If the Invader Comes

by Derek Beaven

  I should add that my great-uncle Pike is not deluded, or feverish, setting forth on his latest encounter. There’s an urgency about the matter of our conclusions, and of my commitment to them. What is to follow is the only possible outcome, and should be taken notice of.

  LEFT TO HER own devices much of the time at Pook’s Hill, Clarice could think of no one but Jack. Whether she occupied herself in housewifely fashion, with dusting, hoovering, or polishing, or attending to her father’s backlog of darning; or whether she set herself punitive war work, such as sorting the salvage, it was Jack’s small face that haunted her. The police were out hunting for him. It had even been on the announcements after the midday news that there was a boy missing from an Essex boarding-school. Colchester was handling it, since a child answering his description had been sighted in that vicinity.

  The irony that among so many unrecorded and unremarked losses the magic words ‘boarding-school’ could still secure Jack a mention on the wireless was not lost on Clarice. But if the authorities were exercised about a little gentleman going missing, so too, she knew, were the associates of Tony Rice. She remained very worried.

  She didn’t think of Vic, alive or dead. Vic and she were finished. Since her meeting with Phyllis, she’d evaluated the whole affair. They’d never stood a chance. Look at the assumptions he’d had to live with. He hadn’t been able to accept her; and she was even quite matter-of-fact about it.

  From the start their coming together had been built upon impossibilities. Too much had lain between them for love to overcome, even if, as she acknowledged ruefully to herself while putting Dr Pike’s filing system to rights, it had drawn her across thousands of miles and tugged him through the bars of his prison.

  She tidied her father’s desk. She put the stethoscope ready in his black bag. She sterilised the thermometers. A patient had left a specimen of urine in a jamjar. An amorphous piece of tissue lay in a dish. Used dressings had been thrown into the waste-paper basket. She set the place in order. All it needed was a woman’s touch. Maybe if there hadn’t been a war she and Vic might have been all right. But in the world that surrounded them now, where only the brutish seemed to survive, truly there’d never been any real hope. If Vic were alive and had wanted to respond to her letter, he would have done so by now. She’d heard nothing. He either held her in contempt for her long deceit; or he was dead. She’d switched herself off from him. He had slept with Phyllis.

  What focused her tears as she sought to carry out her self-appointed tasks – and she wept nearly all the time and over almost everything she touched, so that there were always splashes on her father’s notes, and over Ethel Farmer’s recipes, and on the ironing, and on Bentley’s coat when she bent down to pat him – was the child she hadn’t seen since the Upminster episode. And that day of the visit, standing on the gravel in front of the house, in front of the stolen Riley Lynx, the boy had placed his hand in hers. He’d wanted to trust her, and she remembered her surprise.

  They’d said Colchester on the news, but in her state it took another six hours of brusque housekeeping and ineffectual anxiety for her to cotton on to what she should be doing about it. She should be looking for him, of course. Now it was too late in the day to start. She cursed herself for her muddle-headedness.

  AT ARDLEIGH HEATH he’d slept in a barn. Over a wall in a twist of scarlet flowers he found runner beans to eat. They were half formed, sweet. He looked through the rack of beanpoles at Colchester on the hill.

  Outside a village sweetshop, he asked a woman the way to Ipswich. She gave him a pained look and stepped away. There was a greengrocer with his horse and cart. Jack sat up on the front as they went along. Then the man pointed out the direction, and winked, and adjusted his flat cap. He took out his cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ he said. Jack declined. He took his road. His legs were tired. He even drank from a cattle trough.

  CLARICE THOUGHT SHE could take the train to Colchester. She’d woken early and planned a course of action. She could ride to Manningtree, put Ethel’s bike in the guard’s van and then use it to comb the countryside. A rather loosely conceived plan, it relied on nothing but chance; but she couldn’t think of a better one. She stood in the parlour in her WAAF jumper and slacks checking the railway timetable and waiting for her father to come down from shaving. He seemed much more preoccupied with his toilette these days than she would ever have expected, and still hadn’t appeared when she happened to glance out of the window. She was surprised to see a slim, somewhat birdlike woman in middle age approaching up the gravel drive. She went to the door.

