The Shadow of War

by Jack Murray

  Manfred made sure to stay around the house that day. He knew what was coming and he didn’t want to be accused of instigation, but then how could he not be?

  The knock on the door came just before seven in the evening. The family were at dinner. Leni came into the room. She looked very uncomfortable.

  ‘Yes?’ demanded Peter, ‘Out with it. Who is it?’

  ‘Some people for Manfred, Herr Brehme.’

  Peter glared at his son and said slowly, ‘Really? Well, we’ll see about that.’ He rose sharply from the table and strode out of the dining room into the corridor. There were muffled voices in the corridor at the front door.

  Sometimes the world seems to stop. Time ceases to exist. There is only you. Your breathing. Your heart beating.

  The conversation seemed to last an eternity. Even Renata Brehme was, for once, curious about what was going on. She stood up and went to the door to listen. Manfred did not look at her, although he felt her eyes on him. He wondered what she was thinking. This was unusual. Normally he spent little time thinking about her. He suspected this was reciprocated. And still the talking went on.

  At long last, Peter’s father returned to the room. There was no hiding the anger behind his eyes but the slump in the shoulders told a different story. He looked at his son. The anger seemed to leave him at that moment. His eyes were almost pleading. This time, Manfred felt a stab of pity. It was beginning to dawn on him that something important had happened, but he was too young to understand what. The lines on his father’s face became more apparent to him. They seemed deeper almost. The downward curve of his eyes, which previously had an almost self-righteous piety now seemed to whisper one word: defeat.

  And then he said, ‘You can go.’

  Manfred leapt from the table and left the room without saying goodbye. Peter sat down at the table silently and picked up his knife and fork. He put something in his mouth. After a few moments of chewing, he dabbed the side of his mouth with a napkin, stood up and left the room without a word of explanation.

  Renata heard the door of the study slam shut. Leni looked from the table to Renata.

  ‘Do you want me to clear up?’

  Renata nodded absently, ‘Yes. Perhaps you should.’

  Chapter 3: Britain 1938 - 39

  1

  Little Gloston: Christmas Eve, 1938

  Snow fell softly at first, fluttering in the wind like white butterflies. Soon it became heavier, falling steadily, covering the ground outside the forge in a white blanket. It began to cling to the leafless trees and the houses. The cold had teeth now. There was a bite to the air. It felt almost like a physical presence everywhere except the forge. The forge was its own world. A heated haven.

  Inside the shed, Danny was stripped to the waist, sweating madly only a few feet away from the furnace. He was hammering together two pieces of metal on the anvil. Stan walked in smoking a pipe. He looked at his youngest son. Danny was now as tall as Tom at six feet two. His wide shoulders were heavily muscled yet there was not a spare ounce of flesh on his frame.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, you young fool?’ were Stan’s first words as he came into the forge.

  Danny looked down at his shirt which he’d removed. His father had told him before about hammering iron in this manner. The sparks could burn naked skin. He grinned at his father and said, ‘Don’t worry. Nearly finished. I didn’t want to dirty the shirt. I don’t have anything else to wear for the carol concert.’

  His father shook his head and turned away but then a thought occurred to him and he walked back to the forge.

  ‘By the way, Charles Desmond spoke to me yesterday. He said you’d put the price of horseshoes up.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘When were you thinking of telling me?’ asked Stan.

  ‘You asked me to handle the business affairs. I am. What did you tell Mr Desmond?’

  ‘That you’re handling the business affairs now,’ replied Stan, looking at his sixteen-year-old son, not without a degree of wonder. The boy had been working at the forge for nigh on three years now. He’d grown into a man so quickly. When was it apparent he’d also taken over the business? Stan knew that neither he nor Tom had a head for commerce. Danny had taken to the business side like a bee to flowers. Desmond wasn’t the first farmer to complain to Stan about the change in prices but, oddly, none complained about Danny. They liked him. But they didn’t want to pay more, which was hardly a surprise.

