by Pat Herbert
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” replied Bernard, beginning to grow impatient waiting for his friend to make a move. It was at least ten minutes, by his reckoning, since his own opening gambit, and the night wasn’t getting any younger.
“When will he let you know?”
“He said in a week’s time.”
The Archdeacon was keeping him in suspense, just like Robbie was doing now. He watched his friend’s hands move to the various pieces on the board, hover over them, then move away.
Finally, Robbie moved his Queen’s pawn and it remained moved. Bernard followed this up almost immediately with a tactical move that he had been planning while waiting for his opponent to take his turn.
“What will you do if he says you can’t go?” asked Robbie as he stared at the board.
“I don’t know. I suppose I won’t be able to come with you.”
“That’ll be tragic, man,” exclaimed his friend. “You must come. I don’t want to go alone.”
“There must be someone else you can ask? A girlfriend, perhaps?”
“Not anyone special,” he replied, fingering his Queen’s pawn again. “Anyway, women always complicate things. Sleeping arrangements, for example.”
Bernard nodded sagely. “That’s true. Let’s hope it won’t come to that. I don’t like the Archdeacon much. He’s a funny little man. Bald as a coot. And, as for his housekeeper – she’s a strange bird. Looks too old, for a start. Bent double, poor thing. But I must say she produced the tea quickly enough.”
Robbie laughed. “These housekeepers are a sturdy bunch, aren’t they?”
“You can say that again,” grinned Bernard, thinking of Mrs Harper. “Are you packed yet, by the way?”
“Packed?” Robbie stared at him. “I haven’t even thought about packing. It’s ages yet.”
“I know, but we’ll need to take quite a lot of clothes to make sure we’re wearing the right thing in the various countries. I mean it’ll probably be hot in Spain, but still quite cold in Sweden, won’t it?”
“True, true. But I believe in travelling light myself. Just one set of warm stuff and one set of light stuff. Several pairs of underpants and a toothbrush, that’ll do me,” said Robbie.
“And don’t forget your passport, of course,” smiled Bernard, tapping his pipe on the fender.
“Checkmate!” said Robbie suddenly.
Bernard looked at the board in horror. He should have seen that coming. “Well done,” he said with a reluctant smile. He began collecting the pieces. Chess was too hard. He preferred draughts, much less complicated. “Would you like a nightcap before you go?”
As it turned out, Bernard didn’t have to wait a week for the Archdeacon’s answer. He finally heard his fate a mere two days after he had made his request. If, and it was a big if, Bernard could arrange to send his congregation to St Margaret’s for the duration of his European holiday, then the Archdeacon would (reluctantly, mind) grant him leave of absence. As St Stephen’s needed repairs to its roof, it would probably be in order to close it for the duration of his holiday for these to be carried out.
Bernard was cock-a-hoop. The Archdeacon wasn’t such a bad old stick, after all, he thought. Permission had been granted unto him from on high and all it now involved was arranging for his congregation to go to St Margaret’s while he was away. Mrs Harper’s help would be invaluable in this matter, and ...
Then he realised. He had omitted to mention his holiday plans to her. Doubtless she would be offended that he hadn’t deemed it necessary to ask her permission, never mind the Archdeacon. This was a stumbling block he hadn’t envisaged. Even if he could placate her for this oversight, which wasn’t at all a foregone conclusion, he was sure she wouldn’t help him unless he got down on his bended knees to her. It would shift the balance of power in the vicarage forever, if he did this. No, he wouldn’t stoop so literally low. After all, who was Mrs Harper? Not God Almighty, and Bernard was in a position to know this for certain.
As he predicted, she was none too pleased when he finally got up the courage to broach the subject with her.
“What are they? Bloomin’ yo-yos?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Harper. I do see your point. But I really don’t think it would be much of a hardship for them to go back to St Margaret’s for a couple of weeks.”
“Don’t you?” she sniffed.
