Bloody Good

by Georgia Evans

  Arckle smiled. “Think you can teach a pair of town boys to milk cows?”

  “Katy learned, and I don’t think she’d ever seen a cow before she got here.”

  Katy, with dark hair and a heavy fringe, smiled. “That’s right. Scared the willies out of me at first. You get used to them.”

  Arckle nodded. “Fair enough. Now what about their billet and getting Sid down to school? He needs another year, even though he doesn’t think so.”

  “We can give them their own room in the house. My mother is getting on but she cooks for us, press-gangs one of the girls to pitch in from time to time. I’ll pay Dave the going rate for a lad. We’ll have the billeting allowance to cover their food.”

  “Pay him half. Bank the other half. Don’t want the money burning a hole in his pocket. It’s never too soon to start putting a bit by.”

  “Alright. I’ll open a post office account for him. Anything else? We have a telephone if you want to call them, and any time you want to come down and help with the milking, feel free.”

  “Thank you, I will. Although time off isn’t easy to get. I work in a bakery and pie factory and I tell you, we’re making double what we did before the war. Between restaurants and the food kitchens, business is good.” He paused. “Sad to say that isn’t it? But that’s the way of it.”

  “There’s many a business booming because of the war. And there’s others out of the jobs they held for years as factories closed down. Makes me glad I’m a farmer. People always need food.” He took a drink of his almost empty beer. “Any more questions?”

  “How about Sid getting to school regular. It’s a few miles, right?”

  “About five. If one of us is coming down to the village, we can bring him in the lorry. If not, I have a bicycle he can use. It’s not a bad ride in the morning, downhill most of the way. Not so much fun coming home. I know. I rode it back and forth when I was a boy.”

  “Won’t do him no harm.” Joe Arckle tipped his mug and went thoughtful. “Seems to me, Mr. Longhurst, you’ll do right by my boys. Not that they didn’t do well with the vicar and his wife, poor woman.”

  “If you want to come out to the farm before you go back, feel free.”

  “Think I might just. And they both need clothes.”

  “My mother will be glad to help. She can take them into Leatherhead shopping at the weekend.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do it myself if I can. I’ll feel better knowing they arrive with what they need.”

  There wasn’t much more to say. Fred Wise called for last orders and that seemed a good point to set off home.

  Peter and Joe joined the straggle of villagers fumbling their way home in the dark.

  Then came the question Peter half dreaded. “You’re a CO then, Mr. Watson?”

  “Yes.” Why elaborate?

  “And who was that drunken lout?”

  “He works up at the plant on the heath. Big government place.”

  “Parachutes or munitions?”

  Peter had to smile at that. “Village opinion is divided. We don’t see them much. Some are brought in by bus from Leatherhead or Dorking but most of them live at the camp. Only a few have billets in the village. I haven’t been up there, yet. Running the works clinic there is part of my job.”

  “If that so-and-so ever comes in with an injury, be sure to use extra iodine.”

  Hardly ethical medical practice, but the thought was a temptation.

  “I should thank you for stepping in.”

  “No, you shouldn’t! I’ll owe you forever, Mr. Watson. We all make our decisions. You made yours. Went to gaol did you?”

  “Yes, nine months in Pentonville.”

  “Sorry you had to go through that, but for my part, I’m bloody glad you stood up as an objector. If you hadn’t my boys might well be goners. Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

  They were turning the corner, about fifty yards from Sergeant Pendragon’s cottage, when a dark shape appeared as if from nowhere.

  Chapter 24

  Peter lurched backward but managed to keep to his feet as the dark shape swept down on him and a wave of sheer cold terror wrung a scream from him. Or maybe that was Joe Arckle.

  “What the bloody hell!”

  That was Joe.

  Peter didn’t try to answer, just grabbed Joe and hauled him back. As they retreated, the shape reattacked, adding a wail to the swooping. Sounded like a soul in torment being strangled.

  They backed away half mesmerized by the thing and the overwhelming sense of menace.

