‘I can run messages,’ said Tommy Oakes, the wolf-cub. ‘And I’ve studied silent killing.’
Charlie Fox moved importantly forward. ‘You’re not supposed to be in the pub,’ he said to the boy. ‘Outside.’
‘I’ll start my own,’ threatened the lad, retreating towards the door. ‘Charlie Fox – got two cocks!’ he piped desperately before vanishing. It was a village joke.
Charlie reddened and some of the men laughed. ‘There are age limits,’ pointed out Robert. ‘It’s no use having elderly men like old Josh Millington or Jeremiah Buck from The Haven. Nor young lads. Sixteen is the lower limit.’ He glanced towards Willy Cubbins, acne gleaming in the warmth of the room.
‘Sixteen next week, Mr Lovatt,’ said the boy. ‘I can get my birth sustificate.’ He glanced up at John Lampard for confirmation. John shrugged.
Robert outlined the plans he briefly knew. Then the men lined up to give their names and addresses and details of special skills and arms they possessed. When it was all set down it did not look very much. There was, however, the secret weapon.
When the village men were going Robert and Petrie waited outside, saying good nights as they went off down the dim village street. Petrie had asked the Dove brothers and John Lampard to wait. Outside they sat quietly at one of the benches by the roadside. A donkey laughed uproariously from the forest. ‘There’s been a request from the Admiralty today,’ said the coastguard, ‘for details of all boats capable of crossing the Channel.’
The four other men looked at him oddly. ‘They say that it may become necessary to use them to supply our troops in France –’ his voice dropped despondently ‘– should they get cut off.’
‘God Almighty,’ breathed Lampard. ‘Things must be bad.’
‘Just a precaution,’ Robert put in with an attempt at conviction. ‘Good planning really.’ He looked unsurely at Petrie.
Petrie said: ‘Mr Lampard, is that paddle steamer fit for sea?’
John looked astonished. ‘Sirius? No, but she soon could be. She’s very nifty, you know. Eighteen knots.’
‘Good,’ said Petrie. ‘How about the boat, boys?’ he asked the Doves. ‘She’s on the mud, isn’t she?’
‘Full of holes still,’ said Lennie. ‘But we can patch them up. Getting her off the mud might be harder. We’ve pulled her right up clear of the tide.’
‘Wash her back to sea,’ said Petrie. ‘I’ve seen it done. Get the fire brigade to bring the hoses.’
Before the war they had gone on school outings to Moyles Court at the other end of the forest, for the red old manor house was full of history. It had once been the home of Dame Alicia Lisle who, in 1685, when she was seventy-one years of age, was taken to the execution block by sentence of the terrible Judge Jeffreys, for the crime of sheltering two priests. Two gentlemen of Hampshire, outraged at the sentence, drew their swords in the court at Winchester, and also paid with their lives.
Now Millie alighted from the forest bus by the stream that tumbled over the narrow road on its way to join the Hampshire Avon. In childhood they had always picnicked there and taken off their shoes and socks to paddle in the bright and stony water.
The sunlit peace that she remembered seemed the same. Two fallow-deer grazed on the far bank of the tributary and ducks collected expectantly at the fording place. Then, from across the trees, came the violent starting of an engine, a guttural interruption that sent the deer running but did not unduly disturb the ducks.
She crossed the low ford by the stepping-stones and walked towards the gate of the big house. The engine stopped, then started again. Some rooks in the trees over the gate fidgeted and called but did not fly. At the gate was a notice saying: ‘Royal Air Force. Fighter Command’. An RAF policeman came from a hut inside the gate and said, ‘Yes, miss?’
Millie told him why she had come and he smirked familiarly. ‘You’ll cheer the place up a bit, miss,’ he said. ‘It could do with it, I can tell you.’
He directed her along a bare path leading to some wooden structures which had been appended to the house. ‘I’ll call the amenities officer on the blower,’ promised the policeman. ‘Such as he is.’
There was an elderly-looking biplane groaning above the airfield, making occasional slow darts at the runway and then pulling away again. Another plane with a small turret like an observatory behind the cockpit was roaring intermittently on the ground, the engine blasts she had heard from the ford.