  At first Clarice thought the woman was selling something – she had a copy of the Eastern Daily Press with her. Then she held her hand out. ‘You must be Clarice. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Mary Benedick.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Clarice shook the delicate, gloved fingers.

  ‘I’ve heard such a lot about you.’ She smiled, brightly.

  ‘Really? I’m afraid I …’

  ‘It is early, I know. But I wondered whether the doctor was up yet’ The woman peered past Clarice’s shoulder.

  ‘I’m afraid surgery doesn’t start for another couple of hours. Of course, if it’s an emergency …’

  Her father appeared, hastily pulling his jacket on over his waistcoat. ‘Mrs Benedick! Ah … Mary. Do come in. You two haven’t met. My daughter Clarice. Clarice, this is Mrs Benedick.’ He looked embarrassed, and at the same time rather pleased with himself. Clarice was mystified.

  In the parlour, Mrs Benedick held the newspaper out to them. It was folded so that only half of the front page was showing. ‘I thought you might be interested in this, Dr Pike. Have you seen it? Oh, please don’t tell me you’ve seen it already. You’ll think me …’

  She was pointing to an item about a Lowestoft woman who had escaped the fall of Singapore back in 1942 and had finally made it home, bringing first-hand accounts of the hurried withdrawals from Malacca and Seremban. Dr Pike took the paper and fished in his top pocket for his spectacles. Clarice looked briefly at the headline and was about to ask what was going on. Then a picture at the corner of the fold, partially obscured by Mrs Benedick’s hand, caught her eye. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said. She pulled the paper rudely out of her father’s grasp and stared at it. ‘That’s him!’ she cried out. ‘That’s Jack.’

  Sure enough, there was a brief article under the picture, and a tally of sightings and conjectures. Sandwiched between a fire in Stowmarket and a decision by Norwich City Council, the story had caught somebody’s imagination. From Chelmsford the runaway scholar had struck north-east and was clearly making for the coast, stealing as he went. After Colchester it was thought likely he might try to reach Harwich or Ipswich, perhaps in the hope of stowing away on a coaster.

  Clarice made hurried excuses and virtually ran out of the house. Bentley ran after her. At Bligh’s she saddled up Martin. The horse sniffed the morning air and whinnied; the dog looked at her expectantly, and then tagged after her as she rode down the track and headed west along the Stutton road.

  Her mind worked quickly, now that she knew what she was doing. The boy must be travelling under cover, hiding, sleeping rough. So far he’d avoided capture. If he were simply blundering across country she’d no hope at all of finding him. But the newspaper article had suggested a clear line of intention: Harwich or Ipswich. Her hunch was that the boy was trying to reach her. It was a long shot and she had no real basis for it but she decided to back it, because it was her only chance of getting to him before Tony or the police did. She looked round for the dog. Bentley had given up and gone home. She rode on towards Cattawade. At Blantham, she turned up north towards Ipswich and the Orwell.

  A TRACTOR PULLED the hay cart across the river Stour. Jack crouched down on top of the heap, in case the tractor driver, coming to the bridge, should turn round and spot him. The stream lay at low tide between the mud-flats. He spied out from his vantage point to where the water opened up – almost as wide as the sea. The sea
couldn’t be far away. Something about the place was familiar; there was a feel to the wooded slopes, a certain taste in the air.

  But almost immediately after reaching the other bank he found himself parked in a farmyard, where the dogs barked incessantly and the farmer and his wife bustled about, and the land-girl mucked out the pigs, and the farmer’s children played endless war games. Hiding on top of it all, he was forced hour after hour to lose the best part of his day. His stomach churning, he could only keep his head down and wait, amid the sweet damp hay.

  It was late afternoon when he got the all-clear. He clambered down. There was a woman with a handcart in the lane. ‘Excuse me, please. I was wondering if you know where a lady lives. Her name’s Clarice. She’s my aunt. And the doctor. At Pook’s Hill, I think. I was wondering …’

  ‘Oh, you mean Dr Pike. That’s just along at Holbrook, there.’ The woman pointed the way with a knobbly finger. ‘That’s a good walk from here, though, boy; and you don’t look so grand. Hey! Wait a minute, though. Aren’t you that kid …’

  Jack had legged it out of her clutches and got clean away before she could shout or raise the alarm. He put the corner of a cottage between him and the old witch and slipped over a five-barred gate to make sure. But he knew they’d be on to him and he hadn’t much time.

