by Alex Gerlis
‘Perfectly.’
And with that, Edgar peeled away into the fog filled night. For the first time, Owen Quinn had a sense of perhaps holding the upper hand over Edgar.
ooo000ooo
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
London–Lincolnshire
December 1944
It was now December and London was just a few days away from what everyone hoped would be the last Christmas of the war. Owen had only a vague memory of what it was like before the war. Plenty of cheer on the streets, of course, and you could sense a jollier atmosphere. Nowadays, it was altogether more restrained, but inside the pub round the corner from work there were some decorations and some attempt at cheer.
Owen had stopped in for a quick drink after work. Another week at work and as short a time as he could get away with down at his parents’ over Christmas. It would be dreadful, of course, and the New Year would be awful. André Koln had written to him at his parents’ address (‘I really don’t know why you didn’t give these people your own address, dear,’ his mother had said, eager to know who the letter was from and what it was about). Although there was no news, Koln suggested a longer visit in January. Thousands of collaborators had now been arrested and Koln had some thoughts about how they might be able to find out something. It was all a long shot, but that was all he had and he needed that to get him through the festive season.
He pushed his way towards the bar.
‘Quinn, isn’t it?’
Owen’s face was clearly a picture of confusion. He could only just about hear the man he was shoulder to shoulder with in the pub.
‘Hardisty? Don’t you remember me? Air Ministry? Met up for dinner at Archibald’s club? Both our wives French.’
‘Yes, yes, of course! I remember. Sorry, not quite with it today. How are you?’
‘Can’t complain and wouldn’t do much good if I did, would it!’
They both laughed. They agreed it wouldn’t.
‘I see you got promotion. Well done. Back at sea?’
‘Not quite. At the Admiralty, round the corner. And you?’
‘Still at the Air Ministry. Was hoping for a posting back to Paris, but there is some talk of sending us out east when that show is over. And how is your wife?’
He still didn’t know how to deal with these questions. They always took him aback. Mumbling tended to help.
‘Oh, you know – the war and that. She’s over in France at the moment. Can’t say a lot, you understand.’
‘Of course, of course. My wife did enjoy meeting her though that evening. Nice for her to be able to have a good old chinwag in French. Good for her. She hates London actually. She was a bit confused though.’
‘About what?’
‘Where exactly your wife is from. She told my wife she is from Paris, but Amée noticed that once your wife had drunk a couple of glasses of that rather decent Côtes du Rhone her accent had a definite ring of Alsace to it rather than Paris. She’s a bit like that, Amée. Prides herself on being to spot where people are from. Difficult in France because they have less regional accents than we do apparently. She can spot an Alsatian accent though, her grandfather was from that part of the world. It’s got a slightly Germanic ring to it and sometimes they’ll use German phrases, but in French, if you get what I mean. It was draughty in that room and Amée noticed that your wife said “ça tire”. Apparently her grandfather used to say that too. Means “it pulls” and stands for nothing in French but the German does. Maybe she had an Alsatian boyfriend, eh! Before you, of course, old chap.’
‘Quite possibly.’ He felt his breathing tighten. The first chink of a possible clue.
‘Must push off, Quinn. We’ll have a proper drink in the New Year, shall we? I say, it’s bad news about old Archibald, isn’t it?’
He had not seen or heard from Archibald since the night before D-Day but didn’t want to let Hardisty know that. He furrowed his brow and leaned towards him, adopting a confidential tone.
‘What have you heard, Hardisty?’
‘That he’s taken a turn for the worse. Thought you’d know more than me. Apparently he has been poorly on and off for a year or two, but since the autumn there’s not been much they can do.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Lung cancer, I believe. Lost his son on D-Day. Must have been a blow, can’t have helped. Bad show all round really. He’s at home in Lincolnshire apparently. Anyway, you’re more likely to see him than me, so when you do, please do give him my very best.’
‘Of course, I will, Hardisty.’
ooo000ooo
He had to wait until the gap between Christmas and the New Year before he had an opportunity to head up to Lincolnshire in search of Archibald.
He had already booked a couple of days leave and did not want to arouse any more suspicion than necessary. He decided that it was inconceivable now that Edgar did not have someone at the Admiralty keeping an eye on him. A few days’ leave at his parents after Christmas would seem innocent enough.
He would also be able to use his uncle’s car. He had hinted to his parents that there might be a lady in Lincolnshire whom he wanted to visit. He did not tell them as much, but when he was reluctant to disclose his reason for wanting to drive up there (other than an unconvincing ‘I fancy seeing the countryside’) his mother optimistically jumped to a conclusion that he did nothing to discourage (‘We’re so pleased for you, Owen. A chance to put everything behind you’).
On Christmas Day itself, he pored over maps of Lincolnshire. His only clue was his first meeting with Archibald, at Calcotte Grange. Archibald was telling him about how he had tried to retire to Lincolnshire. ‘Between Boston and the sea,’ he had said. He studied the map. It was a start, but not much more than that. There was quite a lot between Boston and the sea, but much of it was fields. Due east of Boston, there were around a dozen villages. He could certainly work with that, but then there was the possibility that ‘between Boston and the sea’ could also be north of Boston and south of it.
