Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  Hunloke reflected upon the fact that many months had elapsed since he had last driven a vehicle. He gleaned an unexpected pleasure from the solitary excursion. Powering over the crest of the last rise, if the limited horsepower provided by the Austin could so be described, he spied the market town of Chesterfield in the valley below.

  It remained a grey, overcast November day and the town appeared monotone beneath the leaden sky. Smoke from the town’s many engineering factories rose lazily from the myriad of chimneystacks and lacked any inclination to dissipate, choosing instead to shroud the town in a veil of melancholy. The Crooked Spire stood proud and twisted with maligned intent before disappearing from view when he descended from the scenic dales towards the suburbs of the town.

  As he had been instructed, he parked at the roadside beside the high brick wall surrounding Queens Park and found the entrance that sliced through the brickwork. The park came as a pleasant revelation. He had quite forgotten it was Saturday and the afternoon saw many of the town dwellers making use of the recreational area. Courting couples walked awkwardly together whilst youngsters ran around with the pointless expenditure of energy that only they had in excess during the bleak month of late 1944.

  Hunloke could hardly fail to find the cricket pavilion and easily spotted the seated figure of Henry Mills. He looked for all the world to be enjoying an imaginary game of cricket out on the empty square.

  “Do you like cricket, Thaddeus?” asked Mills when Hunloke had settled on the damp seat beside him, having carefully ensured he rested upon the tail of his greatcoat.

  “It’s alright. More of a football man myself.”

  “Who’s your team?”

  “The Hammers.”

  “Arsenal man, myself. I used to play soccer for Harrow and a bit of cricket. Topped the averages in thirty-four. That was the pinnacle of my sporting career.”

  “Didn’t you row for Oxford?” asked Hunloke, for the first time revealing a little of his natural facetiousness to Mills. The intelligence man appreciated the display of pluck from the Londoner.

  “Steady on, old chap, I should challenge you to a duel for such an insult. I’m a Cambridge boy. The most loyal university to his Majesty. You won’t see any Cambridge boy betray his country like those fags on the Isis. How was Feldwebel Grass?”

  “I liked him.”

  “Knew you would.”

  “He was a school teacher.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I asked Brian how long we were supposed to be here. He said as long as it took. Is that the case?”

  “It might be from his perspective. I’m not sure from ours.”

  “And what exactly is our perspective?”

  “Your perspective is to gain the confidence of Grass.”

  “But I can only interview him a couple of times before the exercise becomes pointless.”

  “Then think of some pretext to extend the interviews.”

  “I don’t understand what this is all about. He’s going to become suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what? There is nothing for him to become suspicious about unless he is hiding something.”

  “And what is he supposed to be hiding?”

  “I don’t know, maybe nothing. That is for you to find out. Talk to him again on Monday.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  “Because Sunday is a day of rest. Let the camp stew for twenty-four hours.”

  “And what am I supposed to do in the mean time?”

  “Enjoy the Derbyshire countryside. Get some fresh air in your lungs. It’ll do you good...”

  The Fates play games with the lives of men, none more so than in wartime when the world is in chaos. Hunloke managed to take a wrong turn in the Austin. He drove through the bustling streets of Chesterfield and stopped at a junction, looking about him for a likely road to take him back towards the camp. He cursed the lack of road signs. Surely they could have been replaced now that the threat of invasion was next to non-existent?

  It was then that he spotted the familiar, tall figure of Carey Gladwin. Coincidence it may have been but the revelation he garnered was shocking and equally upsetting.

  Carey was talking to a woman. That in itself was hardly unnatural but the manner by which she communicated certainly was. Hunloke only observed the conversation for a few seconds but its animated nature quickly revealed that Carey was not lip-reading. She glanced his way, her attention perhaps drawn by the familiar staff car and her jaw dropped when she recognised the unmistakable captain.

