Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  The careworn face of a moustachioed young man carried a cue in one hand, a tumbler of whisky and a cigar balanced in the other. He appeared to swoon carelessly across the floor, the whisky sloshing in the glass. He narrowly missed tripping over the spread-eagled tiger skin rug lying in front of the fireplace, the defiance of the feline’s eyes and exposed canines shouted the ignominy of his fate, to repose as a trophy rug in the Derbyshire Dales.

  “Fancy another game, Thaddeus? Double or quits...,” declared the lieutenant.

  Thaddeus stood open mouthed, astounded by the appearance of the man who had remained out of sight for the duration of his sojourn at the mansion. His mind demanded to know who he was and why he had been hiding. Yet when the words emerged from his mouth, they were not the ones he had intended.

  “You’re a glutton for punishment tonight, Tommy. Better go easy on the fire water,” came Thaddeus’ reply. After a moment’s hesitation, he wondered why he had been concerned by his response. It was, after all, the obvious thing to say.

  “Why, Thad?”

  “You have to catch the boat train tomorrow; you know what a lousy sailor you are.”

  “Well, all the more reason to be tight, old boy...” Tommy placed the tumbler carelessly on the edge of the table. “Tell you what, let’s change the stakes.”

  “To what?”

  “Well, let me see what you really want. How about, if you win, I let you sleep with Connie.” Tommy offered Thaddeus a lascivious drunken grin.

  “You what? What the hell are you saying, Tommy?” retorted Thaddeus angrily.

  “Come on, Thad. Don’t go pretending you haven’t got the hots for my darling wife.”

  “Tommy, you’re way out of line! I’ll excuse you this once because of the booze!”

  “You’ll excuse me? Well, that’s damned decent of you, old boy! Don’t think I don’t know you haven’t been thinking about canoodling with her when I’m not here. Looking after poor Connie while her old man is fighting the Hun. Double or quits. If you win, you can have your wicked way with Connie. And if I win...”

  “Tommy, stop it right now, it’s not funny!” shouted Thaddeus.

  “Funny? I’m deadly serious... Double or quits... If you win, you can plough Connie to your heart’s content. If I win, you’re going to shoot me in the leg with that bloody revolver you’re carrying. Deal?”

  “Don’t be absurd, man! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

  “Au contraire, Thaddeus. I know exactly what I’m saying... We became drunk and you accidently shot me in the leg. No more Belgium, no more bloody war!”

  “You’re talking madness, Tommy!”

  “Madness? Madness is to return to France and have another go at the Boche. You know, I really don’t want to fight anymore. I’ve had quite enough...”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying...”

  “Oh, that’s handsome coming from the gallant hero of the BEF, who won the MC and then caught a Blighty One, which conveniently ended his time at the crease. Your war was over before it bloody well started!”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about...”

  “No idea? It’s you who has no damned idea! You never even saw a bloody trench; the cavalry were still cavorting around on their fillies when you were there! The mud, the stench, the filth! You have no bloody idea!”

  “Everyone gets scared, Tommy...,” said Thaddeus quietly.

  “I’m not bloody scared... Not anymore, I’m tired... You have to be alive to be scared. I died a dozen times during the first two months on the Somme. Two bloody years later, and I’m now dying in that dung heap of Belgium at a place the men can’t even pronounce properly. Fucking ‘Wipers’ they call it! You know, a lot of the lads are still actually enjoying the war. The brainless oiks still prefer being shelled and gassed or bored out of their fucking minds, fed and watered at his Majesty’s expense rather than working in some cotton mill or toiling on the land from dawn to dusk. Can you believe it? ‘One more push, lads!’ and they still cheer...”

  “We’re beating the Hun back on all fronts. They won’t last long now the Yanks are doing their bit.”

  “Well, would someone kindly tell the Boche to stop shooting at me!” spat Tommy, his red-rimmed eyes blazing manically.

  “You’ll be fine, Tommy. Returning after being wounded can’t be easy.”

  “Says the man who never returned...” Tommy appeared to deflate before Thaddeus. The youthful, dynamic countenance vanished, revealing a grey, inanimate visage.

