After a bacon sandwich and half a pint of Courage in a dockside pub, he wished his two crew members good luck before they boarded a train for Portsmouth, and he set off on the return voyage to Jersey. Robin checked his watch and reckoned he should be back in time to join Diana for breakfast.
Robin slipped back into St. Helier before first light. He had just stepped onto the dock when the fist landed in his stomach, causing him to double up in pain and collapse onto his knees. He was about to protest when he realized that the two uniformed men who were now pinning him to the ground were not speaking English.
He didn’t waste any time protesting as they marched him down the High Street and into the nearest police station. There was no friendly desk sergeant on duty to greet him. He was pushed roughly down a flight of stone steps before being flung into a cell. He felt sick when he saw Diana seated on a bench against the wall. She jumped up and ran to him as the cell door slammed behind them.
“Are they safe?” she whispered as he held her in his arms.
“Yes,” he replied. “But a spell in prison isn’t going to help my membership application for the Royal Jersey,” he remarked, trying to lighten the mood. Diana didn’t laugh.
They didn’t have long to wait before the heavy iron door was pulled open once again. Two young soldiers marched in, grabbed Robin by the elbows and dragged him back out. They led him up the stairs and out onto an empty street. There were no locals to be seen in any direction as a curfew had been imposed. Robin assumed that he was about to be shot, but they continued to march him up the high street, and didn’t stop until they reached the Bailiff’s Chambers.
Robin had visited the seat of local government many times in the past, as each new bailiff required his dress robes to be spotless on inauguration day, a ceremony he and Diana always attended. But on this occasion Robin was led into the front office, where he found a German officer seated in the Bailiff’s chair. One look at his crisp uniform suggested that he wasn’t going to inquire about Chapman’s services.
“Mr. Chapman,” the officer said with no trace of an accent, “my name is Colonel Kruger, I am the new commandant for the Channel Islands. Perhaps you could start by telling me why you took Lord Trent back to England?”
Robin didn’t reply.
“No doubt Lord and Lady Trent are enjoying breakfast at the Ritz Hotel while you languish in jail for your troubles.” The officer rose and walked across the room, coming to a halt when the two men were standing face to face. “If you feel unable to assist me, Mr. Chapman, you and your wife will remain in jail until there is space on a ship to transport you to the Fatherland.”
“But my wife was not involved,” Robin protested.
“In normal circumstances, I would be willing to accept your word, Mr. Chapman, but as your wife was Lord Trent’s secretary . . .” Robin said nothing. “You will be sent to one of our less well-appointed camps, unless, of course, one of you decides to enlighten me on the reason Lord Trent needed to rush back to England.”
Robin and Diana remained in their tiny cell for nineteen days. They were fed on bread and water, which until then Robin had always assumed was a Dickensian myth. He began to wonder if the authorities had forgotten about them.
He managed to pick up snippets of information from those islanders who had been forced to work at the police station, but the only thing of any consequence he was able to find out was that German ships were docking at St. Helier regularly to unload more soldiers, arms, and ammunition.
On the twentieth morning, one of their informants told them that a ship would be arriving from Hamburg the following day, and that he had seen their names on the embarkation log for its return journey. Diana wept. Robin never slept while his wife was awake.
In the middle of the night, when they were both sleeping fitfully, the cell door was pulled open without warning. Two German soldiers stood in the doorway. One of them asked politely if Mr. Chapman would join them. Robin was puzzled by the officer’s courteous manner, and wondered if this was how German soldiers behaved just before they shot you.
He accompanied the soldiers up the stairs. Was he being escorted to the ship? Surely not, or they would have taken Diana as well. Once again he was taken down the street in the direction of the Bailiff’s Chambers, but this time the soldiers walked by his side, making no attempt to hold onto him.
When he entered the Bailiff’s office, Colonel Kruger looked up from behind his desk, an anxious look on his face. He didn’t waste his words. “The ship that was meant to transport prisoners to Hamburg has struck a rock just outside the harbor.” Robin wondered which brave islander had managed to remove the warning lights. “It’s sinking fast,” continued the colonel. “The lives of all those on board will be lost, including several civilians, unless the lifeboat is sent out to rescue them.” He avoided saying “my countrymen.”
“Why are you telling me this, Colonel?” asked Robin.
“The lifeboat crew is refusing to cast off without their head launcher, so I am asking you—” he paused—“begging you, to join them before it’s too late.”
Strange, the things that pass through one’s mind when faced with a moral dilemma, Robin thought. He knew the directive by heart. It is the duty of every member of the RNLI to go to the aid of anyone in distress on the high seas, irrespective of their nationality, color, or creed, even if they are at war with Britain. He nodded curtly at the colonel.
Out on the street a car was waiting, its door open, to take him to the harbor. Fifteen minutes later they cast off.
Robin and the rest of the crew returned to Arden Rock several times that night. In all, they rescued seventy-three passengers, including eleven German officers and thirty-seven crew members. The remainder were civilians who had been selected to assist in the administration of the island. A cargo of arms, ammunition, and transport vehicles was resting on the bottom of the ocean.
