The Gathering Clouds (Innocent No More Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  They laughed, reluctantly.

  Tommy shook his head and turned to a topic that interested him more for the moment.

  “How do we get hold of a special licence, George? Do you have any idea?”

  “You don’t, Tommy, unless you wish to be married in a place which has no previous connection to you. A Common Licence will allow you to get married without Banns in the parish church of either bride or groom, provided the vicar agrees. Twenty quid for the licence and fifty in the rebuilding fund and you’re in business!”

  “Have you got a parish church, Cissie?”

  “Back at home, yes – but I haven’t been near it in fifteen years. What about at Calshot, Tommy? Have you got a church there?”

  “Must be one. I can see the parson tomorrow and arrange as possible. Tuesday, maybe?”

  She nodded – all things were possible with war looming.

  The rector at St George’s in Calshot was friendly to the RAF. The station at Calshot dated to before the Great War and a number of unfortunate fliers were commemorated in the church.

  “A Common Licence, Squadron Leader? Certainly, sir. You are Tommy Stark, are you not? You need no verification other than that name, sir. A wedding tomorrow? Certainly – it is stretching the normal bounds, but we are living in abnormal times, sir. When do you expect war to be declared?”

  “Within the fortnight, Vicar. We are told that Ribbentrop is in Moscow at the moment, fitting up a deal between Hitler and Stalin. That must give them a free hand to destroy Poland and that in turn will guarantee war. My fiancée is in London at the moment and will come down to Lymington tonight. What time will suit your convenience tomorrow, sir?”

  “Eleven makes some sense, Squadron Leader. That will give you time to drive off to wherever you are going.”

  “Nothing arranged yet, sir. We are to buy a house somewhere. I have been in Australia these twenty years and Cissie has the rental of a small apartment in Town. We shall be living out of hotels for a while.”

  The rector was anxious to be helpful – he had served in the Trenches and had seen the brave boys in the skies, had developed an admiration for them which had only grown in his years at Calshot.

  “There is nothing in the village here but at least one respectable house for sale in Beaulieu at the moment. You might find that convenient, Squadron Leader. Fox’ Estate Agents in Southampton have the sale of it. I know because the place belonged to a parishioner who died recently. She had leased out the property and had been worrying, I know, because the tenants had chosen to move out just three months ago.”

  “I will view the property this afternoon, if it be possible.”

  Tommy returned to his office and took to the telephone, his Wing Commander first.

  “Jerry, I am getting married tomorrow – just organised the licence. At Calshot, for eleven o’clock. Be a good chap and give me five days off. Back in the saddle on Sunday – should be in time for a busy week.”

  It was agreed and Jerry promised to attend as well and Tommy made his next call.

  “Cissie, love, St George’s Church, Calshot, for eleven o’clock tomorrow? Good! I am looking at a house in Beaulieu this afternoon, I hope. If it’s any good at all, we can inspect it together this week and make a decision. I’ve never seen the town, but it’s said to be pleasant. Good! I’ll see you in the morning, love. Things are hotting up but I’ve got leave till Sunday morning and we can find a hotel somewhere. Can you rustle up a few guests from your side? I will get word to Thomas and Noah.”

  Cissie was wryly amused.

  “What price a steamroller, Tommy? I shall be there. The hotel in Lymington was half-empty when we stayed there and might be able to do us a meal. See if you can order up for two dozen places.”

  He did not quite understand the steamroller comment but promised to deal with the hotel.

  A visit to the bank en route provided him with fifty in fivers which proved very persuasive when he spoke to the manager of the hotel. There would be a celebratory luncheon of the finest they could achieve, given the short notice. The bridal suite would also be made ready.

  Tommy stood outside the house at Beaulieu, waiting for the estate agent to arrive, surprised he was late. It was not a good way of selling to a client.

  Five minutes later a small Austin barrelled through the gates and a pair of over-smart gentlemen, father and son, descended on him in a cloud of apologies.

  “A great column of army vehicles, Squadron Leader, coming up from the New Docks and blocking everything for a good fifteen minutes! I don’t know where they were going – Salisbury Plain, I would think. A whole battalion brought back to England, I must imagine.”

  The older man shook his head – he had seen the previous war, he said, had hoped never to experience its like again. The younger announced his intention of applying for a commission, now that it was real.

  “Can’t stay out, not if there is a need. My father has a weak chest from a touch of gas last time. My turn this. Army, not RAF, sir. Don’t fancy flying, never have. Now, sir, the house, Springfields, is one of the bigger properties in the town, or on the outskirts, more correctly. Would you wish to inspect the exterior first?”