  ‘I’ve put the price up on the shoes. It hasn’t changed since 1929.’

  ‘That long?’ exclaimed Stan in shock. Danny nodded and continued beating the hell out of the iron on the anvil. ‘We should put the prices up then,’ agreed Stan.

  ‘Aye, we should,’ grinned Danny.

  ‘You can tell ‘im yourself, then. I can see him coming now.’

  Danny looked up and, sure enough, in the distance he could see the old farmer walking along the road towards their house. Stan nodded to Danny and left him to deal with the farmer. Putting down his hammer, Danny walked over to the outside sink and pulled the handle for water. He quickly cleaned himself off and then used a towel to remove the excess water. By the time the farmer had arrived, Danny had his shirt on and was sitting waiting for Desmond.

  ‘Hello there, Danny,’ said Desmond. The farmer was a stout man of fifty, with a florid country complexion and grey whiskers impressively resplendent on his cheeks. ‘Did I just see your father there?’

  ‘You did,’ said Danny, grinning widely, ‘He was asking when we’d increased the prices of the shoes.’

  ‘Ah yes, that’s why I’ve come to see you,’ said Desmond. ‘I had a feeling your father knew little about it. He said speak to you.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes. This letter you sent says you’re nearly doubling the price. Look Danny, wheat prices are less than they were ten years ago. I can’t afford this increase, really I can’t.’

  Danny looked sympathetically at the farmer. It was true, the price of wheat had been stagnant for a long time due to imports from abroad and over-capacity in the industry.

  ‘I’ll tell you what, Mr Desmond. We do need to increase the price otherwise we’re losing on every shoe we make. Why don’t we leave the price as it is, but you give us three dozen eggs each week?’

  ‘I see you still want to steal eggs from me, you young scamp. Two dozen.’

  ‘Three dozen, Mr Desmond. You’re not just here to talk to me about the horseshoes, are you?’

  Desmond looked at Danny in surprise and then smiled slowly. Finally, he said, ‘No, I’m not just here to talk about the price of shoes.’

  ‘Your boy Ben wants to work at the forge.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘He does. I can’t interest him in the farm work and as he’s the youngest, the other two lads and the other workers are all I need. Can you use him?’

  ‘Yes,’ responded Danny.

  ‘I’ll send him along.’

  ‘Along with three dozen eggs,’ said Danny with a grin. He held out his hand and the two men shook on the deal.

  After the farmer had left, Danny returned to the house. His father looked up from the table.

  ‘So?’ asked Stan.

  Danny took him through the conversation with Desmond. His father nodded. He was impressed. The solution was fair and took account of Desmond’s situation on the farm. The forge was doing well, and an extra pair of hands was needed.

  ‘What age is the boy?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘More children,’ said his father grumpily, but he was quite pleased with how things had worked out. Danny shot his father a look and laughed.

  ‘I knew you’d be pleased.’

  Tom came down the stairs, dressed in his Sunday suit. He’d caught the end of the conversation.

  ‘More children?’ he asked, looking at his father in surprise.

  His father looked shocked also and removed the pipe from his mouth. Danny, always on the lookout to
for a prank said, ‘Yes, didn’t dad and mum tell you?’

  Tom looked from Danny to his father in shock and even a little disgust. Stan said nothing, half amused at the exchange. Finally, Tom asked, ‘Dad? We’re going to have a baby?’

  By now Stan was in on what Danny was thinking, ‘You look surprised.’

  ‘You’re both a bit old,’ pointed out Tom.

  ‘And you, son, are a bit of a ninny,’ replied Stan more sternly than he felt.

  Tom turned from his sombre-faced father to his brother, who was now laughing so much he had to sit down.

  ‘Very funny.’ Tom turned towards his dad who was also smiling now.

  ‘Danny has organised for the Desmond boy to join us. We need it.’

  ‘We do,’ agreed Tom, sitting down and giving Danny a gentle clip around the head to stop him laughing. Then he continued, ‘How did he take the price rise?’

  Stan told Tom about the new arrangement.