  “Jesus wept!” Joe muttered.

  Peter looked for help, others, a weapon, but there was was no one in sight and nothing but hedges on either side of the lane. “Christ Almighty! Help!” he yelled, hoping a straggler from the Pig might hear. Only the sound came muffled from a throat tight with fear. He was shaking and sweating when the thing laughed: a cold, tight, evil snicker that sent icy fear spiking though his veins and gut.

  He wanted to run, to flee, but was unable to move and then it came at them again.

  Only now there was a bright light and with it came a roar. “A mighty rushing wind,” thought Peter, only it wasn’t a tongue of flame but a flash of blue and yellow fire.

  And then the snicker stopped as if extinguished. In its place a wail filled the night sky.

  And everything was silent. Around them was nothing but the dark and the clear night air.

  “What in the blazes was that?” Peter wasn’t sure if he’d said that or Joe. Hardly mattered, they were both shaking with fear and relief and if they didn’t move fast the ARP would be down on them for showing a light and there was no way in heaven Peter could explain what had just happened.

  If it ever had.

  Joe nudged him. “Let’s scarper.”

  A brilliant idea. Together they ran down the lane, racing for all they were worth, until the gate of the cottage appeared.

  Then they ran even faster, if it were possible, and both burst thought the back door, slamming it behind them.

  “Damn,” Joe said. “Hope we didn’t wake the boy.”

  The boy never stirred. Just as well. How could they explain how two grown men were terrified out of their wits and pale as bleached flour? At least Joe Arckle was and Peter had absolutely no reason to think he looked any better.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Good question. Peter shook his head. “Hideous.”

  “Right there, mate! I’d rather face the bloody Jerries than that again. Think it’s still outside?”

  “I think it dissolved in the flames.”

  “And what are they when they’re at home? I tell you, Mr. Watson. My boys are coming home with me. No offense to anyone and everyone’s been right good to them and me, but I’d rather they faced Jerry’s bombs any day than that.”

  Understandable. “We couldn’t both have imagined it, could we?”

  Joe Arckle rolled his eyes. Good answer. Whatever it was, they’d both seen and felt it. To say nothing of the roars and shrieks. And where was Sergeant Pendragon? His tea was cooling in his mug by the fire. His worn tartan slippers still on the hearth rug. Not like him to leave with Sid asleep.

  What the Hades? Peter had never been a swearing man but he’d never faced a thing like that before.

  “Where did he get to?” Joe asked.

  The door opened.

  They both jumped, ready to face the horror again, but it was only the sergeant—a rather bedraggled sergeant. Had he faced the thing too?

  “Evening,” he said with a calm that belied his rumpled appearance. “Have a good time at the Pig? Meet up with Longhurst alright, did you?”

  “What happened to you, Sergeant?” Peter asked. The man’s jacket and shirt were torn, his hair was half on end. “You’re bleeding!” A trickle of blood oozed down one side of his face.

  He reached up and touched his forehead. “Oh! That!” he said. “I’m a clumsy old fool. Went out to get some more coke for the boiler. Thought we’d all be
glad of the hot water in the morning and tripped in my own backyard, fell arse over heels, and landed in a tangle against the dustbin.”

  He had the coal hod in his hands to back up his story, but something was off. Definitely off. “Better let me have a look at that cut of yours.”

  “It’s nothing that a bit of warm water won’t cure.”

  Peter wasn’t sure about that. Grazes didn’t bleed that profusely. “Let me look at it.”

  He seemed too dazed to object much. He sat down and let Peter bathe the wound. It was a lot more than a graze. Whatever he’d hit had gouged a deep cut a couple of inches long.

  “I think it might need stitches.”

  “Lad, with all the air raids, do you think hospitals have time to deal with a clumsy old man who tripped over his own boot scraper?”

  “We could go up to the doctor’s.”

  “No, we couldn’t. I’m not knocking on her door for something a bit of gauze and sticking plaster can fix.”