  “Just a glance, sir. I am to wed tomorrow and want to see whether I should bring my wife here to make a decision. If the place is unsuitable, then we will not spend the time, obviously.”

  Tommy glanced at an acre of gardens and at the frontage of the house, covered in a magnificent wisteria.

  “Too late for flowers now, sir, but very fine in late spring and early summer.”

  “How old is the house?”

  The older of the two answered.

  “Not an easy question, sir; I have seen no records or original deeds. There is a central block that appears to be an ancient and small farmhouse. Stone-flagged kitchen and a single front room; a stone staircase and three small bedrooms above. Elizabethan, perhaps; possibly even earlier. On the west, a first extension, a wing thrown out to provide another pair of big downstairs rooms and two more large bedrooms, each with a dressing room. I would place that after the Restoration and probably before the time of William and Mary by its style. The rooms on the east, including a second and greater kitchen as well as another pair of reception rooms, date from much later – I would think them to be mid-Victorian, still influenced by the Gothic. Three more bedrooms and attics for maids in the roof. Outside at the rear, outbuildings and four of two up, two downs in a little terrace, dating from the same time. I suspect an equine enthusiast building for his grooms, because there is a large stables block in what was the home farm but is now a separate property.”

  It was logical for an estate agent to be interested in architectural history, Tommy supposed. Useful, as well.

  Tommy inspected the house and thought it to be inconvenient and difficult and utterly unsuited to the modern age. He loved it.

  “Would it be possible to set on a gardener and say three elderly couples into the terrace, to work in the house?”

  “Easily, sir. There is a shortage of housing locally and you can be certain that there are whole families crammed into tiny places who would leap at the prospect of putting their parents into their own little home. There are many men and women in their fifties who would be more than pleased to take work on their doorsteps, for many of the people in Beaulieu travel miles each morning and evening, walking or on bicycles, to jobs that are not especially well-paid.”

  “Best might be to arrange to come again on Wednesday morning, Mr Fox. It will be impossible to fix a time for tomorrow. We are to be wed at eleven.”

  The older man smiled and offered his best wishes. He thought the simplest solution was to give the Squadron Leader the keys, front and back, to use at his own convenience.

  “If you cannot like the house, sir, drop them back to the office where I will be able to show you one or two other prospects. If it suits, then we might discuss price, sir.”

  “What is the owner thinking of, Mr Fox?”
/>   “Around the three thousand mark, sir. That includes the bulk of the furniture, sir.”

  “Expensive, but Beaulieu is not going to be dog-cheap. It is a rarely attractive town and well-placed for the New Forest and for sailing. Not inconvenient for flying, either… I will accept those keys, Mr Fox. The decision will lay with my wife, but I am much taken by this property. We shall see.”

  The estate agents drove off, rubbing their hands with carefully concealed glee.

  “Got him! Now just a question of whether he can convince her. Rambling, inconvenient and expensive – your mother would kill me if I presented her with a place like that! What did you mean, you are going for a commission? None of our affair, this war! Jewboys fighting Fascists? What’s that to do with us?”

  “Nothing, Father! But it’s better to volunteer and choose a regiment than be conscripted as a private soldier. Much to be said for the Pay Corps, you know, rather than be waving a bayonet in the Hampshires!”

  “Well said, my son! A true son of your father. Go into Bitterne on the way home – I think we can celebrate our commission with a pint in the Brewery Bar.”

  Cissie arrived in Lymington in the late afternoon, hauling along her whole wardrobe in half a dozen suitcases. She had given up her furnished apartment, seeing no need to return to London. They could afford a hotel room for a few weeks, if necessary.

  Word had got out at the base and there was a respectable congregation at the church, and several less reputable representatives of the press. With a war on the doorstep, the marriage of a much-decorated officer, attended by others of his sort, was news. Noah had appeared to be best man, as was inevitable and much-welcomed, and the cameras clicked furiously as the uniformed pair appeared, relegating the bride to second-place on the day. Fortunately, she was amused.

  The hotel had done its best, achieving a lavish summer luncheon accompanied, inevitably, by champagne. There were strawberries although it was late in the season for them.

  “Can I take my five days, Noah?”

  “Word from Moscow is of an announcement tomorrow, Tommy, and that will give Hitler the starting gun. Invasion of Poland next week – something involving whole armies can’t be given the go overnight. Twenty-second of August today… We have a sweepstake at the Air Ministry and I’ve got the ticket for the third of September. Ten of us at a fiver a head. I think I have a good chance of winning. All squadrons will be ordered to cancel leave from Monday next. Make the most of your time, Tommy. You’ll get word when the submarines are spotted sailing into the North Sea. They’ll be out and on station in the Atlantic when it starts so it will be a good indicator.”