  SHE FOUND NOTHING. Martin was starting to play up. By teatime she’d touched the outskirts of the county town, and, with numerous detours, had made the circle right round to Wherstead. The horse plodded dully up the hill; it was clear he’d had enough.

  She was exhausted herself as she walked back home from Bligh’s farm. It was a wasted effort. Yet in the night she woke up twice, imagining she heard Jack’s voice. She sat bolt upright, but there was nothing except the sounds of the house as the woodwork cooled. She went to the window and peered into the moonlit dark. Then a vixen yelled from somewhere deep in the lane. She put it down to that.

  In the morning she was out again by nine, taking the same route as on the previous day, scanning the fields and the hedgerows for any sign at all.

  JACK THOUGHT HE would die of hunger. All night he’d lain under a hedge and he’d been too cold to sleep. Then it had rained. A village was called Cattawade, and his feet hurt so much from blisters that he had to keep stopping and taking off his shoes. He’d tried padding dock leaves over the blood. Now he limped along inside a cornfield with a scarecrow in it. The green ears tasted only of grass; he spat them out. Rooks cawed from the high elms.

  He felt faint. It was strange how the trees at the far end of the field seemed to shiver. Planes roared overhead. He believed they were looking for him, and he thought there might be bombing. In that case he should move out of the open. Under the elms, though, there was a gate into the road, and as far as he could tell it went the right way.

  Clarice discovered him on her way back from the bridge at Manningtree. He was tucked up asleep by the side of the drainage ditch just outside Upper Street. At first sight she thought a bundle of clothes had been left in the verge. When she dismounted, and parted the grass, she found herself looking into his sleeping face. His cheeks were filthy and smeared, his hair stuck through with pieces of straw. Yet there was no doubt it was Jack – she recognised him at once.

  As she lifted his head, his eyes opened. He looked at her intently. ‘Jack,’ she said. His mouth formed a word but he was unable to articulate it. ‘Jack. It’s me, Aunt Clarice. I’ve found you.’ He seemed still to be fighting sleep. She pulled his hand around her neck. How chilled were the backs of his fingers. ‘Jack! Jack! Listen to me!’ This time, he made no response at all.

  Using all her strength she stood him up. His damp grey clothes stank. As she leant him against the horse’s side he began to shake, and only incoherent sounds came out of his mouth. She was so desperate for him to be all right she wanted to slap him. The horse turned its head round to watch.

  Jack opened his lips once more but still no voice emerged. ‘You have to be all right,’ she said. ‘Please, Jack! Please!’

  He stirred his arms feebly. She draped them over the saddle and lifted his foot until she could just about force it into the stirrup. Then she pushed and manoeuvred him up on to the horse’s back, held him, and scrambled up herself. She set him astride Martin’s withers in front of her. Despite wrapping her jacket around him and embracing him for all she was worth, she couldn’t put a stop to his shivering.

  IN THE RAINY half-light of dawn the old steamer bit down at the Channel swell, and then as it came up again dashed the streaks of froth from its blunted snout. Twenty minutes out from France the water was grey-black; the breeze was just catching the crests and beginning to ruffle them over. The last of the gulls had flown back to the smashed-up Mulberry Harbour.

  Vic wedged himself against a bulkhead and stared across the waves. The corporal next to him took out his tobacco tin. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The corporal measured out the shredded leaf into a paper, nipped it tightly against the wind and passed it across. Careful for his broken arm, Vic steadied his wrists on the ship’s rail. With practised fingers both men rolled and lit up in the lee of their own bodies. Vic looked down inside the folds of his sling. A stub of apple wood had gone in and split the bone. The wound was still oozing into its dressing. The sun came up under the rim of the clouds, and a fire path stretched away towards Germany.