  ‘Good idea, Dan, we’ll be able to feed him n’ all.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, too,’ said Stan. ‘Desmond was one of my first customers; we’re doing right by him and us.’

  This was as close to praise as either Stan or Tom were ever going to get. Not that Danny was worried. As long as they left him to run things, he was happy. Both men also seemed happy that Danny had taken the lead in business matters. So far it seemed to be working well.

  Stan glanced at the two boys together. His boys. Boys? They’d grown up and he couldn’t have felt prouder. Both good, hard-working young men. His heart plummeted as he thought about events long ago. Stan knew how much the future is connected to a past they had no part in shaping. And the skies were darkening for reasons that had nothing to do with snow.

  2

  Around two o’clock, the Shaw family left the house and walked towards St Bartholomew’s church. The church was tiny with light grey brick speckled by dark spots. Alongside the church was a small graveyard. A few odd headstones peaked out from underneath the snow.

  Outside the church, a small crowd had gathered consisting of almost every inhabitant of the village. Young and old alike stood waiting for Reverend Simmons. He would lead them from the church, after his usual prayer, towards Cavendish Hall where they would sing carols, drink punch and mulled wine. The children would be given presents by the lord of the manor, Lord Cavendish.

  Kate Shaw walked out from the cottage. She was arm in arm with Stan. Their sons followed, nodding to their friends as they arrived in the square. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best. This was one of the major celebrations in the village calendar, alongside Easter and Harvest.

  The Shaw family joined the throng. Kate Shaw spotted Bob Owen with Beth Locke and walked over to say hello.

  ‘When are you two going to get hitched?’ asked Kate. Beth gave Bob a playful dig in the ribs.

  ‘You hear that?’ she said. Bob rolled his eyes at Danny who was enjoying Bob’s discomfort immensely. This turned into a frown as Tom joined his mother, ‘Yes, Bob, how long have you two been together? If you’re not careful she may look to another, better looking man.’

  ‘Time enough,’ responded Bob eventually, but with a smile.

  At this point Reverend Simmons made an appearance. The village cheered the Reverend who made a mock bow. He glanced up at the skies. They were a metal grey with speckles of yellow threatening to break through. The snow had stopped for the moment.

  Reverend Simmons held his arm up and a hush descended on his outdoor congregation. He was wrapped up well against the cold. Looking around the crowd he nodded and smiled.

  ‘Let us pray for Christians around the world as we celebrate the birth of Christ. Bless all those who are entrusted with Christian ministry that your Word might be proclaimed with truth and courage across our world. Bestow your wisdom on all who govern, that in honouring the earth and its people, we may celebrate the light of God. Grant reconciliation to those beset with conflict and violence, that they may live in the peace of this holy night.’

  Not a sound could be heard aside from the Reverend’s rich baritone voice. When he finished there was silence and a moment of reflection. Then Simmons looked up and said, ‘Musicians, make ready.’

  To his right, stood three musicians. Danny recognised Hugh Gissing on the tuba. The other musicians were older, Gerald McIver the farmer, on trombone, and Ronald Annersley, the postmaster, on trumpet. They traditionally started with ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ as they walked towards the hall.

  Reverend Simmons made a start towards the driveway leading to the Hall, his feet crunching through the dusting of snow. Meanwhile Ronald Annersley led the carols off and played the introduction for half a minute as they walked towards the Hall. Then the village began to sing in unison,

  God rest ye merry gentlemen

  Let nothing you dismay

  Remember Christ our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas Day

  They sang as they walked and arrived at the front entrance within a few minutes. Standing on the steps of Cavendish Hall were the Cavendish family and staff. There were also a few guests that Danny did not recognise and one, with some dismay, that he did.

  The singers completed their first carol and then Henry Cavendish stepped forward to greet Simmons.

  ‘Tom, how many times have we done this?’ he said shaking hands.

  Simmons laughed, ‘Too many! I’m not sure how long I’ll be around to do this in the future. These old bones are creaking.’

