Ahead, on the left, loomed a towering monkey-puzzle tree. Christine had never seen such a living fossil with its bare scale-like lower trunk. The canopy of linear branches adorned by sharp tipped leaves and cones spread with geometric meticulousness some sixty feet above the ground.
“Corporal!”
The shout from her side startled the young ATS driver, diverting her eyes instantly back towards the road. A woman had emerged from a track to their right and walked heedlessly onto the tarmac road with her back to the oncoming vehicle.
Christine’s right foot stabbed the brake pedal and she swung bodily to the left whilst her arms tugged frantically at the steering wheel. It was as well the corporal had slowed the vehicle; even so, it missed the pedestrian by only inches. The Austin lurched onto the grass verge beneath the monkey-puzzle tree and ground to a skidding halt on the wet grass.
“You okay?” asked a shaken Hunloke.
“Yea... I think so... Sorry...” Her voice sounded as dazed as Hunloke felt. He shoved open the left-hand door and tumbled out of the staff car, his eyes searching behind him for the careless walker.
The woman in a beige duffle coat, its hood pulled up over her head, stared at the Austin as she might a sudden visitor from outer space. Her mouth gaped and she stood frozen to the spot.
He staggered over to the woman with a hasty, limping shuffle. “You alright?” he asked the stunned woman. She looked past him to where Christine was inspecting the front of the Austin for any sign of damage.
“I said, are you alright?” Hunloke’s concern for the woman’s welfare was tempered by his anger, fermented by the woman’s lackadaisical road sense, stepping blindly out into the road as she had. God knows how many people had fallen victim to vehicles in the blackout. The last thing he wanted was to be responsible for an accident on private property.
For the first time, the woman seemed to notice the Army captain. She turned her head revealing her full face to him.
He admirably did not baulk at the sight of her features. He guessed her to be in her late twenties. Her left profile was pretty enough, dominated by her large brown doe-like eye. However, her right eye appeared as if someone had taken an eraser, rubbed out the iris and pupil, and redrawn her face so that only the bottom semi-circle of the iris remained visible beneath the drooping eyelid. It seemed a cruel joke to play on a pretty face. Looking more closely, he noted the scarring, disguised with make-up, around the damaged eye. It was the only make-up she appeared to be wearing.
The woman’s left eye flittered animatedly as though compensating for its indolent twin. She quickly looked Hunloke over, her eye lingering for the briefest instant on the scar blighting his left cheek and eyebrow.
“Are you hurt?” asked the woman in a voice offering no hint of dialect.
“I already asked you the same question twice.” Hunloke sounded more than a little annoyed until he made sense of her unusual trait of following his lips with her functioning eye.
“I’m sorry, I’m deaf. I didn’t hear you coming. I wasn’t expecting any visitors today. Yes, sorry, I’m fine. I do apologise for what’s happened. Is your wife alright?”
He allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “She’s fine. And she’s not my wife; she’s only a humble corporal. I could never marry a corporal...”
The preoccupied woman smiled vaguely back at him, noting his unmistakable London accent that had been consciously smoothed out since becoming an officer raised from the ranks. His first visit to the officers’ mess, mixing with ‘Gentleman Officers’ had required more fortitude than earning the MC. She entirely failed to grasp his Army humour.
“You must forgive me for staring... I lip-read. Deaf as a post...” She smiled generously following her confession and Hunloke was beset by guilt, not a characteristic his emotional repertoire was used to encountering. “I’m Carey Gladwin.”
“Good morning, Mrs Gladwin, I’m Captain Thaddeus Hunloke and that sad creature over there, worrying if she’s dented the Austin, is Corporal Baldwin.” Hunloke had subconsciously clocked the two bands on Mrs Gladwin’s ring finger.
“What brings you to Flash, Thaddeus?” she asked.
He was again surprised by Carey Gladwin. In recent years, only his late wife called him Thaddeus. He made an explanation of sorts to account for his unscheduled appearance. When he inferred his visit to Flash Camp was not simply a day excursion, her ready smile faded a jot.
“You can see more of the fellows up by the house. Jolly skilled artisans some of them, they’re doing some work on the stable block,” informed Carey.
Hunloke turned away from the duffle-coated woman and shouted towards Christine. “Everything alright there, corporal?”
“Reckon so... No damage that I can see of.”
“Then get the damned thing back on the road. The least we can do is offer Mrs Gladwin a lift back to the house.”
“Mrs who...? Oh, I see. Right oh,” blustered the still shaken corporal.
Hunloke swivelled to face Carey, preparing to offer an apology for the corporal’s obtuseness before realising that the disfigured woman had probably not understood anything Christine had said. He found Carey’s blatant stare more than a little disconcerting. Such eye contact seemed so very un-British.
“By the way, Thaddeus,” declared Carey, “if you want to say anything to me, just poke me on the arm to attract my attention. I’d be grateful if you could drop me off at the stable block. I left my bicycle there.”
The road continued through the woodland. “The house is over there to the right,” informed Carey. Hunloke stooped in his seat and peered over the shoulder of Christine. For a brief second, he glimpsed what he thought to be a castle turret through a break in the trees. The idea of a castle seemed preposterous but the memory of the image remained forcefully fixed in his mind long after the tower had vanished. He felt a shiver seeping down his spine that spread throughout his entire body until it dissolved with Carey Gladwin’s latest remark.