“No. Anyway, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard cajolingly, “is there any chance that you could work your magic and tell them the reason? You know most of them, and I’m sure they’ll understand when you explain it to them.”
“It ain’t going to be easy,” she said. “Not easy at all. When they see the sign on the church door saying you was gone on ’oliday, they might just not come back. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I realise that, but could you do your best? You can persuade them, I know you can.”
“Well, I suppose I can, but you won’t be Mr Popular, I can tell you that. Deserting them to go on ’oliday is bad enough, but to go somewhere foreign just about puts the tin lid on it. I can ’ear them now. ‘What’s wrong with a boarding ’ouse in Clacton?’ That’s what they’ll say.”
“Will they, Mrs Harper?” Did he have an entire congregation of xenophobes? he wondered. He very much doubted it.
“Yes, they will. And another thing. All that foreign food will play ’avoc with your digestion. You won’t find cooking like mine where you’re going.”
Bernard had to agree that he probably wouldn’t. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to a diet of frogs’ legs and paella and had secretly planned to find room in his case for a couple of tins of baked beans.
“I know, Mrs Harper, I know. But it’s a free holiday, and Robbie has been kind enough to ask me – so I can’t really say no. And besides, I don’t want to. He’s my friend and we get on so well. The holiday’s sure to be something to look back on over the years with pleasure. I’ll take lots of photos. Maybe I’ll give a slide display when I get back. How about that?”
Mrs Harper sniffed again as if to say ‘big deal’. “That’ll be something to look forward to,” she said with hardly any trace of sarcasm. “Now, if it’s all right with you, can I get on with my dusting?”
“Of course, Mrs Aitch, thanks.”
Bernard breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the study door behind her. He was glad he’d got that over. She could huff and puff as much as she liked, but he had won out in the end. She’d make sure his congregation understood, he felt sure, although he’d make it a priority to let them know himself in good time, too. It wouldn’t do not to mention it to them, as they might never come back from St Margaret’s at all. That would be a disaster. He might be chucked out altogether and never get another incumbency. He felt sure he wasn’t the Archdeacon’s favourite person, as it was.
Still, he couldn’t worry about that now. He couldn’t wait to tell Robbie that their trip was well and truly on.
“So, it’s all sorted, eh?”
“Yes, I think so. I wasn’t sure how my parishioners would take it if I deserted them so soon, but Mrs Harper has agreed to help, thank goodness.”
They were seated at their now customary table in the Bricklayer’s Arms. The lunchtime rush had just begun, and Robbie had persuaded Bernard to have a whisky with him. But, while the good doctor sipped his with pleasure, the young vicar was struggling. It was no good. He still hadn’t got the hang of it.
“Aye, that’s good news, Bernie.”
“Yes, it is. I thought I’d have to wait a whole week for the Archdeacon to get back to me. But the roof repairs swung it, I think.”
“Well, they certainly need doing,” said Robbie, finishing his drink. He also finished Bernard’s and then stood up. “I’ll get you a sherry,” he grinned.
Bernard returned to the vicarage at one o’clock on the dot. The last thing he needed to do today was antagonise her by being late for his dinner. He smelt the steak and kidney pie as he hung
his coat on the hall stand and smiled. Although he was very much looking forward to his foreign trip, he knew he would be more than thankful to return to Mrs Harper’s cooking, if not her carping.
Bergen, May 1948
Baldur Hanssen had slipped quietly back into working life. Luckily, he was able to turn his hand to most things not requiring too much brainwork and had got a job as a fitter and welder at one of the local factories. With the money he made from that, he had been able to quit his lodgings and rent a cheap apartment on the outskirts of Bergen, as far away from the Dahl farm as he could get. Thus, he passed his days in comfortable anonymity, almost forgetting that awful day in late March when he had turned into a killer.
Keeping as low a profile as a man looking like he did could, he worked hard and did a good job. He was respected by his workmates for his skill and efficiency, if not particularly liked. The work was sporadic, but it kept him out of trouble. Nobody took the least bit of notice of him, and that’s how he liked it.