When Robin carried the last of the survivors back to the safety of the island, two German officers were waiting for him as he stepped off the lifeboat. They handcuffed him and escorted him back to the police station. As he walked into the cell, Diana smiled for the first time in days.
When the cell door was opened the following morning, two plates of bacon and eggs, along with cups of hot tea, were laid before them by a young German corporal.
“Last breakfast before they execute us,” suggested Robin as the guard slammed the cell door behind him.
“It wouldn’t be hard to guess what your final request will be,” said Diana, smiling.
A few minutes after they’d devoured their unexpected feast, another soldier appeared and told them he was taking them to the commandant’s headquarters.
“I shall be happy to accompany you to the Bailiff’s Chambers,” said Robin defiantly.
“We’re not going to the Connétable,” said the soldier. “The commandant has requisitioned the golf club as his new headquarters.”
“Your final wish has been granted,” said Diana as she and Robin settled into the back seat of a staff car, which brought a puzzled expression to the young German’s face.
When they arrived at the club, they were taken to Lord Trent’s office. Colonel Kruger stood up and offered them both a seat. Diana sat down, but Robin remained standing.
“This morning,” the colonel said, “I rescinded the order that you were to be shipped to prison in Germany, and issued a new directive, releasing you immediately. You will therefore be allowed to return to your home. Should you be foolish enough to break the law a second time, Mr. Chapman, you will both be aboard the next ship that sails for Germany. Think of it as what’s called, in your country, a suspended sentence.”
The commandant once again rose from behind his desk. “You are a remarkable man, Mr. Chapman. If your fellow countrymen are forged from the same steel, your nation may not prove quite as easy to defeat.”
“Perhaps you should read Henry V,” suggested Robin.
“I have,” replied the commandant. He p
aused and looked out of the window toward the weed-covered eighteenth green before adding, “But I’m not sure the Führer has.”
The remainder of Robin’s war turned out to be something of an anticlimax, except for those occasions when the klaxon sounded and he had to pedal furiously along the seafront to join his crew at the boathouse. He stayed on as the lifeboat’s head launcher while the Germans remained on the island.
During the occupation, members of the Royal Jersey were not permitted to enter the clubhouse, let alone play a round of golf. As the years passed, the finely tended course became so overgrown with weeds and nettles you couldn’t tell where the rough ended and the fairways began. Clubs rusted in the storeroom, and there were only tattered flags fluttering on the ends of their poles to show where the greens had been.
On May 9, 1945, the day after VE day, an advance party of English troops landed on Jersey and the German commandant on the Channel Islands surrendered.
Once the thirty-six thousand intruders had finally departed, the locals quickly did everything in their power to restore the old order. This didn’t prove easy, as the Germans had destroyed many of the island’s records, including applications for membership of the Royal Jersey Golf Club.
Other forms of life did return to normal. Robin and Diana were standing on the dockside waiting to welcome the first ferry from Weymouth when she sailed into St. Helier on July 12.
“Oh my goodness!” cried Diana the moment she saw her children. “How they’ve grown.”
“It’s been more than five years since we last saw them, darling,” Robin was reminding her as a young man accompanied by his teenage sister stepped onto the quayside.
The Chapman family spent six happy weeks together before Harry reluctantly returned to the mainland to take up his place at Durham University, and Kate went back to Weybridge to begin her final year at St. Mary’s; both were looking forward to returning to Jersey at Christmas.
Robin was reading the morning paper when he heard a knock on the door.
“I have a recorded delivery for you, Mr. Chapman,” said the postman. “I’ll need a signature.”
Robin signed on the dotted line, recognizing the crest of the Royal Jersey Golf Club stamped in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. He ripped it open and read the letter as he returned to the kitchen, and read it a second time before he handed it across to Diana.
THE ROYAL JERSEY GOLF CLUB
St. Helier, Jersey
September 9, 1946
Dear Sir,
We have reason to believe that at some time in the past you applied to become a member of the Royal Jersey Golf Club, but unfortunately all our records were destroyed during the German occupation.
If you still wish to be considered for membership of the club, it will be necessary for you to go through the application process once again and we will be happy to arrange an interview.
Should your application prove successful, your name will be placed on the waiting list.
Yours sincerely,
J. L. Tindall (Secretary)
Robin swore for the first time since the Germans had left the island.
Diana could do nothing to console him, despite the fact that his brother was coming across from the mainland to spend his first weekend with them since the end of the war.
Robin was standing on the dockside when Malcolm stepped off the Southampton ferry. Malcolm was able to lift his older brother’s spirits when he told him and Diana all the news about the company’s expansion plans, as well as delivering several messages from their children.
“Kate has a boyfriend,” he told them, “and—”
“Oh, God,” said Robin. “Am I that old?”
“Yes,” said Diana, smiling.
“I’m thinking of opening a fourth branch of Chapman’s in Brighton,” Malcolm announced over dinner that night. “With so many factories springing up in the area, they’re sure to be in need of our services.”
“Not looking for a manager are you, by any chance?” asked Robin.
“Why, are you available?” replied Malcolm, looking genuinely surprised.