  When he thought of Clarice, his ruined skin ached all down the side of his head where the filaments of the flame-thrower had brushed it. And there was an odd cooked ring around his scalp from the heat of the steel helmet. But the bullet wound that had passed straight through his chest hurt only if he inhaled too deeply on his cigarette – at least until the painkilling jabs wore off.

  And Jack, dumped in some school or other – he wondered whether his letter had got through. The camouflaged steamer ducked its head into another wave. A blazing line had been drawn across his life. Behind it he was some other man. Now he saw clearly how much Clarice had suffered, and actually how brave she’d been. He couldn’t imagine living without her. The boat wallowed. He sucked at his cigarette. The pain seared up from the hole in his ribcage.

  CLARICE WOKE SUDDENLY in the chair beside Jack’s bed. She’d sat with him all night. Birds chattering in the eaves outside his window were at full pitch; but what had awakened her was the soft knock at the door she now heard repeated. She got up to let her father in.

  He looked at her enquiringly. She nodded. Together they approached the sleeping child. A night-light on a saucer still flickered on the bedside table. She laid the back of her hand across his brow. The skin was hot but not burning. The child sighed in his dream and murmured, and she turned her hand over and smoothed his hair with her palm. Then she looked again at her father. ‘First he could hardly speak. Then suddenly he was talking about a man,’ she whispered. ‘Before he went to sleep he kept talking about the man.’

  ‘Was it troubling him? Was it someone he was frightened of?’

  ‘I think he meant Vic, Daddy. He sounds so odd, so stilted. He said the man at the house, at the little house. He seemed to think I’d cotton on. It was Vic; I know it was.’

  ‘It would make sense of a lot of things,’ Dr Pike said. ‘Things that I can’t begin to apologise for.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy.’ She put her arms around his neck. Then she drew back a little. ‘We can’t keep him here, though, can we? What if the police come again; and what if they don’t believe you this time? Or some of Tony’s bully-boys.’

  Her father walked to the window and peered out. ‘I don’t know which would be safer,’ he said. ‘Here, or your cabin.’

  ‘Surely the cabin,’ she said.

  ‘What about Phyllis? That’s where you ran into her, wasn’t it? Supposing this Rice fellow has someone posted there.’

  ‘They all know Jack’s somewhere round here, don’t they? The cabin is the best bet. I’m willing to take the chance.’

  ‘Very well, then. Mary’s son has a ca
r. He could run you both down to the station as soon as it’s fully light. If there are still no trains, he can take you on. I’ll see him right about it.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Take one of the guns.’

  She laughed. ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘Quite serious. Promise me you will.’

  ‘All right, Daddy. I will if you insist. If it makes you feel any better.’

  ‘A good deal better, dear. As it happens.’

  Jack stirred and opened his eyes. He looked at Clarice. He had the same expression she remembered from four years earlier. She bent down and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m so glad you’re all right,’ she said.

  She laid her hand on his brow again. ‘You must rest a bit more, Jack. Then I’ll make you something to eat. And then we’ll have to go, I’m afraid.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘Because there are people who want to find you.’ The child bit his lip. She took his hand, and continued. ‘You were talking yesterday about a little house, Jack. I think I know where you mean. Do you think you’d like to go there? To see if it’s the same one?’

  The boy rubbed his eyes and stretched. ‘I should say so,’ he said in his odd-sounding schoolboy tones. ‘I rather think I should. If it’s no trouble, that is.’

  SET DOWN IN London, Vic wondered where a man should go who’d been shot up. The Army had neglected to instruct him. He crossed the river by the footbridge and hung about in Trafalgar Square. Pigeons and women eyed him suspiciously; no fountains played. The city looked more battered and filthy than he could have imagined; and, every now and then, some distant explosion marked the fall of another flying bomb. The slabs beneath his feet still held the sea rhythm of the Channel.

  At the top of the concourse, he saw one or two others in the same condition as himself – uniformed men with burns and bandages, sitting quietly on the steps, waiting for the pictureless picture gallery to open. He shifted his kitbag on to his good shoulder. He should get himself out to Laindon. From there he could sort out a plan of campaign. It was the closest thing to a home that he had, full of memories both of Clarice and of Jack. He should make his way to Fenchurch Street, then, without more delay.