‘He’s got a knife,’ Harry said. ‘He’ll use it on me if you come too close.’
‘Speak German!’ bellowed Rolf. ‘Speak German, damn you!’
‘I’ve come to fetch Harry back to the house,’ Alfred said mildly, edging softly forward through the fog.
‘Well, he ain’t going!’ snapped Rolf. ‘He’s coming with me.’
‘Coming with you where?’ asked Alfred, easing himself nearer. ‘Where are you going?’
‘He cut the wire,’ Harry shouted in English. His shout was followed by a scream and Alfred lurched forward, bursting from the fog to see Rolf with his knife at Harry’s throat. A trickle of blood was running down the boy’s neck and he was arching himself away in a desperate attempt to avoid being cut again.
‘Told you to stay where you are,’ shouted Rolf, his eyes blazing.
‘I’m not coming near you,’ Alfred said gently. ‘Just let him go. He’s only a boy. Let me take him back, you can go on through the wire if you want to, I shan’t report you.’
‘No!’ Rolf took a step towards Alfred and his grip on Harry loosened a fraction. It was all Harry needed. With a sharp twist he broke free and as Rolf turned to grab him again Harry kicked him as hard as he could between the legs. Harry, the street fighter, knew exactly where to kick and with a roar of pain, Rolf doubled over, dropping the knife as he clutched at himself.
Harry caught up the knife and would have returned to the attack had Alfred not shouted, ‘No, Harry!’ He grabbed him, pulling him away and put himself between Harry and the agonised Rolf. Still facing Rolf he said, ‘I’m taking Harry back to the house now, Rolf. What you do is up to you. But if I see you here in the camp again, I shall report you to the commander and see that you’re locked up for attempted murder.’ Though his heart was pounding, Alfred knew he had to face Rolf down.
At that moment a drift of air parted the fog and he could see where the wire had been cut. Another few moments and they’d have made their doomed escape. Harry saw the gap as well and was almost overwhelmed with relief. Alfred had saved him. He didn’t have to try and reach the harbour, he didn’t have to put out to sea in a stolen boat. He was close to tears.
Holding firmly on to Harry, Alfred backed away from Rolf. A breath of wind and Rolf disappeared again, wreathed in the shifting mist. It was their chance.
‘Hurry!’ Alfred hissed and turned back along the path, pushing Harry in front of him. It was a mistake. Roaring his fury, Rolf erupted out of the shrouding mist, cannoning into Alfred and knocking him flying. Harry was thrown aside as he fell and the knife clattered out of his hand, disappearing into the fog. Rolf made a grab for Harry, shouting at him as he tried to force him back towards the cut wire, but again Harry twisted free, scrabbling along the ground in his efforts to escape.
‘Get away from me!’ he screamed, his voice shrill with fear. ‘Get away from me!’
Alfred lay winded on the ground, but he knew that he had to do something. Rolf seemed completely manic and might do anything to the boy. He lurched upward and caught hold of Rolf’s leg, bellowing as he did so, ‘Run, Harry! Run.’
He had little strength and it was a feeble attempt, but he held on just long enough for Harry to vanish into the gloom before Rolf pulled himself free. Out of his mind with rage, he drove his heavy boots into Alfred’s body, kicking his side, his back and his head.
Harry had run, but as he did so he continued screaming, this time for help. Within moments three camp guards appeared at the double, bursting through the fog, guns in their hands.
‘What’s going on?’
‘What’s up?’
‘What’s happening here?’ they shouted as they made a grab for Harry.
‘Over there!’ shrieked Harry, pointing into the fog. ‘Over there! He’s killing Alfred!’
As the mist parted again, they saw Alfred on the ground, curled into a ball in a vain attempt to protect himself from Rolf’s boots.
‘Stop! Stop or I’ll fire,’ bellowed the first guard.
Beyond reason now, Rolf didn’t seem to have heard. Unsure of his target in the fog, the guard didn’t shoot, but all three guards launched themselves at the rampaging figure. It took their combined strength to overcome him and force him to the ground. Even then he struggled fiercely and it was only when one of the guards hit him a blow to the head with his pistol butt that he finally slumped, unconscious.
