looked at me as though she’d never seen me before. I got back to the office and was thinking of going home when Pinker rang up.

Pinker said, “How about a drink?” I didn’t want a drink, and didn’t much want to talk to Pinker. But I knew Susan wouldn’t be home for hours, so I went. Till was still punching away at his calculator. When I left he was sitting back in an exhausted sort of way while the machine divided something by something else. The machine still seemed as keen as mustard but Tilly was looking a bit used up.

Pinker was in the pub looking as dapper as ever. He always looked as though he’d just had a hair-cut. I was never quite sure whether Pinker was one of my closest friends or just a bloke I knew, until we started to talk. Then it was all fixed for you in the first two minutes. He insisted on buying me a drink and said it was a long time since we’d met, so I thought this must be one of the times when we were blood brothers.

Pinker said, “Well how’s everything going with the back-room boys? Have we won the war yet?”

I said, “I don’t know. Nobody ever tells me anything.”

“Well, I think I’ve made a substantial contribution to-day,” said Pinker. “My spies report that Godsall is definitely going.”

“Godsall?” I said. “Who’s Godsall?”

“Godsall’s a menace,” said Pinker.

“Maybe, but whose staff’s he on?”

“I think he’s in the Secretariat,” said Pinker, a bit vaguely. “Anyhow he’s a menace. Whenever you come across a bit of dirty business or obstruction and start to poke about in it, Godsall comes popping out. He’s the universal nigger in the woodpile. Anyhow, he’s going now, thank God.”

“Did you fire him?” I said, knowing Pinker.

“Not alone I’m afraid. I fired at him all right, but the body was riddled with bullets. There was a Godsall Must Go Society. I was a founder member of that.”

Pinker drank some beer and said:

“Y’know I think we need a new Permanent Secretary. Higgins is a dear good soul, but there’s a war on. Maybe we could get him a nomination for an almshouse somewhere.”

“You’re having him kicked out?” I said sarcastically.

“Give me time,” said Pinker calmly. “He’s on the list. In fact now Godsall’s gone I’m not sure he isn’t at the top of it. Anyhow, action is being taken. I’m having a drink with the Minister’s Principal Private Secretary’s cousin tomorrow. I shall drop a little poison into his ears in the normal way, just to get things started.”

I took a drink of beer and said:

“I don’t see how the hell you’ve got the patience for this stuff.”

Pinker shrugged. “What else is there to do? What else can I do? If I work for six months, one of these bastards like Godsall can undo any good I’ve done in five minutes. So why not spend the six months getting rid of Godsall?” He shook his head reflectively. “I’ve done damn’ all in this war except to arrange to get fourteen incompetent nit-wits flung out of important jobs. Nothing much. Just a drink with a man here, and a D.O. note there, and a bit of a rumour now and again. That’s all. But it works. It works surprisingly well.”

“Gangster stuff,” I said.

“That’s it,” said Pinker. “Gangster stuff. Bumpings off and takings for a ride.”

He finished his beer and said, “D’you think Higgins goes in for women? We might hire him a suitable P.A.”

After the second drink we got on to our outfit.

Pinker said, “That boy Waring. He’s moving in very high society now.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Y’know I hope Mair isn’t getting ambitious,” said Pinker. “That was a good outfit of yours when it started.”

“What’s wrong with it now?”

“Oh nothing. D’you think Mair wants a knighthood?”

“I shouldn’t think so.”

“Well then, who wants what? Come on. It’s pretty obvious that somebody wants something. Who’s the ambitious boy? Waring?”

“I don’t quite understand,” I said, not liking it much.

Pinker made an impatient gesture, but he didn’t say any more.

I ordered another beer.

“Look,” I said. “Just what is your job? I’ve never really known.”

Pinker grinned. “I’m a harmless Assistant Secretary in Gower’s outfit,” he said. “But don’t let it worry you. Dion O’Banion kept a flower shop in Chicago.” He looked at me and said suddenly, “Why do you stick your job?”

“I like it.”

“Hm,” said Pinker. “You and Waring get on?”

“Oh yes. We were at school together.”

“Doesn’t follow,” said Pinker rather irritably. He looked away. His eyes were opaque and brown. When he wasn’t smiling they looked queer and angry. I had a feeling that I wasn’t saying the right thing.

I said, “You’re right about Rob Waring going up in the world. He’s got a new office and an arm-chair.” I thought he’d like that. Pinker’s eyes came back and he smil. . .