When Marianne Dahl’s body was finally found, the police came to the factory asking if anyone knew anything about the man who had helped out on her farm. Everyone in the building had been questioned, including himself. He had felt the butterflies in his stomach as he saw an officer of the law approaching his factory bench, but he was ready for him.
“We’re sorry to bother you, sir,” the man had said, respectfully, “but do you know anyone who could have been helping out on the Dahl farm recently?”
He had shrugged and carried on with his welding. The man had been satisfied simply with that and left him alone. It was that easy. He hadn’t even actually lied. All he’d done was shrug. He wondered if the police were really bothered and was almost indignant that they weren’t trying harder to find Marianne’s killer or the children. For all the police knew, they could still be alive.
And, as the weeks wore on, the police seemed to be making no headway at all. There had been no breakthrough, according to the papers. Well, he grinned to himself, of course, there hadn’t; otherwise, he’d be in a prison cell by now. He began to relax more and more. He was safe.
Bergen, June 1948
Bernard and Robbie’s European trip was into its final leg: Norway. They had seen the sights in many countries and, despite the bomb damage in most of them, they had been amazed and delighted by what they had seen: the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Colosseum in Rome, the Acropolis in Athens. This last caused Bernard to quip: those wicked Nazis have a lot to answer for, ruining a lovely building like that.
Now here they were in the land of snow and Christmas trees and fjords. After the heat and sun of Spain and Portugal, the delights of provincial France and the beauty of Rome and Athens, this final country was, to the two friends, a bit of a let-down. There wasn’t so much to see, although the scenery was austerely beautiful.
They would be staying one night in Bergen in a small hotel that was sparse but adequate, similar to the other hotels in which they had stayed thus far. Travel had proved quite arduous for the two intrepid sightseers; some journeys being more comfortable than others. Most of their travelling had been done by train, although coaches featured occasionally. These latter contraptions were usually rattling and extremely uncomfortable, as well as inducing varying degrees of nausea and back pain, depending on the heat and condition of the roads.
But, on the whole, their holiday had been a great success. Robbie had brought his box Brownie camera and had taken many photographs. Bernard was looking forward to seeing these when they got back. Unfortunately, he had forgotten to pack his own camera, despite his promise to give a slide show to his parishioners on his return. No doubt Mrs Harper would be dreadfully disappointed, he had remarked to Robbie, but Robbie had only grinned.
Now that they were in the last country of their visit, the two men were feeling a bit anti-climactic. They couldn’t quite quell their feeling of disappointment that their journey was soon to end. However, they decided to make the best of their last day ‘sur le continent’ and set out after breakfast to explore the nearby forests. It was a lovely warm day in early June; the sun was beating down from a cloudless, vivid blue sky, and their hearts were uplifted.
They stopped for lunch by a small lake. The hotel had provided them with packs of cheese and spam sandwiches, plus a flask of tea and some enigmatic-looking fruit. “Here, have a tot of whisky in that tea, man,” said Robbie as his friend screwed up his nose in distaste. Thermos tea was never a success, Bernard had complained, accepting the offer doubtfully. To his surprise, it improved the taste immeasurably.
As they sat and munched their unappetising sandwiches, they watched the diving birds over the lake, marvelling at their colourful plumage. They were a beautiful sight. The two men were enjoying the peaceful scene, something only a couple of years ago would have been unthinkable. It was true, though. The war was well and truly over.
They remained where they were for a while, enjoying their last chance of leisure before they returned home. Then, reluctantly, they packed the remains of their lunch into their rucksacks and continued their trek through the Norwegian forest. Everywhere was a mass of green in varying shades of that colour, seared through with the azure of the sky. They were in awe of everything around them. And how quiet it was, too; nothing to be heard but the rustle of the breeze, the chirruping of the birds, and the buzz of the insects.
Suddenly, Robbie halted in his stride and seemed to be listening for something. He turned to his friend. “Did you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what?” Bernard strained to listen. All he could hear was the breeze and the birds; nothing else.