After that things moved very quickly. Reinforcements were summoned and Rolf was removed, restrained with handcuffs, to the cooler. Alfred was put on a stretcher and carried straight to the hospital that overlooked the camp. Harry was taken to the commander for questioning. As the fog drifted away on the evening breeze the guards searched the path and surrounding area. They soon found the knife and further on the wire-cutters, lying beside the cut wire. Harry’s account of how Rolf had forced him to go with him, backed up by Alfred when he too was questioned, was believed. It was clear to everyone that a man the size of Rolf would have very little difficulty in intimidating a young lad like Harry. It was also clear that Rolf had become unhinged during his incarceration. He was shipped off the island, back to the mainland and Liverpool gaol, where he could do no further damage.
It took several weeks before Alfred returned to the house. Harry had been allowed to go and see him in the hospital. Alfred had put his own life on the line to save Harry and he was truly grateful.
‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me what was going on?’ Alfred demanded as soon as he saw him. ‘I could have dealt with it.’
‘He had a knife,’ Harry replied. ‘He said if I spoke to anyone about his plan he’d kill me and I believed him.’
28
It was a cold, hard winter and on several occasions the people of Wynsdown found themselves snowed in, cut off from the outside world by the drifting snow that made the lanes all but impassable. Its inhabitants were stoical about such winter conditions and with a few exceptions life in the village continued much as usual. When the older children were unable to get down to Cheddar because of the snow, Michael Hampton commandeered the church hall and set up trestle tables so they could continue with at least some of their lessons. Farmers struggled to look after their stock and once lambing started in earnest they were out in the fields at all hours of the day and night. The occasional thaw reduced the tracks and footpaths to deep squelching mud which, with the return of the frost, became hard rutted furrows laced with iced puddles.
The children, particularly the younger ones, revelled in the wintry days, longing to be out in the snow sledging, building snowmen or making ice slides on the frozen pathways. The older inhabitants were less delighted by a fresh fall of snow, struggling to the village shop or edging fearfully along the slippery roads. Dr Masters had to set more than one broken wrist when a trip to the hospital was impossible.
Miss Edie had managed to find Charlotte some sturdy walking boots and a heavy overcoat. With the socks and gloves they knitted from another unravelled jumper, Charlotte was able to brave the outdoors.
On weekday evenings she stayed at home. There was plenty to keep her busy with school work, making and mending clothes, and an added pleasure: she was learning to play the piano. Miss Edie had caught her one afternoon trying to pick out a tune on the piano in the sitting room. They seldom used the room as it was cold and what little fuel there was for the fire came from their ‘sticking’ excursions, when she and Miss Edie ventured out together to the small spinney at the end of the lane with an old wheelbarrow, to gather any fallen twigs and dead wood they could find. They had just returned from one of these and Charlotte was stacking their haul beside the fireplace. As she had so often before, she looked across at the piano that stood in the corner of the room, but this time she opened the polished lid and touched the keys.
‘I can teach you to play properly,’ came a voice from the door, and Charlotte spun round guiltily to find Miss Edie watching her. ‘Would you like to learn?’
Charlotte’s face creased into a smil
e. ‘I’d love to,’ she said and her lessons had begun.
At the weekends she spent much of her time at Charing Farm. There were always jobs that needed doing there and she loved to help Mrs Shepherd with the hens and in the kitchen. Often, when Billy had finished his work, they took the two young dogs out over the hills, roaming the fields and woods, completely happy in each other’s company. Billy knew the hills like the back of his hand. He led Charlotte down tracks and woodland rides where the dogs went mad among the trees in search of rabbits. He took her up steep paths to a hilltop from where she could see out across the countryside to the Bristol Channel, the sea a shining polished steel in the winter sunshine. On one occasion they emerged at the top of Cheddar Gorge and peered down into the deep ravine, carved out by an age-old river.