From behind some of the wooden buildings came ragged cheers and she rounded a corner to find herself confronted by a dozen young men in baggy blue shorts who were playing netball on an area marked on the grass. Two posts sagged, one at each end of the pitch, as if they had been subject to considerable physical contact. The players were not cheering their game but the antics of the biplane which staggered across the sky. As Millie came into their view a bulky youth, white-skinned and perspiring, was preparing to pass the ball. At the sight of her he dropped it and it bounced, then rolled towards her. Adeptly she picked it up and threw it back to the player. His fair curly hair was plastered to his forehead giving him a strange Roman appearance. After their initial surprise the airmen cheered her and she felt herself flush. ‘Good throw, miss,’ said the fair-haired lad. ‘Want a game?’
‘Not just now,’ she laughed. ‘Perhaps another time.’
She asked to be directed to the amenities officer and there were more rough comments. The youth holding the ball pointed out the door and she walked that way, feeling the silence as they watched her go. A voice she knew was that of the fair-haired player briskly interrupted the silence. ‘Right, lads,’ he called. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Millie smiled and reached the door. She knocked and a languorous voice invited her in. A plump man with an RAF moustache as wide as wings beamed with pleasure when he saw her. ‘Hello, hello, please come in,’ he enthused. ‘The chap at the gate just rang. How about a cup of tea?’
She agreed before she was seated and he picked up a teapot on a side table, feeling its enamel flank like a doctor examining a patient. ‘Still a bit hot,’ he said. ‘I’ve had mine.’ He poured the thick tea into a mug with ‘Per Ardua Ad Astra’, the Air Force motto, on its side, added milk and sugar to her instructions and sat back beaming. At that moment the biplane which had been grunting in the distant sky came across the top of the building, coughing badly.
‘Listen to him,’ sighed the officer. ‘First solo. Afraid to come down. Some of them think they can put off the evil moment by staying up there indefinitely.’ He stood and held out his hand. ‘I’m Conroy. Flight-Lieutenant George Conroy, that is. Amenities officer.’
She introduced herself and said why she had come. ‘Jolly good of you,’ he enthused. ‘Jolly, jolly good. I was looking for someone to help with the sports day. And there’s the library needs organizing. All sorts of things. We need plenty of activities. I mean it’s pretty quiet here, and unless Jerry really starts hotting the war up then I’m afraid it’s going to be a deucedly dull summer.’
The estate agent’s office was one of those Dickensian enclaves that needed concentrated bombing to change it from the ways and atmosphere of a century before. It had small-paned windows and a door that whined. A tinny but discreet bell rang as James entered. The main office was hushed in dimness and the heads of the clerks behind high desks levered up hopefully, as if hoping it might be someone come to change their lives.
On the walls, in brown frames of only a slightly gloomier shade than the photographs themselves, were pictures of buildings which Messrs Henlow and Black had sold in the past, the façades of triumphs.
At the first position the elderly clerk bowed so deeply before going off to find one of the partners that he very nearly cracked his forehead on the sloped roof of his desk. He went off stiffly like clockwork and returned with Mr Henlow, another ancient, who was followed by an anxious young man in a strange suit of jagged stripes. The senior man tightened his eyes to study James’s uniform, as if trying to asc
ertain whose side he were on, but then overcame him with fuss.
‘Oh, ah, yes, of course, Major Lovatt.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the worried young man. ‘I was going to send our Mr Burton with you, but perhaps not . . .’ James saw the second man’s expression fade. Mr Henlow rubbed his hands thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps our Mr Flowers would be more like it . . .’
‘I want to rent the flat, not the man,’ said James. ‘What’s the matter with Mr Burton? I don’t have much time and I’d like to get the matter settled.’
He thought he saw a glint of gratitude in the subordinate’s eyes. Mr Henlow remained doubtful. ‘Mr Flowers will not be long. He knows the property very well . . .’
James said impatiently, ‘It’s only a flat. It’s hardly Blenheim Palace.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I can’t hang around for Mr Flowers.’
‘Right,’ responded the elderly man, puffing his cheeks as if he had made his first important decision for many years. ‘Right, of course. Mr Burton must conduct you.’ He thought it was time for introductions. He swung on the young man almost threateningly. ‘Major, this . . . is our Mr Burton.’
