As if by Magic Read Online Free PDF

with bright spines and the words
Body, Murder
and
Death
in the titles. Underneath the blue-curtained window, through which came the faded noise of traffic on the Strand a few streets away, stood an office desk with a typewriter and, beside that, a very workmanlike filing cabinet, on top of which were reference books. There was a well-thumbed dictionary, an atlas, Whitaker’s Almanack, something calling itself
Everybody’s Pocket Companion
– you’d need damn big pockets – Burke’s Peerage, Kelly’s Street Directory and a book of quotations.
    Jack, apparently, was an author, a choice of profession which caused George to raise his eyebrows. Even if old Jack wrote detective stories, which he said he did, it wasn’t, in George’s opinion, a proper job for a man, not the sort of man who’d been his flight commander, at any rate. It wasn’t really work at all. He tactfully kept these views to himself, falling back on the comforting thought that it took all sorts to make a world.
    Because Jack was all right. The first time he’d met him, Jack had been covered in oil and dressed in filthy overalls. George, secure in his immaculate uniform, had looked at his olive-skinned flight commander and inwardly sneered. A dago. Partly a dago, at any rate, who was too good-looking by half. And then, quite unaware that he had broken the twin South African taboos of dirt and mixed race, Jack had started to talk about flying. He knew his stuff, that was for sure, and George felt a grudging respect.
    Jack, who was sitting in the opposite armchair, looked up from the
Daily Messenger.
He was also thinking about flying. It was George’s voice that had done it in the first instance. That clipped South African accent brought back, more vividly than he’d have thought possible, half-forgotten details of the war. It seemed so long ago now, yet it wasn’t, not really. Then, as if to reinforce his thoughts, the
Messenger
had had a long article about air travel and safety.
    â€˜Do you want the paper?’ he asked. ‘There’s an article about this air crash in Paris the other day.’
    â€˜An air crash? What happened?’ said George with interest.
    â€˜The undercarriage crumped as the plane came in. No one was hurt much to speak of, but a couple of sheds came off worse. Considering what could have happened, I think the pilot deserves a medal.’
    â€˜So do I.’ He took the outstretched newspaper. Boots, outraged by the movement, stood up, glared, stropped her claws on the dressing gown and departed. George watched her go with a smile, then turned his attention to the paper. He wouldn’t have minded reading the article but the small print made his eyes ache.
    â€˜I’ll look at it later, Jack. What I’d really like is a cup of coffee.’
    â€˜Right you are,’ said Jack. He picked up the percolator which was making comfortable plopping noises on the hearth, poured two cups of coffee and gave one to George.
    It was a simple action, yet George felt so ridiculously grateful he had to swallow hard to keep his voice from breaking. When Jack had turned up at the hospital on Saturday afternoon George could hardly believe it, and then, when Jack casually suggested he should come and stay, the relief had been so great George couldn’t find any words to express what he felt. He simply reached out and clasped his friend’s hand.
    He’d hardly taken in what he’d said, all about his landlady (Mrs Pettycure? Was that the name?) and how it was all okay and he could have the spare room and so on. All he really knew was that the ordinary things of life, things he’d scarcely thought of a few weeks before, such as warmth, food, shelter and companionship, had been snatched away and now they were back, given by someone who didn’t seem to have any idea of how much it meant.
    George sipped his coffee. ‘This,’ he said with deep feeling,