On his many solitary walks that Christmas, he racked his brain to try to remember what else Archibald had said in describing his idyllic life in Lincolnshire. They didn’t live in a village, but near it. He remembered that much. There was something about a telephone box next to a war memorial on a village green. That would narrow it down. A bit.
He drove up to Lincolnshire the day after Boxing Day in a Ford Anglia borrowed from his somewhat reluctant uncle. Uncle Jimmy had bought the little black car when it first came out just before the war started in 1939 and it was his pride and joy. But given that he managed to run it on the proceeds of his black market activities, he was not in a strong position to resist his nephew’s increasingly firm requests over Christmas.
Boxing Day was a Tuesday and he was not due back at work until the following Monday, which was New Year’s Day. He would need to head back to Surrey on the Saturday at the latest, so that he could return to London on the Sunday.
He set off at six in the morning, his parents both having decided to get up and wave him farewell from the front porch, his father already wearing his tie and his mother wrapped anxiously in her dressing gown.
By eight o’clock he was on the Great North Road, driving through grey sleet and slush, struggling to coax every bit of the 900 cc horsepower out of the Anglia. By eleven o’clock he was in Peterborough. He stopped to fill up the car with petrol and then had a cup of tea in a café, eating his mother’s sandwiches and feeling thoroughly miserable. He headed towards Spalding and into Lincolnshire, wondering whether he was on a pointless journey. The chances of Archibald having any idea as to his wife’s real identity were remote, but given that he had been involved in the case from the outset, he had to at least ask him.
The countryside had turned grey and the weather was showing no sign of improvement and even before he reached Spalding it was beginning to get dark. It was noticeable that all around him the land was flat, completely unbroken by hills or any interesting geographical features. As he got nearer to Bosto
n he could sense that the Wash was just to his east. In reality, he knew that it was some miles away, but with little to keep his attention other than the long road and empty space all around him, it felt as if he was driving on the edge of the world.
It’s possible, thought Owen, that Archibald may be too ill to help, even if he did know anything and even if he did want to help.
He arrived in Boston at four o’clock and decided he would go no further. It all felt so bleak, that it almost seemed as if there was nowhere to go. The town appeared to be deserted. It may be the largest town in the area, he thought, but that was about as much as you could say for it. He could see why the Pilgrim Fathers were so keen to leave.
If anything, the sleet was heavier now and he drove round what he took was the town centre in an attempt to find somewhere to stay. He stopped at a small police station, where the desk sergeant insisted on seeing some form of identification. Satisfied was not the quite word to describe his reaction, implying as it would some evidence of a positive attitude. But he did at least scrawl down the name of a hotel with the most basic of directions.
The hotel was approached down a narrow side street which was only just wide enough for the car to pass. At the end, the road widened into a small square, which had probably been a coaching stop. Any thoughts of a comfortable room and a roaring fire were soon disabused.
The owner wanted to know why Owen was up here. ‘Having a few days break’ sounded unconvincing enough to him when he said it, so he had no idea what it sounded like to someone else. The owner was a tall man who had to constantly stoop to avoid hitting his head on the broad beams in the low ceilings. He seemed to be oblivious of the fact he needed to wipe his nose. There was no evidence of a roaring fire, just a faint smell of gas and boiled vegetables. It was a good two minutes before the owner informed him that they were full. All twelve rooms. He helpfully informed Owen that it was the time of year. Quite why he could not have told him as soon as he came in, he was not sure. Or even invested in a ‘no rooms’ sign. But he was partially relieved. He was feeling miserable enough without risking either his dinner or breakfast being served by a man who needed to wipe his nose.
The owner did at least give him details of a nearby pub which ominously ‘always’ had vacant rooms. It was only round the corner. You can leave your car here. ‘Please tell them Clifford sent you. Remember, Clifford.’
He never bothered to tell them Clifford sent him. If the hotel was strange, the pub was downright peculiar. Owen was wearing civilian clothes, but had he walked into the pub wearing a Waffen SS uniform the reaction could not have been any less friendly. He had barely stepped inside the door, clutching his small overnight bag, when the whole pub fell silent. In itself, that was not too difficult, there were no more than twelve locals in there. But all of them stopped talking and drinking and stared at him.
With the whole of the pub intently listening in, he asked whether there was a spare room, was informed that there was and then gave his details. He had to spell Owen twice and Quinn three times and eventually offered to fill in the registration details himself. Otherwise, he risked checking out before he had checked in.
The room itself was basic, but not as dirty as he feared. It was lit by a single, low-voltage light-bulb with no shade and had a single bed that seemed to rise in the middle and a wardrobe that only had three legs but somehow stayed upright as the back was balanced optimistically on the skirting board. Most of the room was covered with a large rug, but around the sides were just bare floorboards. The curtains closed with some difficulty, but even when they did, there was little to prevent a vicious draught.