They shook hands. The young man began a slight, formal bow, from the waist, but then restrained himself. Mr Henlow frowned grievously. ‘I will take you, sir,’ said Mr Burton. ‘Would it be convenient to walk? It is two minutes only.’
James said he knew and they walked out into the street. ‘Why did he not want you to do this?’ asked James.
The man’s pale, jowly face seemed to solidify. ‘Because you are a British officer. And because I am an Austrian Jew. That, to Mr Henlow, is next to being a German. Even he has given me a new name – this Burton person. Who is Burton? It is not me.’
‘What is your name then?’
‘Bormann,’ said the man miserably. ‘Michael Bormann.’ He began to slow his steps as if he wanted to get it all off his chest before they reached the house. His sigh was bereft of hope. ‘A Jew called Bormann,’ he said.
‘How long have you been in England?’ asked James.
‘Five years almost. They took my father to some place in 1936 and he vanished from this world. I came here with my mother. But now it is almost as bad – not quite but almost. Because we are Austrian, and of German origin, we are treated as potential enemies. I have tried to join the British Army, and I have a better reason than most to want to fight the Nazis, but they won’t have me. They think I am a spy. My mother has even been interrogated by the police. And now, as the situation is, I am sure, major, it will become much worse for us.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I thought that we would never have to hear that knock on the door again. Nobody would ever again come to take us away. But now I am not so sure.’
The man’s shoulders hunched round with despair. It began as a shrug but his shoulders remained in the crouch position as he mounted the steps to the apartment. He rang the bell doggedly and the grey woman that James had seen the previous evening answered the door. If she were surprised to see him she did not show it.
They walked in. It was as he had thought, not over-large. There was a pleasant living-room, with flowers on the sill and a tracery of sunshine on the carpet. The furniture was traditional, comfortable. There was a break-front bookcase with the shelves full, a large brown wireless set and a cabinet upon which were the framed photographs of a man in naval uniform and a round-faced woman with a small hat and a veil. He looked briefly into the bedroom, bathroom and kitchen and then returned to the living-room.
The estate agent’s man appeared even more awkward than before. His suit crumbled about him. ‘Mrs Beauchamp . . .’ he began.
‘It’s Beecham, spelt B-E-A-U-C-H-A-M-P but said Beecham,’ the lady pointed out gently. ‘But you’re foreign, aren’t you?’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Like the Beauchamp Place. I have made mistakes there also. Perhaps I should try another job.’ He smiled weakly at his own small, realistic joke. ‘Mrs Beauchamp,’ he said correctly, ‘has a small bed-sitting-room.’ He hesitated. The old lady grimaced at him and said: ‘What he is trying to say, sir, is when would you be wanting me to leave?’
A brief shadow of uncertainty was cast on her face. ‘You don’t have to leave at all,’ said James. ‘I was hoping you would be able to stay.’ Her face cleared happily. James felt pleased. ‘I’ll need someone to look after the place – and me for that matter. If you’d agree, Mrs Beauchamp.’
‘Well,’ she replied happily, ‘I do sort of come with the place.’
The young Austrian looked glad. ‘Then everyone is happy?’ he suggested. ‘I am so happy. There is not much happiness available.’
Mrs Beauchamp looked at him as she might have regarded an actor on hard times performing at a street corner. She returned to James. ‘There is just one thing, sir . . .’
‘What is that, Mrs Beauchamp?’
She turned and trotted the few steps to the door which opened into her part of the flat. She closed the door behind her and the two men waited, both puzzled. It was opened again quickly and the lady returned holding a short-trousered boy by the hand. He was about six years old. His eyes went at once to James’s uniform. He regarded it with wonder. ‘Are you a real soldier?’ he inquired.
James laughed and said: ‘I hope so. Are you a real boy?’
‘Yes,’ replied the child stoutly. ‘Look. You can pinch me if you like.’
Mrs Beauchamp said: ‘His name is John Colin, sir. He’s the son of Mrs Perkins.’
‘That is the lady who owns the apartment,’ said Bormann decisively, glad to contribute. ‘She is away, in France, I think.’
