Roberts and his wife had a son, Ronald, who was at the National Political School at Bishop Auckland. The best graduates from the school would receive scholarships to one of the Adolf Hitler universities in the Reich and their futures would be assured. Archie Roberts’ daughter, Helen, was a sixth-former at Knutsford Grammar School and was dating, against her father’s wishes, Brian Ogilvy. Roberts, who was one of the few members of the Fascist Party in the village, made it clear she was worth more than a shopkeeper’s son.
‘Time I went for a re-fill,’ said the Colonel, getting to his feet. ‘Same again, Willie?’
‘You sod,’ Willie said, in a low voice.
‘Stay, Paddy.’
The Labrador did not move from the shade beneath the bench. It had no intention of going anywhere.
‘Colonel,’ said Archie Roberts, in greeting. ‘Grand day.’
‘Yes, indeed. Excuse me.’
He held up his empty glass as a reason and walked towards the rear entrance of the pub.
‘Willie,’ said Roberts.
‘Hello, Archie. Don’t often see you here.’
‘The wife’s gone shopping.’
‘So this is the lesser of two evils.’
‘Not at all. I like cricket.’ He squinted at the field of play. He was a big, fleshy man who looked overfed. He wore grey slacks, a double-breasted navy blue blazer and a white shirt and striped tie. Perhaps that’s what he thought he should wear to a cricket match. In the lapel of his blazer was a British Fascist Party pin of silver forked lightning on black enamel. ‘Tradition,’ he said. ‘I’m a great believer in it. Who’s winning?’
‘No one, yet.’ Willie puffed his pipe. ‘Young Ogilvy’s bowling well.’
He knew it would provoke a reaction and he smiled as the man’s shoulders stiffened.
‘I see the Colonel’s son is playing.’
‘He’s down from Durham. How’s your son? Not coming home this summer?’
‘They don’t.’ Roberts smiled; a facial expression without real meaning. ‘They don’t have holidays. Breaks the concentration. They’re having two weeks in the Welsh mountains and two weeks in Bavaria. Before they come back, they’ll attend a rally at Nuremberg.’
Willie nodded and smoked his pipe.
‘Another tradition, I suppose,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’
‘Will he come home then?’
‘Perhaps for a couple of days.’ He presented the worn smile again. He might be proud of his son’s achievements but he also seemed deflated that he would not be coming home sooner and for longer. He watched the cricket for a while. ‘Have you ever thought of joining the Party, Willie?’
The question was a surprise. He puffed the pipe to give himself time to reply.
‘I’ve never been one for joining anything much,’ he said. ‘The chess club at school. That’s about it.’
‘Membership brings benefits, you know?’
‘I’m quite happy chugging along the way I am.’
‘Sometimes it’s good to belong to something. The right thing.’
‘I’m not very sociable, Archie. Nothing personal, but I’d rather go fishing than attend a meeting. The Colonel’s wife has been trying to get me on the Parish Council for years and so far I’ve managed to avoid that.’
‘The Party can hardly be compared to the Parish Council.’
‘Of course not. But I’m just following another tradition, Archie. A family tradition. Don’t join anything if you can help it.’
Roberts gave him the worn smile again. No wonder it was worn if he kept using it so often without meaning it.
‘Your objections are not ideological, then?’
‘Good God, no.’ Willie’s pipe had gone out and he inspected it. He reached for his penknife. ‘I’m just not a joiner.’ He began to carefully clean out the bowl of the pipe. He looked up and gave him a beam to show him what a real smile looked like. ‘Thanks for asking, though. Appreciate it.’
The match had been won. Upper Bedford had been restricted to 124 in their 50 overs with Brian Ogilvy taking five wickets. Simon Humphrey, the Colonel’s son, had carried his bat to 72 not out and seen off the Lancashire trialist fast bowler, although he had needed the help of the vicar, who had come in after the loss of four quick wickets, to hold his end steady with a dogged knock of 24.