One Saturday afternoon they had wandered further than usual. It was a bright winter’s day and as they’d set out, a pale blue sky arched over the greys, browns and scrubby greens of the winter hills. For a while shafts of sunlight warmed their faces as they wandered over the fields, climbing stiles and following muddy tracks and paths across the hillside. Charlotte, aware of a new lightness of heart as she watched the dogs chasing each other through a stand of trees, thought she’d never been so happy. She had a home with Miss Edie, she had a dog called Bessie and she had a friend in Billy. She could walk out across hills that stretched into the distance and come home to a warm fire and a warm welcome. The war seemed a world away.
She looked across at Billy, striding along beside her, and knew a sudden burst of affection for him. His thick, curly, fair hair sticking out from under his cap, his strong hands grasping the thumb-stick he always carried, his shoulders broad under his waterproof jacket, now all so familiar to her. As if feeling her eyes on him, Billy stopped and turned to her.
‘What?’ he demanded, his blue eyes searching her face.
‘What, nothing.’ Charlotte felt the colour rising in her cheeks and, looking away, added, ‘I’m getting cold.’
‘Come on then,’ Billy said as they emerged from a copse out on to the upland once again, ‘we should get back.’
The weather was changing. A sharp wind knifed across the hillside and dark clouds looming from the west obscured the sun, presaging rain.
Turning back to the spinney, Billy whistled for Jet, who had been snuffling about in the undergrowth further down the hill. Charlotte shivered and began to call Bessie. Neither dog came back and Billy gave an angry shout.
‘Jet! Come here, dog! Where are you?’ Jet did not reappear. Nor did Bessie.
‘Damn dogs!’ Billy strode back to the copse and went in among the trees, calling and whistling. Charlotte went further out on to the hill, screwing her eyes against the wind as she called, trying to catch sight of either dog. She couldn’t see them and she wandered further across the open hill, her feet sinking into the deep mud of the track, calling and calling, but no dogs came back.
Billy came back up the hill to join her. ‘Any luck?’ he called.
‘No, can’t see either of them.’
‘Trouble is, one leads the other on.’
Billy set off along a rough path that skirted the edge of the trees. ‘They could have come out of the wood on the other side,’ he called back. ‘You wait here in case they come back this way.’
Charlotte waited, stamping her feet to keep warm. The sky continued to darken and she could feel rain on the wind. She didn’t like being here alone on the hill by herself. It was a bleak place with no houses in sight, and though she knew she was only a mile or two from Wynsdown, she wasn’t sure in which direction. She wished Billy would come back. She tried calling Bessie again, but heard nothing but the wind through the dark branches of the trees. Then, suddenly, in the distance she heard a faint bark. It came from the opposite side of the copse, in the direction Billy had taken.
He must have found them! she thought, and I’ve got Bessie’s lead.
Glad to be moving again, she set off along the path that Billy had taken. On the far side of the trees it wound away up the hill and in the distance she could see Billy, standing, silhouetted against the sky. There was someone with him, but Charlotte couldn’t see either of the dogs. She began to run, her breath misting out in front of her as she struggled up the hill.
‘Billy!’ she called. ‘Billy! I heard them barking. They’re down the other way!’ Billy didn’t turn and as she neared him she realised that the other person was a man in uniform and that he was armed with a gun, pointed at Billy.
‘Now then,’ said the soldier, looking at her over Billy’s shoulder, ‘who’ve we got here then?’
‘That’s my friend Charlotte. I told you, we’ve lost our dogs.’
‘Yes, I know. You said. But you shouldn’t be up here at all.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘This is MOD land, now.’ The soldier had lowered the gun and he waved a hand, encompassing the hill behind him. ‘Military. You kids better get out of here, sharpish. Where d’you say you come from?’
‘Wynsdown,’ said Billy, pointing back across the hill. ‘About three miles that way.’
‘Long walk then,’ said the soldier, squinting at the sky. ‘You’re going to get wet!’
At that moment they heard more barking and saw the two dogs burst from a thicket further down the hill, happily chasing each other.