  ‘Nonsense, Tom. You’re indestructible. Do come inside. I think you and the children deserve warmer surroundings and something for your efforts.’

  The carol singers marched in first followed by the villagers and about twenty children and toddlers. Once they were all in the main hall, Cavendish stood before them to give his traditional Christmas speech to the village.

  ‘My grandfather used to say, “I feel there are a few of you who could probably give this speech now, you’ve heard it so often.” I know how he feels.’

  There was some laughter at this from the older villagers and carol singers. Henry continued, ‘But no matter, tradition must be followed. As many of you will remember, as a young man it was a tradition I didn’t much care for. I do now. I care for it very much and I hope that it is as welcome to you as it is for those of us who live and have lived at Cavendish Hall.’

  This was greeted by many saying, ‘Hear, hear.’

  ‘As my grandfather would say, I hope this tradition of ours will go on for many generations to come.’ This was greeted with applause by all. Danny noticed Lord Cavendish glance when he said this to his mother, a rather formidable woman who remained impassive throughout until that moment. She smiled when he said this and the two of them seemed to share a moment of genuine warmth.

  Henry continued, ‘As you know, we shall serve mulled wine, lemonade and mince pies to you all. Doing so, as usual, will be my children whom you know very well, Lady Sarah and Lord Robert. Joining us are our guests this Christmas.’ Henry mentioned a few names. Danny did not know or care who they were, but he guessed the mention of Lord Augustus was a reference to the young man standing near Lady Sarah. He hadn’t changed much from his last sighting of him, nearly five years previously: taller, not bad looking but with an air of boredom or was it contempt? His face did not make any attempt to hide his displeasure at what he was being asked to do.

  He looked at Sarah. She, also, seemed unhappy. He wondered whether she found the festivity a chore or if it was because of his lordship. Was there anything between them? With the upper classes, who knew? In Danny’s opinion she was still too young to be courting, if she were his daughter, anyway. He glanced again at Lord Augustus. What a poncey name, he thought.

  By now the carol singers were all assembled in the large entrance hall where tables had been laid out with all manner of food. Dominating the hall was a large Christmas tree which brought squeals of delight from the children who were itching to run towards it to find their presen
ts. Danny followed his father towards the table where Henry Cavendish was serving drinks with his son, Robert. The boy was around eleven years old with fine features, very slim and clearly destined to be as tall if not taller than his father.

  ‘Mr Shaw,’ said Henry filling a cup of wine and handing it to Stan. ‘A pleasure to see you again. And this is young Tom and Danny, if I remember correctly.’

  Young Robert filled the cups with wine and handed them out to the young men. Stan grinned, ‘Not so young now. Tom will be married next year.’

  ‘Really? My word, how the time goes. Congratulations, Tom. And what of you, Danny?’

  ‘Too soon sir,’ laughed Danny. ‘Plenty of time yet.’

  Stan rolled his eyes and shook his head. It was clear he had given up on this son.

  ‘Actually,’ continued Henry, ‘I’m glad I’ve met you again. Would you be willing to come up to the Hall some day and show my son that throw you did all those years ago?

  This caused Danny to laugh and his father and brother to turn to him, both confused. Danny shrugged and said, ‘I’d love to. When would you like me to come?’

  ‘Perhaps the day after Boxing Day,’ replied Henry. He could see that the other two men were baffled by the conversation.

  ‘You may be wondering what this is about. Clearly Danny never mentioned anything. Your son, Mr Shaw, was alone in the forest a few years ago when my wife and I came across him being attacked by a number of other boys from the village. To say he dealt with them very handily would be an understatement. Apparently, he learned a particular throw from you, Mr Shaw, that you were taught in the army.’

  At this point recognition dawned on Stan and he looked archly at his son. Tom smiled also. It sounded like Danny all right.

  Danny looked down at young Robert and said, ‘So how about it, Lord Robert? Do you fancy learning a few wrestling moves?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ beamed the boy. He had a likeable, open face. So different from his sister.