‘War work. She’s in a military hospital, sir, in Paris.’
‘And she’s left John Colin with you.’
‘No, not quite, sir. He was left with his nanny in the country. In their house in Warwickshire. But nanny’s not well, so he has come down to me for a few days. He often does. He likes coming here.’ The housekeeper glanced at him with doubt. ‘Would you mind, sir. It’s only now and again. He has to go back soon, to school.’
‘Worse luck,’ said the boy solidly, still staring at James. ‘I want to be a soldier.’
James laughed. ‘I’m sure there will be plenty of room for all of us,’ he said. He solemnly shook hands with the boy and with Mrs Beauchamp and went with the Austrian out into the street again. The door closed firmly behind them. James looked up at the sky between the trees and the crescent houses. ‘Not a bad day for May,’ he said. ‘It seems I have a new home.’
‘It is a good day,’ smiled his companion. ‘I am pleased. I am sure everything will be all right in the world. Almost sure.’
On the morning of 20 May, the day the German armies reached Abbeville and were able for the first time to stand looking out over the English Channel, Robert, driving from Binford to Salisbury, was held up by a gang of workmen unloading vicious rounds of barbed wire from the back of a lorry. One of them, standing back and letting the others manoeuvre the difficult and heavy coil over the vehicle’s tail-board, strolled to Robert’s car and leaned confidingly towards the window.
‘Sorry to be holdin’ you up,’ he said. He was Irish with a grained and dark face like old stone, so heavy his eyes seemed opaque by comparison. ‘Work of national importance, you’ll understand.’
‘Where do you come from?’ asked Robert.
‘Right now, sir, at this moment, from Southampton. Before that, I hail from County Sligo.’ He nodded at the work gang. ‘That man is from Cahirciveen in the West and that one from Dingle, County Kerry. Eire, sir, Southern Ireland, sir. We being neutrals.’
‘So I believe. Standing on the touchline.’
The man nodded benign acknowledgement. ‘To see fair play, maybe. But we’re helping out where we can. Building and constructing defences and the like.’
‘And earning good money,’ suggested Robert gruntingly.
‘Oh, that too, sir. The English money’s not mean at all. And where do you hail from, if I may make so bold?’
‘Here,’ said
Robert impatiently. ‘Binford.’
‘Oh, it’s a good place this,’ agreed the man. ‘Not that I wouldn’t like to see the shining lights of Dublin town for a while.’ He watched the men shouting orders to each other as they rolled the wire coils. ‘Steady, boys,’ he called softly. ‘Don’t get them untangled.’ He said to Robert. ‘Jesus, wouldn’t that be a terrible mess.’
Robert was becoming testy. ‘Are these fellows going to be long? I have an important appointment. And it is really of national importance.’
The Irishman sighed in some agreement. ‘But ’tis hard to get them to move fast on a fine day like this.’ He called towards his men. ‘Come along, boys, this English gentleman wants to get through.’ They all looked up at once, almost dropping the great barbed coil, and then hurried it to the side of the road. The foreman saluted Robert as if he had performed some miracle. ‘There, sir,’ he said, indicating the road ahead. ‘Open and clear for you. Full speed ahead. You’ll be needing to get on with the war.’ Robert ground his teeth and started the engine. ‘And good luck to you,’ said the man amiably, still leaning against the window.
‘Thank you terribly,’ grunted Robert. ‘It’s nice to know you’re right behind us.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, sir. We’ll always be glad to be helping.’
It was a sallow day, the forest, as Robert drove across it, subdued to grey-green, even the flaming yellow of the gorse diminished. A small herd of deer moved like shadows across the middle ground. A shower smeared the windscreen, to be replaced, as he crossed the main Southampton road, with some dispersed sunshine.
Just over the major road, as he again took the forest route, Robert was forced to stop by a tree trunk on wheels which had been placed across the way near the entrance to a golf club. Immediately irritated, he stopped the car. Several tentative heads emerged from behind the tree trunk and eyes stared from below the sheltering rims of steel helmets. ‘Halt!’ called a thin, rural voice. ‘Or we’ll blow your tyres out.’
The Dearest and the Best Page 14