‘Better get your dogs then,’ the soldier said and stood and watched as Billy and Charlotte hurried down the path to grab their joyful dogs and snap on their leads. The rain was falling in earnest now as they set off along the track that led across the hill and over the ridge towards the village. When they reached the top of the rise, Billy paused and looked back. The soldier was still where they had left him, standing in the rain, watching them.
By the time they reached Charing Farm they were soaked to the skin and freezing cold. Her boots, caked in mud, made Charlotte’s feet leaden and she’d plodded the last half-mile, wondering if she’d ever get home. The dogs, wet and covered in mud, were banished straight to the stable, where Billy and Charlotte rubbed them down and fed them before going into the welcome warmth of the Shepherds’ kitchen.
‘I can’t imagine what you were doing staying out there in this dreadful weather, Billy,’ scolded Margaret. ‘Didn’t you see it closing in? Poor Charlotte’s turned blue!’
‘We did, Mum, but the dogs took it into their heads to go rabbiting and we lost them.’
Margaret Shepherd sighed. ‘Well, you’d best get yourselves dry. Give me your coat, Charlotte, and I’ll put it to dry by the range. Did you tell Miss Everard you were coming to us?’
‘I said I was going to take the dogs out with Billy.’
‘Well then, let’s hope she’ll guess you’re safely here with us.’
‘Mum, where’s Dad?’
On their way home Billy had said, ‘I think we should tell someone about that bloke, Char. It’s a bit strange, suddenly finding him up on the hill.’
‘What was he doing, do you think?’ Charlotte asked.
Billy shrugged. ‘Don’t know, but he was in RAF uniform. I think I’ll talk to Dad about it. You know he’s second to Major Bellinger in the Home Guard. Better not to say anything to anyone till I’ve told him.’
Charlotte had agreed. All she wanted to do was get warm and dry. She didn’t care what some airman was doing on the hill.
‘Dad’s in the village doing Home Guard drill,’ his mother replied now. ‘He’ll be back later.’
It had become a familiar sight in the village, the Home Guard drilling and training several nights a week. After the fall of France, the secretary of state for war, Anthony Eden, had made a wireless broadcast calling for men, aged between seventeen and sixty-five, to volunteer for a local defence force. The response was enormous. Thousands of men who were not in the services due to their age or being in a reserved occupation, flocked to volunteer and the Local Defence Volunteers, soon renamed the Home Guard, was born.
In Wynsdown, as elsewhere, there h
ad been no lack of volunteers. Being a farming community there were plenty of men who had not been called up. They were too important, working on the land in an effort to feed the nation, but the idea of being part of a defence force ready to defeat the invaders when they came, appealed to those who were needed at home.
The squire, Major Peter Bellinger, was the natural choice of leader. He had come through the first war with distinction and he longed to be of military help in this one. His son, Felix, was a pilot in the RAF, and his brother, James, was something hush-hush in the War Office, but Major Bellinger had felt sidelined in the country and longed for more active involvement.
Once his volunteers had been recruited the major did his best to train them into some sort of fighting force. At first the whole village used to turn out to see them drilling on the green, but they lacked uniforms and equipment so it wasn’t long before the novelty wore off and they were left to their own devices.
‘Don’t know what good Bert Gurney with a broomstick’s going to be,’ muttered Ma Prynne to Mabel over a port and lemon at the Magpie one evening. ‘Germans’re going to be terrified of him, I don’t think!’
It was how many of the village saw the local Home Guard, but Peter Bellinger remained undeterred and gradually licked his army into shape. John Shepherd was his second in command and Billy had been keen to join, too, but he was only sixteen and the major had refused to take him on.
‘No, lad,’ he said. ‘You’re doing good work with your father, there on the farm. Maybe next summer, eh?’
Despite the hard winter, the Home Guard kept up their training, sometimes in joint exercises with other branches, putting into use what they’d learned. Local signs had been removed to confuse an invader, but the local lads didn’t need them, they knew their way around their own hills and exercises across the countryside improved their field-craft and more importantly, their morale.
Margaret and the two youngsters were at the kitchen table eating their tea when John Shepherd came in.
The Girl With No Name Page 33