“Just here on the left...” Carey leant forward as if to emphasise her point. Ahead on the left, ran an avenue of pear-shaped Irish yew trees, their symmetry lost after years of apparent neglect. Some thirty yards away at the end of the avenue stood two tall rectangular hewn columns that punctured a high sandstone wall, forming a formal gateway.
After Christine had manoeuvred the Austin into the avenue, Hunloke was able to observe an open cobbled courtyard surrounded by a high wall, at the centre of which stood a trefoil-shaped fountain with a carved spiral stone column rising from the centre. Upon entering the quad, he noticed the two flanking buildings, clearly the former stables. Before them loomed the largest structure, an extensive two-story building with a gabled roof.
“That’s where the coachman and stable boys used to live. So too many of the gardening staff. The walled kitchen garden and orangery is just outside the courtyard on the right,” informed Carey. “The estate must have been a marvel to behold in its day.” Hunloke noted the apologetic use of the past tense.
The three passengers disembarked from the Austin together. Sitting on a stone bench in the corner of the courtyard reposed a smoking British soldier reading a comic. His Lee-Enfield rifle was leant against the bench beside him with implied irrelevance. Hunloke assumed the sentry was as deaf as Carrie Gladwin when he failed to acknowledge the arrival of the Army staff car.
The curious captain reserved his attention for the largest structure in the quad. A precariously bowed wooden ladder had been secured to the wall and he allowed his eyes to mount each rung in turn until they reached the slated roof. Here, half a dozen POW’s were working, clearing and checking the tiles for damage before relaying them.
The entire courtyard complex appeared to be in a state of disrepair. Only bats now inhabited the buildings, many windows having lost their panes of glass. The fountain, where horses were once watered, contained merely stagnant rainwater. A circling crow barked down upon the humans below, mocking the attempts of futile restoration, which
might better have been spent on the main house.
At the foot of the ladder, a German NCO eyed the two uniformed visitors suspiciously before deciding to stroll purposefully towards them. Christine took a step backwards and Captain Hunloke of the Buffs felt his hand instinctively reach towards the absent sidearm at his hip.
The German was a squat, powerfully built man who wouldn’t have looked out of place playing hooker for a rugby team. His head was shaved up to the edges of his utilitarian field grey peaked cap, which concealed his raven-coloured hair
The soldier stopped three paces away from Hunloke and casually stood to attention before delivering a palm down German Army salute. “Good morning, Hauptmann. I am Feldwebel Grass, leader of this work detail.”
Hunloke self-consciously returned the salute. It was the first time he had spoken with a German soldier since the commencement of hostilities. He detected the German’s eyes examining the medal ribbon on his left breast and the look of recognition when he studied the purple and white decoration of the military cross.
“You are the Lagerführer at the camp,” stated Hunloke.
“Yes, for my sins.”
“You don’t enjoy the task?”
“Yes, Hauptmann, I enjoy the task. But it’s not easy keeping the best part of a thousand men of six different nationalities happy.”
“I thought you were all German?”
“Wehrmacht, yes, but we have Russians, Poles, Ukrainians, Romanians to name but a few.”
“I see... I would like to speak to you at some point about various allegations received about the treatment of POW’s.”
“I have not made a complaint, Hauptmann.”
“No, but someone has and the Red Cross and Swedish representatives want us to investigate.”
“I see...”
“It would appear we are both very observant men, Staff Sergeant Grass.”
“Yes, Hauptmann. If you will excuse me, I must return to the men.”
“Of course, Feldwebel. Hopefully we will meet again shortly.”
“I look forward to it, Hauptmann...”
Hunloke was of the feeling the camp leader meant what he said. The NCO nodded his respects to Christine and Carey before returning to the ladder amid shouted instructions to the men on the roof.
“Such a polite man...” Both Hunloke and Christine stared at Carey after she had made the comment.
“The man is a POW, Mrs Gladwin,” declared Hunloke after remembering to tap her on her left arm to attract her attention.
“And so was my husband in Italy. I hope they treated him civilly.”
“He has been liberated?”
“No, captain. He died. Influenza...”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be...”
“Do you live at the house, Mrs Gladwin?”
“Lord no, captain. I live in Flash Village. I cycle over several days a week to give the chapel a going over and do some cleaning for Mrs Gray at the main house.”
“There’s a chapel here?”
“Oh yes, a very fine building, built in the old quarry. It’s a bit grand for my tastes.”
“Your tastes?”
“Yes, I’m a Methodist.”
“Right...” Carey’s confession involuntarily moderated Hunloke’s opinion of Mrs Gladwin. He found her pleasantly appealing, her wounds a commonality with his own disfigurements that created an attractiveness with which those not so blessed might find hard to empathise. However, religion of any domination sat uncomfortably with Thaddeus Hunloke.
“I must get on to the house. The soldiers are going to repair my puncture,” declared Carey.
“Could we take a look?” he asked, “at the house, I mean...?”