The teams were drinking together in the glow of an English summer’s eve. Young men and women sat in the pub garden or under the trees by the edge of the ground as the sun went down and chatted and laughed. Someone had brought a small portable record player, which was on the back step, and Cliff Richard was serenading.
Willie had been to the gents and paused by the open back door and smiled approvingly. He returned to the Colonel in the front bar of the Black Bull. They had taken tea in the clubhouse. Generous ham salads with beetroot and salad cream (‘why do they never have Mayonnaise?’ the Colonel had grumbled, as usual), with buttered malt loaf for afters.
The Colonel sat on a tall stool at the end of the bar, Paddy the Labrador asleep on the floor behind him, out of the way of stray feet. The Colonel was the centre of a small crowd that included the Vicar, Bob Harvey, Dr Frank Beevers and Archie Roberts. Sally Beevers, the doctor’s daughter, and Ruth Ogilvy, as blonde as her brother, sat at a table nearby. Sally kept sneaking glances at Bob Harvey.
When would the man notice, wondered Willie? Sally was a teacher in the same school as Harvey and was a delightfully bright and pretty girl of 22 and was obviously smitten by the headmaster.
He rejoined the group and noticed that Dr Beevers had become noticeably worse for drink in the short time he had been away.
‘Coventry, then,’ Dr Beevers said. ‘Go on. Explain Coventry.’
Archie Roberts, still pompous in his tie and double-breasted blazer, flexed his jaw and rippled the layers of fat around his neck.
‘Coventry was necessary,’ said Roberts.
‘A whole city?’
Willie puffed his pipe and, like everyone else, sensed danger.
‘You needed somewhere to put the disruptive element. It was a dodgy period.’
‘Praise the Lord for Saint Oswald.’
‘Steady, Frank, old boy,’ said the Colonel.
Dr Beevers held up a hand that could have been pacifying.
‘I’m sorry if I am offending sussens ... sess … sensibilities,’ he said. ‘But personally, I always thought that turning a whole city into a work camp was a trifle over the top.’
‘It was necessary,’ said Roberts. There was no pretend smile on his face. ‘And it worked. Better to make the anti-social elements of society contribute rather than have them lounge around idly in prison, playing ping-pong and reading Agatha Christie novels.’
‘So it was a great moral crusade?’ said Willie, as if discovering a truth.
‘No matter what you say, it worked. A short, sharp, shock to bring people to their senses. Reform through work.’
Dr Beevers swayed forward and put his face close to Roberts.
‘Were many reformed?’ he said.
Roberts pushed the doctor away with the stiff fingers of his right hand.
‘Working in a road gang reformed a lot of malcontents.’
‘But were any cured? Because if they were, I didn’t see any.’
He pushed against the hand and Willie eased himself forward, preparing to intervene.
‘They were released back into the cities,’ Roberts said. ‘I doubt if any came from Ollerton so you wouldn’t have seen them, would you?’
The doctor rolled his eyes as if it were a facetious argument. Willie noticed that Simon Humphrey, the colonel's son, was at the bar, buying drinks, and taking a close interest.
Archie Roberts said, ‘You’re like an atheist demanding proof of God.’ He was being scornful and Willie sensed Dr Beevers was about to rise and bite back. ‘I can’t drag a reformed criminal before you and say told you so. But then, I can’t prove to you there’s a town called Alice Springs in A
ustralia. I’ve never been there but I know it exists.’
‘Nice girl, Alice,’ said Willie, pushing between Roberts and the doctor, as if to get to the bar. ‘Speaks very highly of you,’ he said to Beevers, trying to hold his gaze meaningfully. His movement disrupted the conversation and the positions of antagonism and he managed to move Beevers, who was unsteady on his feet, so that he was facing the Colonel who smiled at him and said, ‘I almost went to Australia once. Strange tale. Did I ever tell you?’
Willie remained as a barrier and, looking over the top of the doctor’s head, ordered two large malt whiskies. He and the Colonel always finished an extended session, as this had been, with a decent scotch.