“No, he isn’t,” said Diana firmly.
By the time Malcolm took the boat back home to Southend the following Monday, Robin had perked up considerably. He even felt able to joke about attending the interview at the Royal Jersey. However, when the day came for him to face the committee, Diana had to escort him to the car, drive him to the club, and deposit him at the entrance to the clubhouse.
“Good luck,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. Robin grunted. “And don’t even hint at how angry you are. It’s not their fault that the Germans destroyed all the club’s records.”
“I shall tell them they can stick my application form up their jumpers,” said Robin. They both burst out laughing at the latest expression they’d picked up from the mainland. “Do they have any idea how old I’ll be in fifteen years’ time?” he added as he stepped out of the car.
Robin checked his watch. He was five minutes early. He straightened his tie before walking slowly across the gravel to the clubhouse. So many memories came flooding back: the first time he had seen Diana, when she had walked into the bar to speak to her brother; the day he was appointed captain of the club—the first Englishman to be so honored; that missed putt on the eighteenth that would have won him the President’s Cup; not being able to play in the final the following year because he’d broken his arm; the evening Lord Trent had asked him to sail him to the mainland because the Prime Minister needed his services; the day a German officer had shown him respect and compassion after he had saved the lives of his countrymen. And now, today . . . he opened the newly painted door and stepped inside.
He looked up at the portrait of Harry Vardon and gave him a respectful bow, then turned his attention to Lord Trent, who had died the previous year, having served his country during the war as the Minister for Food.
“The committee will see you now, Mr. Chapman,” said the club steward, interrupting his thoughts.
Diana had decided to wait in the car, as she assumed the interview wouldn’t take long. After all, every member of the committee had known Robin for over twenty years. But after half an hour she began to glance at her watch every few minutes, and couldn’t believe that Robin still hadn’t appeared an hour later. She had just decided to go in and ask the steward what was holding her husband up when the clubhouse door swung open and Robin marched out, a grim look on his face. She jumped out of the car and ran toward him.
“Anyone who wishes to reapply for membership cannot hope to be elected for at least another fifteen years,” he said, walking straight past her.
“Are there no exceptions?” asked Diana, chasing after him.
“Only for the new president,” said Robin, “who will be made an honorary life member. The rules don’t seem to apply to him.”
“But that really is so unfair,” said Diana, bursting into tears. “I shall personally complain to the new president.”
“I’m sure you will, my dear,” said Robin, taking his wife in his arms. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll take any notice.”
THE UNDIPLOMATIC DIPLOMAT*
10
Percival Arthur Clarence Forsdyke—his mother called him Percival, while the few friends he had called him Percy—was born into a family, which had played its part in ensuring that the sun never set on the British Empire.
Percy’s grandfather, Lord Clarence Forsdyke, had been Governor General of the Sudan, while his father, Sir Arthur Forsdyke KCMG, had been our man in Mesopotamia. So, naturally, great things were expected of young Percy.
Within hours of entering this world, he had been put down for the Dragon prep school, Winchester College, and Trinity, Cambridge, establishments at which four generations of Forsdykes had been educated.
After Cambridge, it was assumed that Percy would follow his illustrious forebears into the Foreign Office, where he would be expected at least to equal and possibly even to surpass their achi
evements. All might have gone to plan had it not been for one small problem: Percy was far too clever for his own good. He won a scholarship to the Dragon at the age of eight, an election to Winchester College before his eleventh birthday, and the Anderson Classics Prize to Trinity while he was still in short trousers. After leaving Cambridge with a double first in Classics, he sat the Civil Service exam, and frankly no one was surprised when he came top in his year.
Percy was welcomed into the Foreign and Commonwealth Office with open arms, but that was when his problems began. Or, to be more accurate, when the Foreign Office’s problems began.
The mandarins at the FCO, who are expected to identify high flyers worthy of being fast-tracked, came to the reluctant conclusion that, despite Forsdyke’s academic achievements, the young man lacked common sense, possessed few social skills, and cared little for the diplomatic niceties required when representing your country abroad—something of a disadvantage if you wish to pursue a career in the Foreign Office.
During his first posting, to Nigeria, Percy told the Minister of Finance that he had no grasp of economics. The problem was that the minister didn’t have any grasp of economics, so Percy had to be dispatched back to England on the first available boat.
After a couple of years in administration, Percy was given a second chance, and sent to Paris as an assistant secretary. He might have survived this posting had he not told the French President’s wife at a government reception that the world was overpopulated, and she wasn’t helping matters by producing so many children. Percy had a point, as the lady in question had seven offspring and was pregnant at the time, but he was still to be found packing his bags before lunch the following day. A further spell in admin followed before he was given his third, and final, chance.
On this occasion he was dispatched to one of Her Majesty’s smaller colonies in Central Africa as a deputy consul. Within six months he had managed to cause an altercation between two tribes who had lived in harmony for over a century. The following morning Percy was escorted onto a British Airways plane clutching a one-way ticket to London, and was never offered a foreign posting again.
And Thereby Hangs a Tale Page 13