  Hunloke pulled the staff car around the corner to the right. He was unsure of why he felt so angry. It was none of his business if Carey had chosen to deceive him and Christine. However, the more he thought about it, the more he decided it was his business. The police officer’s curiosity that he had lived by for the last four years reasserted itself. Why had she chosen to deceive him? What advantage could it possibly afford her?

  The apparently trivial deceit festered while Hunloke found his way out of Chesterfield. He was surrounded by intrigue and disinformation that annoyed his professional sense of fair play. Her duplicity was something that he could address and vowed he most certainly would.

  Chapter 7 - Flash Village.

  Sunday, 26th November 1944.

  Was there ever a day like Sunday?

  Britain may have been enduring its fifth year of war but that inescapable fact seemed not to have filtered into the depths of rural Derbyshire. It could be said that it was for this very reason the country was fighting, to maintain its traditions, its cherished way of life. The Sabbath remained the Sabbath and Herr Hitler was not going to change that.

  The POW’s at Flash Camp had a day of comparative leisure. A football match had been arranged between hut 11 and hut 15, to be played on the camp recreation ground. Money and cigarettes were wagered on the outcome. The camp theatrical society were to rehearse their adaptation of Dickens’s ‘A Christmas Carol’ and Günter Grass was preparing notes for his English language studies class, which was proving very popular with the men.

  Christine Baldwin had been granted leave to visit her parents in Derby. Brian Conway hid his disappointment well, but not well enough to conceal his frustration from Hunloke. Conway claimed he was going to review his notes and perhaps take a walk up to the local landmark of Fabric Rock to discover if it was true that on a clear day Lincoln Cathedral might be spied forty-five miles away. Hunloke reasoned there was little hope of that with the prevalent cloud cover.

  Thaddeus Hunloke had his own plans. Sergeant Donovan grudgingly allowed him to borrow one of the camp’s Norton motorcycles and the resolute NCO had procured a thick waterproof jacket and RAF flying helmet from the camp stores.

  Conway was fascinated by the sight of Hunloke garbed in the provided paraphernalia and stood as an amused and attentive bystander whilst his captain packed his battered service hat into the cycle’s side pannier.

  “Are you sure you know how to ride that thing?” asked Conway, watching Hunloke struggling to fit the leather helmet over his blonde hair.

  “Of course I do! I was riding these things before you were bloody born!” replied Hunloke, hacked off by Conway’s insistence on witnessing his departure.

  “I hardly think so; you’re only five years older than me. Anyway, you still haven’t told me where you’re going. This is two days in a row you’ve sneaked off. There isn’t some woman you’re not telling me about, is there?”

  Hunloke cast Conway a scathing look, extracting a smile from the lieutenant. Conway thought the captain looked even more Germanic with his head encased in leather and his scar tinged with red on this cold morning. He looked positively Gothic, a worthy member of von Richthofen’s Flying Circus. It was as well the Home Guard had been disbanded, for any zealous patriot would never believe Thaddeus Clifford Hunloke was a British officer.

  “If you don’t tell me where you’re going, I’ll have to include it in my report. ‘Captain Hunloke absconded for a second day without
giving forwarding details’.” Conway grinned to show there was no intent in his suggestion, despite being technically in the right.

  “Look, Brian. If you must know, I’m going to Flash Village to see if I can track down Mrs Gladwin. If you want me, leave a bloody message at the village post office, if it’s open, which it won’t be, so there’s no point.”

  “So it is some filly you’re after. You sly old dog! Chrissie told me about Mrs Gladwin.”

  “‘Chrissie’?”

  “Yes, Corporal Baldwin.”

  “I know who the hell you meant! ‘Chrissie’ just doesn’t sound right.”

  “I think it sounds rather sweet...”

  “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late for church...”

  It was with some difficulty that Hunloke finally managed to get the motorbike engine started. It took five attempts at the kick-start before the engine caught, by which time he had lost all sense of feeling in his numb right calf muscle. He was grateful for the thick leather gauntlets. Even so, his hands were deadened with cold by the time he reached the bottom of the escarpment and his facial scar tissue ached against the wind chill buffeting his face.