‘What about Guernsey?’ Willie and the Colonel glanced round. Simon had asked the question. ‘That’s a place I’ve never been, but I know it exists.’
The Colonel looked surprised at his son’s intervention.
‘Different kettle of fish entirely.’ Roberts was getting angry. ‘You’re talking about enemies of the state. Politicos, undesirables. The best thing to do is to put them all in the same place so they don’t pollute anybody else.’
‘And do what with them?’
Simon sounded almost reasonable as he asked the question, as if he expected there might be a reasonable reply. But Roberts was breathing deeply through his nose and getting red in the face. The doctor staggered and Willie made the most of it. They were used to Dr Beever’s occasional habit of drinking unwisely and too well.
‘Steady, old chap,’ Willie said, taking hold of his arm. He glanced around but Sally had already noticed and was on her way to help her father. Ruth went to the bar and said something to Simon. Good girl. Another successful diversion.
‘I think it’s time we went home, dad,’ Sally said.
‘What? What time is it?’
‘Nearly closing time, old chap,’ said Willie. ‘We’re all going home.’
The vicar said, ‘Perhaps I could help?’
‘Not necessary, Vicar,’ said Willie. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Bob?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
Harvey put his glass on the bar and stepped forward to help Sally.
‘Thank’s, Bob,’ she said, shooting a grateful smile at Willie. ‘Come on now, dad.’
She helped him with a guiding hand while Bob Harvey walked on the other side of the doctor in case he needed support, but Beevers remained steady if bleary-eyed, at least until they got him out of the pub.
The barmaid placed the two glasses of malt whisky on the bar.
‘Archie?’ Willie said. ‘One for the road?’
‘No thank you.’ The gauleiter took a deep breath and a measure of composure returned. ‘Thank you, Willie, but no. It’s time I went, as well.’ He finished the whisky he’d been drinking. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, inclining his head. Willie half expected him to click his heels but he didn’t.
‘Goodnight, Archie.’
He went the back way.
‘Where did all that come from?’ said the Vicar.
‘I don’t know, but I’m glad it went.’ The Colonel poured water from a jug into the malt. ‘Nicely manoeuvred, Willie.’
‘A joint operation. You should thank Ruth, as well.’
The Colonel glanced along the bar for his son and Ruth.
‘Where did they go?’
‘You shouldn’t ask.’
‘Ah. Am I being dim?’
‘Just a bit, old chap.’
‘I felt so useless,’ said the Vicar. ‘I mean, I felt I should have done something to head off the situation, but I hadn’t a clue what. I felt I should have supported Frank and Simon.’ He shrugged. ‘I sometimes think we don’t ask enough questions.’
‘Careful, Vicar,’ the Colonel said.
‘Would you like a drink, Vicar?’
‘No, thank you, Willie. I’ve had my quota.’
Sounds of a scuffle from the rear of the pub caused heads to turn in the crowded bar and conversation to stop. The raised angry voice of Archie Roberts could be heard above Cliff Richard singing Living Doll.
‘Stay away from my daughter, Ogilvy. Do you hear? Stay away.’
There was a crash and the music stopped and Roberts walked through the bar towards the front door, pulling his distraught daughter behind him. Brian Ogilvy appeared at the back of the pub. Blood from his nose had splashed onto his chin and he looked belligerent. A friend restrained him.
‘The man’s a bloody bully,’ said the Colonel.
‘I suppose he felt he had to win one argument tonight,’ said the Vicar.
‘But wouldn’t it be nice, just once, if the playing field was flat,’ said Willie.
The fresh air affected the balance of Dr Frank Beever and Bob Harvey held his arm to help him across the village green. The three of them didn’t speak until they reached the house, by which time the doctor’s eyes had closed and he was breathing heavily through his mouth.
‘Got him?’ asked Sally.
‘Got him,’ said Bob, holding him up while she unlocked the front door. When it swung open, she led the way, switching on lights and opening other doors, and he guided her father along a corridor to a sparsely furnished small room at the back that contained a wardrobe, a dressing-table and a single bed. They eased him onto the bed and Sally removed his shoes. He rolled over and began to snore. Harvey backed into the corridor and Sally followed, switched off the bedroom light and closed the door.