  Peter gave up. Almost. “Let’s get it cleaned up and I’ll have another look in the morning. If it’s still nasty looking—” And it was bound to be. “We’ll have Dr. Doyle stitch it up.”

  “See how it is in the morning,” Pendragon agreed. “Right now, I want my bed.”

  Poor Joe Arckle looked more than ready for his, too.

  Peter cleaned the wound, which would definitely need stitches, and soon headed upstairs.

  It wasn’t until he was in pajamas and under the sheets that he paused to wonder why Sergeant Pendragon had gone out to fetch coke in bare feet.

  Maybe they’d imagined the half of it. By breakfast time, the sergeant had a nasty bruise on his forehead, and a fading one on the side of his neck, and that was that. Peter could have sworn he did not imagine the deep gouge last night. In fact, the bloody gauze was still in the bin.

  His conversation with Alice came back to him. Would being a vampire account for that rapid healing?

  What the Hades happened?

  Mrs. Burrows had thoroughly pooh-poohed the notion that Sergeant Pendragon might be a vampire but, with all due respect, what did an old woman know?

  Maybe a little more than he did, but he darn well knew what he’d seen.

  Or imagined with a mind numbed with fright.

  No, not imagined. It had unnerved Mr. Arckle to the point of whisking his boys back to the heart of the Blitz.

  Not that Sid seemed the least put out.

  “You mean it, Dad? No kidding? We really get to come back with you?”

  “Yes, son. I thought you’d be safe from the bombs here but you’re not. We’re not safe anywhere, and if the Jerries do come, I want you both close by me.”

  “What happened with the farmer you went to meet in the pub? Was he queer or something?”

  Peter almost choked on his porridge. The boy wasn’t exactly a babe, but he’d not expected that to come out of his mouth.

  Neither had his father. “Hell no, son! The things you come out with. He was a good chap. I liked him. Honest, worked hard. Not his fault he wasn’t born in London.” That got a grin from Sid and an anxious glance in their direction; the man obviously didn’t want to offend. “In fact, when we left, we shook on it. I thought he’d be a fair man to work for and Dave could do a lot worse with a first employer, but then I got thinking, you’d have a long bike ride to school each day. Not that it would hurt you one whit, lad, but heck, you’re not country boys and never will be. So…”

  Sid smiled. Almost looked ready to hug his father but remembered to act he-man just in time. “Thanks, Dad. When do we leave?”

  The laugh came from the sergeant.

  Poor Sid looked mortified. “I’m sorry, sir. Really I am. Didn’t mean it like that, honest, and I’ll never forget how you and Mr. Watson got us out of the cellar, but I miss home so and I know Dave does. When can he get out of hospital?” The last was to his father.

  “That I’ll talk to the doctor about. They said last night a day or two, but when the postman came by he said they had more bombing in Dorking last night. So they might need the bed.”

  “I hope they do.” With the words out of his mouth Sid resumed, mortified. “Didn’t mean I wanted people bombed.”

  “We know what you meant, lad,” Pendragon said. “Your dad’s right. He needs you both with him. I tell you, I miss my son.”

  “Where’s your son?” Sid wanted to know.

  “That, Sid, I don’t rightly know. He was in Norway, came home on leave a few weeks afterward. Right now, I dunno. Fighting somewhere. If the war lasts long enough, Sid, you and Dave will get called up. Until then, your dad wants you both nearby.”

  “Will the war last that long? They said it would be over by Christmas.”

  “That was last year,” his father said.

  “And during the last one, too,” Pendragon added. “No one knows, lad, and you’ll be late for school if you don’t stir your stumps.”

  Sid accepted the dismissal, gathered up his homework, and left.

  Peter should have followed suit but stopped to do the dishes while Joe Arckle and the sergeant discussed bicycle availability and the possibility of a loan of one for the morning or afternoon.

  Peter left them to it and resolved to talk to Alice at the very first opportunity. Maybe she’d be free for lunch. He could call her from the school or the post office. By hook or by crook, he was going to tell her about the odd events of the previous evening.