  The village of Flash lay perhaps half a mile beyond the boundaries of the Flash Estate, nestling amongst the last outcrop of trees and pasture before the land yielded to gorse and peaty moorland. The village was a favoured watering hole for grouse shooters who enjoyed the privilege of shooting on the Duke of Devonshire’s nearby lands.

  The village had been denuded of folk by the war but carried on as best it could. Flash boasted sixteen children who attended the local school and a public house that kept going thanks to the off duty guards from Flash Camp. Aside from the village cottages and schoolhouse, the only other amenities of note were the village post office and the Methodist chapel.

  He parked the motorcycle on its side stand next to the war memorial. Whilst unbuttoning the heavy jacket, he allowed his eyes to scan the brass plaque honouring the four villagers who had given their lives during the Great War. He doubted the war had been ‘great’ for them. It said much for the Gray family that they should chose to erect such a substantial memorial for only four villagers. The Grays, by practice, were experts at commemorating death.

  The strains of singing voices suddenly floated on the restless, cold air and he turned instinctively towards the source of the sound. To the right of the memorial, set back from the road, stood the stone built chapel, its apex slate roof running back away from the road. He straightened his cap and limped towards the chapel to the accompaniment of the predominantly female voices singing ‘To be a Pilgrim’.

  He was caught in two minds whether to enter the chapel or yield to the instinct that urged him to flee the place of worship. His last two visits to church had been to the funerals of his wife and son. Elsa had attended church every Sunday. He hoped it had offered her the solace denied to her during her secular life. His own faith had never been strong and all but vanished after the death of his son.

  Respectfully removing his cap, he pushed open the outer wooden door and entered the narrow windowless vestibule. After easing open the internal door, he hovered just inside the chapel proper. He sniffed the air, detecting the odour of musty, ascetic piety. Two banks of pews ran towards the raised wooden pulpit. He knew nothing about Methodist liturgy; all he knew, rightly or wrongly, about Methodists was that they weren’t supposed to drink. He failed the membership test on that one point alone.

  He was impressed by the passion with which Bunyan’s hymn was performed and it made him feel like a despicable hypocrite, who at any moment might be smote down by a vengeful God for having dared set foot inside the virtuous space. He stood awkwardly at the rear of the chapel just long enough to see Carey Gladwin sitting alone in a pew at the back of the congregation. He glanced sheepishly at the balding Methodist Minister who was watching him from his pulpit.

  With the eyes of God boring into him, Thaddeus Hunloke tactically withdrew from the chapel.

  Three cigarettes were consumed whilst he restlessly sheltered in the lee of the wall by the memorial, waiting for the service to finish. It was the shouts of the children that attracted his attention. He extinguished his final cigarette beneath the sole of his boot and watched the worshipers milling from the chapel. Carey was the last to leave. Wrapped in a red woollen coat and matching beret, she was in conversation with the minister when Hunloke shuffled back up the path towards the building.

  Carey was the first to notice the scarred officer. Her face betrayed a look of alarm and she darted back inside the chapel, prompting the minister to look sharply down the path to see what had startled her. With Hunloke continuing his advance, the minister stepped down from the step to bar the pilgrim’s progress.

  “Good morning, captain. How can I help?” enquired the minister.

  “‘Morning, sir. I was wondering if I might have a word with Mrs Gladwin.”

  “And why would that be, captain?”

  “I spoke with Mrs Gladwin recently at Flash House. There is something I would like to run by her...” He let his statement hang in the cold air.

  “And what brings you to Flash House? Ah, yes, the camp I must assume.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Please, captain, my name is Richard. Would you like a cup of tea? You do look cold...”

  Hunloke’s initial reaction was to decline the offer but there was something disarming about the minister’s offer that overruled his natural reluctance. “Thank you, I think I might just do that.”