‘Thank’s, Bob.’ She could sense his embarrassment. ‘It was kind of you. Usually, he times it better.’ She shrugged. ‘But this was a long day.’
‘That’s all right. It must be a terrible strain on you.’
‘It’s more of a strain on him. He never got over losing mum.’
Her mother had died of a brain haemorrhage while her father had looked on helplessly, unable to save her. Referring to the tragedy caused a surge of emotion and she felt on the brink of tears.
‘Sally.’
He put his arms round her and the tears came and he shushed her and held her gently. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt such a release. When the tears stopped, she realised how protective his arms felt, how good he smelled. She lifted her face and kissed him. For a second, his lips remained closed in surprise. And then they parted and their tongues met.
The kiss developed and became more urgent and she felt his body reacting and moved her hips against him. He broke the kiss and held her by the shoulders and she opened her eyes and found him staring at her.
‘Sally, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t …’
He shook his head helplessly.
‘Yes, you should,’ she said. ‘I want you to.’
She tried to kiss him again but he held her away.
‘You’re upset. Tomorrow …’
‘Tomorrow I’ll want to kiss you again.’ A thought occurred to her for the first time. ‘Unless you don’t want me to. Oh God. Is that it? Have I made a fool of myself? Oh, I’m so sorry.’
He pulled her to him again as the tears returned and she tried to pull away. They struggled in the corridor and he pinned her against the wall.
‘Sally. Calm down. Of course I want you. More than anything. But I’m older than you and you’re upset and I don’t want to take advantage.’
She stopped struggling and the tears ceased.
‘You want me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There never seemed the opportunity.’
‘You could have dropped a hint.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘You idiot.’
Her arms went round his neck and they kissed again and this time he didn’t pull away and somewhere, deep in her subconscious, she offered up a word of thanks to Willie Ashford for providing the opportunity to make this happen.
Simon Humphrey and Ruth Ogilvy sat on the bench that had been occupied by the Colonel and Willie Ashford earlier in the day. There was no music,
anymore, after Archie Roberts had accidentally kicked the record player, and the pub garden was empty. The last couple to leave now walked hand in hand towards the pavilion in search of privacy.
‘What’s it like at Durham?’ Ruth said.
‘It’s a great town. Lots of good pubs.’
‘And a good social life?’
‘And a good social life.’ He smiled at her. When they had been younger, they had been boyfriend and girlfriend, but public school and university had made their relationship spasmodic. He wondered if she would still let him kiss her? ‘But it’s good to be back.’
‘I’m surprised you came back. Don’t university students go travelling round Europe?’
‘Actually, I’m going to France next week.’ Her face said told you so. ‘Only for 10 days. They’re talking about reunification so I’m taking the train from Paris down south. See what they think of it in Vichy.’
‘Is this work or pleasure?’
‘Both. I plan to go paddling at Cannes.’
‘How the other half live,’ she said.
‘Then I’ll be back here and working for a month. My father’s fixed me up with a job at the dairy farm with Brian. Honest toil, as he says. I’ll be cleaning cowsheds and digging ditches.’
‘It’ll do you good.’
‘It’ll earn a very necessary few quid. I’m not as wealthy as you think I am.’
‘Think I’m after you for your money, do you?’
‘Are you? After me?’
Her smile was teasing, her eyes knowing. She was more assured than he remembered. But then, she had been working since she was 18 as receptionist for Dr Beevers, and was old enough to have had boyfriends he didn’t know about.
‘Who could resist?’ Her tone was soft. ‘I mean, you must be every village girl’s dream. The squire’s son home to win cricket matches and break hearts.’
He laughed.
‘I must tell my father. He’ll be flattered to be called the squire.’ He softened his own voice. ‘I have no intention of breaking any hearts.’
The Heydrich Sanction Page 3