Carey hesitated before answering. “I’d rather you didn’t. The Grays don’t like people poking around, as they put it, when no one is at home.”
“You mean the place is empty?”
“Only Mrs Gray is in residence, although she is away visiting her family. I think you’d better wait for her to return.”
Hunloke sensed the duffle-coated woman’s reluctance to allow his hoped for visit to the house. He could only account for her unwillingness as a country dweller’s reservations towards two strangers. Evidently, a visit to Flash House would have to wait and he found the notion a disappointment on a par with his father’s refusal to take him to watch West Ham play on his eight birthday. He thought it an anomalous recollection, for he consciously avoided all thoughts concerning his father.
* * *
“Captain Hunloke, I have a letter for you!”
“A letter...?” Hunloke was taken aback by Mrs Hastings’ announcement. As far as he was aware, only Brian Conway and his department knew he was in Derbyshire. He took the offered plain white envelope; his name neatly emblazoned in ink by a flowing hand.
It was early evening and Conway and Christine had already headed upstairs to their rooms at the Red Lion, leaving Hunloke in the bar with the three same men who had been playing dominoes when they had arrived the previous day. He wondered if they were a permanent fixture.
He occupied a table in the quietest corner of the bar and tore open the envelope. For some inexplicable reason, he glanced around him, fearful of prying eyes, before committing himself to reading the text. He read the short missive twice before tucking the letter into his battledress blouse pocket and sat quietly whilst trying to make sense of the message.
That he wasn’t very good company over dinner was hardly noteworthy. Both Conway and Christine had already become accustomed to his brooding silences. Neither of them objected to his quietude, it allowed the naturally loquacious pair to dominate the conversation.
“What do you think, sir?” asked Conway.
“Pardon...?” Hunloke had been miles away.
“Do you think rationing will end next year?”
“I’m going to take a walk after dinner,” answered Hunloke, ignoring the inane question.
“I’ll come with you,” suggested Conway, “I could do with a walk myself.”
“That’s alright, Brian. You stay with Christine. I need time to think.”
“About what? You can discuss things with me if you’d like.” There was a pleading quality to Conway’s suggestion that irked Hunloke.
“Brian, some things in life are not for discussion but for silent contemplation.”
“Ah, right. I get the message...” Hunloke wasn’t sure that the young lieutenant did get the message. He liked Conway well enough despite the youngster’s comparatively privileged background. It was the strange alchemy of war that three such disparate individuals with such different backgrounds should be thrown into each other’s company. There was no way that a peacetime Brian Conway would ever socialise with the likes of Christine Baldwin. Nor with the likes of himself for that matter.
It was approaching eight o’clock when Hunloke donned his double-breasted greatcoat and ventured outside the Red Lion. What he had earlier heard Christine describe as ‘fizzle’ continued to fall. She had to explain that ‘fizzle’ was a fine drizzle and ‘mizzle’ was a misty drizzle.
Whatever was falling from the cold sky, it was wet and invasive.
He hauled up the coat collar and waited outside the door for his eyes to become accustomed to the pitch-black evening. At least someone had whitewashed stripes on the opposite curb. They glinted pallidly in the sodden darkness.
Little by little, his night adaptation kicked in and the cottages across the road became distinct as he peered enquiringly around. The world at night fermented an enigmatic menace that was wholly absent during the day, the arcane sentiment amplified by the rural quietude of Derbyshire. Even in the blackout, London offered what for him was a reassuring soundtrack, affirming life, contesting the tenebrous night.
The home on the extreme right revealed a chink of light through the blackout curtain. In London, such an act of carelessness would have brought down the wrath of the Air Raid Precautions warden upon the householder. Th
e smidgen of light goaded a smile from the uneasy captain, some primeval instinct within him approved of the wholesome luminescence on such a miserable evening.
He stepped out into the road and made for the opposite pavement. Turning right, he headed up the street that twisted towards the parish church, drips from the overhanging trees bounced off the peak of his cap. The Crispin Inn stood next to the village church.
The Crispin was an old pub dating back to the days of the English Civil War. Despite being two stories high, the Crispin had a squat appearance, as though a giant hand had pushed the whole building into the earth. Following his written instructions, he shambled to the far end of the pub, and followed the path towards the rear. Here he found the door, framed by glaucous climbing ivy. He hesitated before trying the door handle.
Stepping over the threshold, he found himself in a private room that on first impressions appeared as dark as the Derbyshire night until his eyes alighted upon a man.
Henry Mills was best described as amorphous. Casual inspection of the twenty-six year old yielded precious little information. He appeared appropriately dressed in a grey double-breasted suit and black tie, his face and manner conveying respectability but little else. He could easily have been one of the thousands of pre-war clerks who worked in middle management, expecting and accruing little recognition until the day they retired to a life of suburban anonymity.
And that was precisely the image Mills worked hard to cultivate.
That in 1939 he had worked for a year in Berlin at a wireless manufacturer without incident said much for Mills’ talents. His one weakness was for the opposite sex and the decadent areas of pre-war Berlin had more than met his needs on that front. Henry Mills was the sort of man you might meet at a dinner party and have forgotten about the following day.
Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1) Page 5