  “It’s not true what you think about Constance and I, Tommy.”

  Tommy leant against his billiard cue, his head bowed in defeat. “I know, Thaddeus... I’m sorry. I’m tired, my friend. I’ve bloody had it... I’m done in...” The lieutenant began to cry, his chest heaving as he tried to suppress the involuntary convulsions. “I’m shot away... done in...” His sobbing abruptly ceased and he looked up with pleading eyes. “Thaddeus...?”

  “Yes, Tommy?”

  “For the love of God, If you are truly my friend, shoot me in the leg...”

  Chapter 13 – Misty Encounters.

  Tuesday, 28th November 1944.

  Was it the unfamiliar sensation of the arm around his chest that first alerted him to the fact that not all was quite right? He cagily opened one eye to the darkened room and felt a throbbing in the frontal lobe above his peering eye. Hunloke grimaced in recognition of the thick head and not for the first time, cursed the discovery of alcohol.

  With concerns for his head taken care of, he turned his attention to the hand across his chest. The hand felt small and he traced the outline of the diamond engagement ring and circular wedding band. Continuing the journey, he felt the sleeve of a fluffy garment and rolled over to his left. Lying on her right side lazed the apparently sleeping figure of Poppy Gray. Her neatly styled hair of the previous evening looked tussled and fell artlessly across her smooth brow.

  “Oh, Jesus...,” he muttered.

  “No, I’m Poppy,” she whispered, her eyes remaining shut.

  “What are you doing here?” The words were voiced with a tone of exasperation and curiosity.

  “Don’t worry, Artie. Your virtue is intact.”

  “My virtue, what about yours...?”

  “Do you think for a second that I would do anything with a hideous ogre like you?” She smiled lazily with her eyes tightly clamped.

  “Why are you here?” He flinched, his escalating emotions inducing a needle stab to his forehead.

  “I was here to comfort you after your escapade in the billiard room. You were rather shaken and I didn’t think you should be left alone. Ergo... You’re a terrible snorer by the way...”

  He sat up, exposing the curled up, dressing gown-clad Poppy, and switched on the bedside lamp. Poppy scowled and reached for the bed covers and tugged them back in place. “What time is it?” she asked.

  He blinked at his watch on his left wrist. “A little after seven.”

  “Hopefully Trotter kept the boiler fire going last night, I need a bath. You can get in after me. Waste not, want not, as someone recently said...”

  “I don’t give a shit about a bath, what happened last night?” he demanded angrily.

  “You really ought to. I don’t know when you last took a bath but you were rather whiffy last night.”

  “I had a bath last Sunday. What happened last night?”

  “I believe I coaxed you into dancing to ‘Begin the Beguine’ by your new favourite, Artie Shaw. I think that was definitely the highlight of the evening...”

  “No, I mean in the billiard room. Was I sleepwalking?” He made the declaration as if it was an act of obscenity.

  “I really don’t know. You were wafting your weapon around, and I’m referring to your indecently large revolver. You were mumbling that you had no intention of shooting him in the leg when I found you.”

  “What happened to...,” he paused whilst struggling for a name, “... Tommy?”


  “Tommy...?” enquired Poppy quietly. Her right eye blinked open and stared up at the agitated officer.

  “Yes, the guy I was talking to... I think?” He vaguely recalled the conversation, yet it retained a whimsical, illusive quality. “Who is he? He mentioned a wife named Connie.”

  “That sounds like Eddie’s Uncle Thomas and his wife, Constance.”

  “You never told me they lived here.”

  “What were you talking about?” She spoke in a manner that belied her usual flippancy.

  “The war...”

  “Which war?”

  “What do you mean, ‘which war’?”

  “I mean exactly what I said, Hunloke from the Camp.”

  Thaddeus Hunloke paused again. The conversation in the billiard room slowly resolved itself whilst he sat up in bed staring at his reflection in the dressing table mirror. He wanted a cigarette but until Brian Conway arrived with his gear, he only had one left.