“I thought I heard someone crying. It sounded like a child,” said Robbie.
“No, I didn’t hear anything. Must have been a bird.”
“Nonsense, man,” said Robbie testily. “I know the difference between the sound of a bird and a child crying.”
“Sorry,” said Bernard meekly. “But I didn’t hear a thing.”
“There it is again!” said Robbie. “It came from that tree over there.” He ran towards it, closely followed by his friend.
Then Robbie turned a deathly white face to Bernard. “Can’t you see them?” he asked.
“See who?” Bernard began to think his friend had caught a touch of the sun. “It’s just a tree. That’s all I can see. A particularly nice variety of Norwegian spruce. It’d make a great Christmas tree for the church hall.”
“There’s two little children sitting under it. Surely you can see them? They look very sad. They’re trying to tell me something, but it’s in Norwegian.”
Bernard put down his backpack and scratched his head. “There’s no one there, Robbie. Maybe it’s the sun. It can do funny things to people if they’re not used to it.”
“I can see them as clearly as I can see you,” Robbie insisted. “Pretty blond, blue-eyed children, not much older than eight or nine. The little girl looks about five. They are both in distress. Why can’t you see them?”
“I’m sorry, Robbie, but I can’t.” Bernard shook his head sadly.
Suddenly Robbie collapsed on the ground by the tree. “They’ve gone,” he whispered. “They just vanished before my eyes.”
Bernard was surer than ever that Robbie had sunstroke but decided not to venture that opinion again for fear of getting his head bitten off.
“Okay, Robbie, we’d best be getting back now, anyway. The day’s almost over. The sun’s going down.”
It was true. It was growing dusk very quickly, and the two friends knew they had to get out of the forest before it grew too dark to see their way back.
Back in the hotel, over their supper, Bernard broached the subject of Robbie’s ‘vision’ of that afternoon. He didn’t want to upset his friend, but he was worried in case he needed treatment for his heat stroke, or whatever it was.
“Er, what do you really think it was you saw this afternoon?” he asked, playing with a very raw-looking piece of fish on his plate. The Norwegian cuis
ine left a lot to be desired.
“I saw them, I tell you. Two little children. They were very unhappy little souls. Then they disappeared.”
Bernard had never seen his hale and hearty friend looking so despondent, almost frightened by his experience.
“Don’t you think that maybe ...”
Robbie eyed him with suspicion. “I know what you’re going to say, but I’m not mad – I really saw them!” He slammed his fist on the dining table, causing other diners to look up in alarm. A knife clattered onto the floor.
“Sshh!” hissed Bernard. “People are looking.” He bent to retrieve the knife.
“I don’t care! I know what I saw.”
The two men continued to plough through their unappetising dinner in silence. As they left the dining room, Bernard suggested a nightcap, something he knew Robbie was hardly likely to turn down. But his friend still wore a worried frown. “I can’t understand what I saw, Bernie,” he said, as they made their way through to the bar. “I only know I saw it.”
As they ordered their drinks, Robbie glanced at the newspaper on the counter. It was a Norwegian paper, of course, so not a word of it made any sense to him. But the grainy photographs of the two small children did. They were pictures of the children he had seen that afternoon under the Christmas tree in the forest.
He grabbed the paper and stuffed it in his pocket before Bernard had a chance to see it. When they got back up to their room, he took it out and studied the children’s pictures more carefully. There was also a photograph of a very pretty woman, possibly their mother.
Bernard, who was cleaning his teeth in preparation for bed, came over and peered over his shoulder. What on earth could his friend find so absorbing in a Norwegian newspaper? he wondered.
“Do you see those two children there, Bernie?” Robbie asked him.
Bernard nodded, as he gargled and spat in the sink. “What about them?” He put his toothbrush carefully into his sponge bag. He’d already left one behind in a Spanish hotel and didn’t want to risk losing another.