  At the head of the chapel, behind the pulpit, lay a small kitchen and it was there that Richard Rogers ushered Hunloke. Perhaps Rogers guessed that was where Carey would be hiding. The preacher disappeared for many minutes leaving Hunloke alone, kicking his heels, questioning the reasons for visiting this hellish, Godly place. Before his resolve finally gave up the ghost, he was summoned.

  “Hello, Mrs Gladwin,” he said with forced politeness. He gave a restrained smile, being well aware that his lopsided grin wasn’t particularly endearing to most people. Carey turned her head to one side, presenting him with her left profile. It had become an instinctive foible.

  “Hello, captain,” she replied awkwardly.

  “Perhaps you’d like to make some tea for us, Carey,” suggested Rogers, “whilst I have a word with the captain in my office. If you’ll follow me, captain...?”

  “Hunloke, Thaddeus Hunloke,” confirmed the visitor.

  The tiny office lay adjacent to the kitchen and Rogers pointed to a chair whilst he slid behind his desk. “I see you have a limp, Captain Hunloke,” stated Rogers. He leant back in his chair and placed his hands together as if in prayer.

  “Yes, Dunkirk.”

  “I know I don’t look old enough, but I was in the last war, with the Sherwood Foresters.” Rogers smiled modestly.

  “Were you a padre?”

  “Goodness no, started out a young second lieutenant, finished as a captain. I took up the ministry afterwards.”

  “I’m sorry...”

  “Sorry I joined the church?”

  “No, that I assumed you were a padre and not...” Hunloke didn’t know how to finish what he had started. Despite his atheism, clerics of all denominations made him nervous. He found faith a disturbing asset to countenance.

  “I saw many brave acts by padres from all faiths during the war. They were braver men than I ever was,” declared Rogers affably.

  “Where were you?”

  “All over the place. Saw action first in 1916 and fortunately saw it through to the end. Many of my friends didn’t...”

  “Officer casualty-rates were disproportionately high in the Great War.”

  Rogers smiled sombrely. “Casualties were high all round... So too was boredom. Carey told me what happened at Flash, how she pretended to be deaf. Is that the reason for your anger?”

  “I’m not angry,” bristled the captain, “but I did see her by chance in C
hesterfield yesterday. She clearly wasn’t deaf from what I could see.”

  “I see... And you felt annoyed. Interesting... Now you want to establish why she lied to you?”

  Hunloke was irked by the minister’s succinct summing up of his motives. He hated to think he was so easy to read. “Yes, I do...”

  “You suspect some evil purpose?”

  “I suspect there is a reason she performed a convincing charade...”

  “You act more like a policeman than an Army officer.”

  “I’ve been a policeman for four years.”

  Rogers nodded knowingly but in truth had very little idea with whom he was dealing. “What if I was to tell you it was because of her self-loathing?”

  Hunloke paused before answering. It wasn’t exactly what he had anticipated. His police interrogation experience provided his next line. “Go on...”

  “Mrs Gladwin has just told me what happened.” He paused for effect. “When she met you the other day she was attempting to end her life...”

  “Suicide...?” Hunloke definitely had not expected that explanation.

  “Yes. After a visit to Flash Chapel, she had every intention of letting you run her over. Your driver ably prevented that happening. Afterwards, feeling overcome by remorse, she performed her trick, which she has used many times before. She is partially hard of hearing, and finds lip-reading a useful tool in her armoury.”

  “What about her eye and scarring? Are they related?”

  “That was her husband... He got drunk one night, came home and beat her. He is buried somewhere in Italy, perhaps the kindest thing he ever did for Carey...”

  “So why try to kill herself?”

  “As I said, self-loathing, guilt. She is a complex woman.”

  “What has she to feel guilty about?”

  “That she is alive. The rest of her immediate family were killed during the Sheffield Blitz.”

  It was an odd conceit shared by many Londoners, Hunloke included, to believe that only the capital had suffered at the hands of the Luftwaffe. Britain may have been fighting a global war but the home front remained very parochial in nature. “She’s from Sheffield?”