  “But that’s crazy...,” he murmured quietly, recalling references to the Somme and Ypres.

  “No crazier than you wafting your big thing around in a billiard room in the pitch dark,” she chided. “Uncle Thomas died in 1918. Never found his body, his name is on the Menin Gate at Ypres. There is an empty tomb for him in the chapel crypt if you want to see it.”

  “No, I don’t want to bloody see it, thank you very much! Remind me not to drink your bloody whisky again or eat that spicy curry!”

  “I don’t think curry or whisky has anything to do with it. I told you Flash has ghosts.”

  “I thought you were going to have a bath!” shouted Hunloke irritably.

  “Well, I see Mr Grumpy is back. I don’t know. You’d kick a poor girl out of your bed. There’s gratitude for you...” She suppressed the giggle that might normally have accompanied her statement and rolled reluctantly from her side of the bed before straightening her gown and hair. “Breakfast is at eight. By the way, at Flash we ‘take’ a bath, not ‘have’ a bath. I’ll give you a shout when the bathroom is free. You really ought to take a bath, you do pong...”

  Hunloke sat reflectively alone on the edge of the bed. All thoughts regarding the forth-coming day were dismissed as an annoying irrelevance whilst he grappled with the implausible events that had occurred during the night. What had obviously been a case of sleepwalking disturbed him greatly. He had never sleepwalked in his life; that it should happen in a place like Flash House gave him some sense of relief. It was the weirdest of places after all.

  He guessed he should have been grateful to the equally peculiar Poppy Gray for coming to his rescue. That she should choose to remain with him, well, there were many eccentric traits to the young woman. Perhaps such things were far more common with the rarefied gentry than with the hoi polloi. He had no idea how long he sat and brooded. He was roused by the appearance of Poppy’s head, peering around the bedroom door.

  “Bath, now, Artie...” Her order brooked no dissent.

  Breakfast in the refectory was only porridge and toast that morning but it was sufficient to clear the mind of Thaddeus Hunloke. His headache had mercifully vanished with the admittedly pleasing hot bath. He seldom bathed except for his Sunday night wallow, his Army life had generally consisted of cold showers, when they were available. Despite wearing the same clothes as the previous few days, he felt a good deal fresher. Nevertheless, the ablutions had done little to soften his mood.

  “There was a phone call from the camp whilst you bathed,” declared Poppy from her position at the head of the table. He said nothing, waiting for the message and only spoke when she showed little inclination with regards to imparting him with the information.

  “Well, what was it?” he asked cantankerously.

  “Oh, yes... Sergeant Donnagan said that Mr Conway had a flat battery. He said they would be here as soon as they got the Austal started.

  “It’s Sergeant Donovan and the car is an Austin. What time did he say they’d be here?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Did you not think to ask?”

  “No, major. I didn’t. What’s the rush?”

  “The rush? The rush is we have five escaped POW’s!”

  “Will they allow the work parties back here? They really are doing a sterling job.”

  “I hardly think they’re going to allow a load of Hun to go wandering around the estate when they’ve mislaid five of them!”

  “I’m sure they’ll turn up. They probably got bored of being cooped up.”

  “Bored? They are supposed to be cooped up! They’re enemy POW’s, not damned holiday makers on a Baedeker tour!”

  “Well, they successfully fixed the leaking roof, which is more than one can say for the Gently brothers from Matlock.”

  “So you actually enjoy having them here?”

  “They’re a good deal politer than you, major.”

  “Captain, I’m a captain...,” groaned Hunloke.

  The Austin ground to a halt on the forecourt of Flash House at almost ten o’clock that morning. The fog stubbornly refused to yield; the visibility remained less than fifty yards.

  “Good God, the place is very...”

  “... Gothic,” replied Brian Conway to Christine’s exclamation. “It’s like something Mary Shelley might write about.”

  “I have no idea who she is and to be honest, I couldn’t tell you what this place looks like other than weird.”

  “It’s an awesome sight, especially in the fog. And we have to stay here? Give me the Red Lion any day,” tutted Conway.