He lay down on the bed and was just thinking how tired he was after all of the driving when he must have drifted off to sleep. He was awoken by a gentle knocking on the door. When he opened it, a girl who could have been no more than sixteen carried in a tray, which she placed on the small dressing table by the window. He had paid for dinner, bed and breakfast but was nonetheless surprised to find a plate of stew and some grey bread being deposited in his room at six in the evening.
He needed little incentive to be up early in the morning to start his search for Archibald. He had two full days, maybe part of Saturday if he really needed it. He spent the whole day driving around the villages between Boston and the sea. Not just the villages: if he passed through hamlets and even isolated farmhouses, they too were scrutinised.
By mid-morning, the foul weather of the previous day had been replaced by some quite pleasant sunshine and he began to revise his opinion that this was the bleakest place he had ever visited. True, there was an ever present biting wind, but the isolation of the countryside did have a certain attraction to it. The sky seemed to go on forever and you did not need actually to see the sea, or even hear it or smell it to be ever aware of its enormous and constant presence.
‘Not quite the end of the world,’ he thought, ‘but you can certainly see it from here.’
He subjected every village to a mental checklist. Was there a village green? A telephone box? A war memorial? Most of them had village greens of sorts and telephone boxes. Only three in the whole day had war memorials and none of those had a telephone box near it. From what he could recollect, he was certain of two things: that the location was between Boston and the sea and there was a war memorial with a telephone box next to it. On the village green.
In one village, he did make further enquiries. The village had a green and war memorial. The war memorial was near the village green, but across the road from it. Further down the road was a telephone box.
He had prepared a line of enquiry during the long journey up. My father served in the Navy in the Great War under a Captain John Archibald. Told me he’s retired to these parts. Married, possibly living just outside the village. Much shaking of heads in the village shop, where the combined age of the shopkeeper and her two customers must have been well in excess of two hundred years.
By late afternoon he realised he had driven in pitch darkness for the past hour and his chances of spotting a village, let alone a telephone box had diminished. He headed back to Boston and this time when he entered the pub, one or two of the regulars even carried on speaking.
The next morning he decided to head up the coast road in the direction of Skegness. He had looked carefully at the map the night before: he had visited all the villages in a corridor directly between Boston and the sea. South of The Haven, it was the more The Wash than the sea, so north seemed a better bet.
The weather was somewhere between the sleet of the first day and the previous day’s sun. It was grey, but the wind was not as biting as the previous day and for the best part it was dry. He had not been driving long when he came to a road that he knew from the map led to a cluster of three villages, so he came off the main Skegness road and headed in that direction. The complete absence of road signs had probably added hours to his search: he was constantly having to refer to his map, checking the tell-tale stumps by the road that indicated a road sign had once been there.
The first thing he saw in the first village he came to was a village green, with a war memorial very definitely on it. Next to a telephone box.
He pulled the car up outside the church, just as the priest was unlocking the large wooden doors. He followed him in.
‘My father served in the Navy in the Great War under a Captain John Archibald. Told me he’s retired to these parts. Married, possibly living just outside the village.’
The priest shook his head.
‘Is your father close to him?’
‘Not terribly, they were in the Battle of Jutland together and he has always talked fondly .. .I just happened to be in the area you see, thought I’d look him up.’
‘He’s not in a good way, I’m afraid. Very ill. He is at home and I visit most days. Iris takes good care of him. They are a bit isolated, you would have passed their lane as you drove into the village without spotting it. I’m sure he would be happy to have a visitor. Here,’ he guided Owen
out of the church, ‘let me show you how to get there.’
The sound of the car coming down the lane must have alerted Mrs Archibald, because when he parked up in the drive of their very pretty cottage she had come out to see who it was. The location was certainly isolated; the lane petered out just past the cottage and there were no other houses or buildings in sight.
She was wiping her hands on her apron, looking at him quizzically, as if she was not sure whether she could remember him.
‘Good morning, Mrs Archibald. I am not sure if you remember me. I am Owen Quinn. Lieutenant-Commander Quinn. I am – was – a colleague of your husband’s.’
‘Yes, I remember. What a surprise, you ought to have let us know you were coming up. Do come in. You know he is ill, don’t you? He is actually quite comfortable today, so you are lucky. The doctor was here earlier. Let me see if he’s awake now and I’ll see if he wants any visitors. Please do sit down.’
He was in a large lounge that opened from the hall. The room was replete with sofas and armchairs and a large piano, on top of which was a display of framed photographs.
He was about to walk over to the window to admire the view from the large picture window when Mrs Archibald returned.
‘John was surprised you’d come, but he will see you. I cannot let you stay long. It doesn’t take much to get him tired and in any case the district nurse is due here at twelve.’
She led him into a large downstairs bedroom. Captain John Archibald was propped up by a number of pillows in a large bed, next to which an array of tablet bottles and medicine lay on a small table, along with a jug of water and a half-full glass. His appearance was transformed. He looked gaunt, he had clearly lost a lot of weight and his skin was drawn tightly over quite visible bones. He appeared to move with some difficulty, but did hold out his arm when Owen came in for him to shake his hand.