  Trouble was, he just couldn’t equate kindly, intelligent Sergeant Pendragon with the awful presence they’d sensed out in the lane. Yes, he’d come in bleeding and bedraggled. Maybe he’d encountered that same dark presence but wasn’t about to admit it, or talk about it.

  Damn, he had to see Alice now. Head lice could wait a couple of hours.

  Chapter 25

  “Something the matter, Mr. Watson?”

  Peter didn’t even want to try answering Mrs. Burrows’s kindly inquiry. “I hate to barge in so early, but could I speak to Dr. Doyle, please?”

  “Of course, come on in.”

  He now stood in the front hall as Mrs. Burrows called up the wide staircase. “Alice, dear, it’s Mr. Watson and I think it’s urgent.”

  Was it? Yes! Maybe! Dash it all, he was no doubt losing it but hadn’t these two women been the first to mention vampires?

  “Coming, just a tick.”

  She appeared in moments, a towel around her neck, hairbrush in hand, and her hair in a mass of damp curls around her face.

  She was utterly lovely, totally devastating, and gave him the “come hither” just by standing there. And he had to keep his mind on the subject uppermost in his thoughts that shouldn’t, at least right now, be the memory of her sweet body under his.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I need to speak to you.”

  She was halfway down the stairs and smiling. Sweet heaven!

  “That’s alright, what’s the matter?”

  How the heck did he explain that one? “Something really odd happened last night.”

  “How about you come into the kitchen and tell us about it? You look as if you need a good cup of tea and Alice hasn’t even had breakfast yet.”

  He really fancied something stronger, but perhaps not at nine o’clock in the morning. “Thank you.”

  Alice put her hand in his. An action Mrs. Burrows registered with a raised eyebrow. Still, if Alice wasn’t keeping things to herself, fair enough.

  “Come and sit down, both of you.”

  They both followed that command, Peter holding the door for Alice and deliberately sitting beside her. “It’s about Sergeant Pendragon and the things you said about vampires.”

  “I see.” That Peter doubted, but to say so to an old lady seemed downright rude. “Since you’re here and in one piece, I expect it can wait three minutes.”

  It was obviously going to have to. Alice gave her hair another rub with the towel and folded it over the back of a spare chair. He’d noticed before the number of chairs aroun
d the big table and realized they must be the empty seats once occupied by her brothers and father. Apart from her grandmother, Alice was alone.

  Not anymore.

  “Right then.” Mrs. Burrows put a cup in front of them and then a toast rack and two pots of jam. “We’re low on butter, I’m afraid, but the jam and marmalade is out of my prewar stock. Almost gone now, but we might have it while we’re still here to enjoy it.”

  Very good point. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

  He wasn’t dwelling on tomorrow. Talking about last night was going to be quite bad enough.

  Alice handed Peter a plate and knife. “Eat up.”

  “Just one slice. I’ve already had porridge but the marmalade looks wonderful.” And tasted every bit as delicious.

  “Alright then, Mr. Watson, what brought you here in such a tizz wazz?”

  He swallowed the mouthful of toast. “Last night Mr. Arckle and I went down to the Pig to meet with Farmer Longhurst. Now let’s get it straight. We were not drunk; we’d had precisely one beer each.”

  Slowly, picking his words so it sounded plausible and reasonable, he gave a step by step account of the bizarre events of the previous night. Including Sergeant Pendragon’s rumpled appearance and the overnight healing of a gash that had needed stitches.

  When he finished he half expected them to call for a padded wagon.

  Alice looked downright perplexed.

  Mrs. Burrows nodded. “More tea anyone?”

  “Gran! Let the tea wait a bit. What do you know? You do know something, don’t you?”

  “Are you admitting we have powers, Alice?”

  “I’m asking what you know, Gran.”

  The tension between the two women practically hummed. Lost was a good word to describe how he felt caught between them.