  “Don’t you like it, Brian?” Christine resisted the urge to touch his arm, which loitered so close to her own.

  “Not particularly...”

  “I think it’s rather quirky. It reminds me of Mr Hunloke, all pointy and prickly.”

  He laughed easily as he did when alone with the corporal. “You can say that to me, Chrissie, but I wouldn’t say it in front of him.” He rode in the front seat beside the corporal driver and swung open the door. The day was deceptively chilly and he shivered when the cold air flooded into the comparative warmth of the staff car. “I’ll get the things out of the back,” he commented before stepping out of the car.

  He struggled with the cases and dropped them upon the gravel. There was something about the house that raised his hackles. He was shaken further by the appearance of a young woman wearing a beige duffle coat and brown corduroy trousers. The most intriguing aspect about her was the red knitted bobble hat with an eponymous red bobble affixed to the top. He guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised to see her escorted by the lanky Captain Thaddeus Hunloke.

  “Lieutenant Conway, I presume!” Poppy marched exaggeratedly towards the bemused Conway with her hand outstretched in greeting as she might a visiting hockey captain. Conway noticed the wearisome shake of Hunloke’s head. “Welcome to Flash! I’m Poppy, this is the major.”

  “He knows who I am, Mrs Gray,” lamented Hunloke.

  Conway lightly took her hand with uncertainty and chose simply to nod his reply with a polite smile. At that moment, Christine stepped out from the Austin.

  “A fellow lady!” declared Poppy.

  “She’s not a lady. She’s a corporal. Corporal Baldwin, to be precise,” stated Hunloke.

  Poppy appeared genuinely delighted at the prospect of female companionship. “Shame on you, Artie! We can’t have an imbalance of the sexes.”

  “This is not a weekend in the country, Mrs Gray. We’re here to do a job of work.”

  “Oh, it will be so good to have some female company staying at the house. Come, my dear. Let me show you around...” Poppy took the confused Christine by the hand. The corporal looked to Hunloke for guidance and he gave a curt nod of approval, allowing Christine to yield to Poppy’s insistent tug.

  “Is she for real?” asked Conway. He and Hunloke watched Poppy escorting the bewildered Christine into the house.

  “I’m not sure anything about this place is for real, she’s certainly an odd one, make no m
istake...,” replied the captain.

  “Did she call you Artie?”

  “She did, and don’t you dare ask why...”

  “I called in on the camp on the way here for the latest,” said Conway.

  “Excellent, you can tell me all about it in a mo. First things first.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Can I cadge a fag...?”

  Poppy deemed that the new arrivals could set up a makeshift office in the library. The room exhibited all the expected traits of a library, except in reality the room had been used for many years as a family sitting room; hence, the thick-pile floral carpet of reds, yellows and blues. Comfortable, if somewhat worn, sofas and armchairs were arranged around the generous stone fireplace. A vaulted oak beamed ceiling dominated the room, its aging timber permeating the space with an organic soothing ambience.

  Hunloke had cleared the desk of clutter whilst awaiting his team and found a table to act as a surrogate desk for Conway. A fire crackled reassuringly in the grate. It may not have yet heated the room but it at least took the edge off the musty dampness loitering in the air. The captain decided for now to leave Corporal Baldwin in Poppy’s care, somewhere in the nearby morning room, whatever that might be. At least it kept Poppy out of his hair for a while.

  “The Bedford truck has been found,” affirmed Conway. Hunloke lounged behind the ornate desk whilst Conway reposed on the opposite side. The lieutenant felt as if he was being interviewed by a police inspector, which was not entirely far from the truth.

  “Where?” asked the smoking Hunloke.

  “About twenty miles away, near a place called Mansfield. It seems the truck was heading east. They found two bodies in the rear. One belonging to the British driver, the other was one of the Jerries.”

  “So not only have we escaped prisoners but presumably a murder enquiry. That’s an entirely different kettle of fish.”

  “They don’t know how they died yet but both men had their faces smashed in. Rather gory I’d imagine. We have the names of both men.”