  “To hell with it, Noah. Eat, drink and be merry, brother – there may not be a lot of tomorrows left.”

  “Five days, Tommy. What do you want to do?”

  She rolled her eyes at his answer.

  “As well as that!”

  “We should look at the house, Cissie. If you want it, then we will need to change some or all of the furnishings, which will be just possible if we hurry. There may be restrictions on what we can buy when the war starts.”

  “The choice is mine, I gather. You like the house, it seems.”

  “I do – it has character. It’s old, sprawling - inconvenient for sure. It’s lovely!”

  “But, as the person who has to turn it into a home, I might find it hard work?”

  “No ‘might’ about it, love. From a practical point of view, the best thing might be to knock it down and start again. I never was practical.”

  “Let’s go and see it in the morning, Tommy. For the moment, I can think of other things to do.”

  Earlier that day, Thomas had managed to fly his Hurricane across to Eastleigh where he was picked up by transport from the squadron at Calshot. He arrived at the church with ten minutes to spare and left from the hotel just two hours later. He managed a few words with the couple before he left.

  “I’m glad you waited so long, Old Man – you’ve ended up with exactly the right wife for both of us! Cissie, welcome to the madhouse! I can’t stay. We are under notice to fly out to France with no warning at all at any time in the next fortnight. There will be Bombays; mainly used as transporter planes from Transport Command to pick up the ground staff and ‘necessary equipment’ – no specification of what is or is not necessary to keep the Hurricanes in the air. We could be going to a fully equipped aerodrome or to a mud-patch in the middle of nowhere for all I know. Rod is working on the basis that we will be going to a desert island. The Intelligence Officer got in yesterday and knows nothing. The gate detachment have not been told whether they are posted to our airfield or to the squadrons, so they don’t know whether they are going or staying. Henry’s mob are bound for France as well so we can’t lend each other additional transport as we normally do for the heavy stuff that’s going by way of Dover. Do you know just how heavy a million rounds of three-o-three are, Old Man?”

  “With boxes? Not a lot short of forty tons, I would guess, Thomas. We have a hell of a lot of it cluttering up the place. I wouldn’t like to have to shift it in a hurry.”

  “Neither would I, particularly with just one three-ton lorry to do the job!”

  Tommy started to laugh. He called Noah across and explained the joke.

  “Ah! Not my specific responsibility, Thomas. Nor that of any other bugger, I don’t doubt. I will see what can be done. I couldn’t arrange for Grace and Lucy to fly down, by the way, and the railway is impractical in a day. Apologies from both for missing the occasion. Tom has been commissioned as a Lieutenant RN and put to work with Nancy’s people, hidden away from public view.”

  “Why Navy?”

  “Good question. According to Nancy, army intelligence are too stupid and the RAF has none worthy of the name. The Navy has a tradition in the field.”

  “Bad habit, being intelligent. The brown jobs have always avoided it.”

  “So have we, Thomas. You should see some of the rules that have been promulgated for the squadrons going to France. You won’t see them, in fact, because they have been passed across Salmond’s desk and have ended up in his waste paper bin. Most of the squadrons are going to the Belgian border. You won’t be. They are sending you a bit to the east of Metz. Branksome pushed for you to go there, distant from the others because you ain’t civilised enough for his taste. He doesn’t want to be embarrassed in the company of the French by a ‘mob with not so much as a Mess Jacket between them’.”

  “Oh, good! Do you know anything about the field?”

  “French air force, made over to you because they have pulled some squadrons back south for the defence of Paris. A concrete runway and decent living quarters. Fifteen miles short of the border. There will be orders that you are not to cross into Germany without specific permission, except in pursuit of intruders.”

  Thomas caught his father’s eye. They grinned together.

  Noah shook his head and said he preferred not to know.

  Four more lorries turned up on loan to the squadron later in the week; they weren’t sufficient but they made the workload practical.

  Thomas gave his pilots an update on the little he knew.

  “East of Metz, I am told. We shall be on our own, distant from the bulk of the Air Component in France. They’ll invent a new name for us soon. We will be forbidden to cross the German border except in pursuit of intruders, and to intercept aircraft that might be about to cross into our territory.”

  “Thomas, how do we know plane is ‘about to cross’?”

  “Estimate, Jan? Do you think an Me looks as if it might be about to commit a hostile act?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then go and shoot it down.”

  “Right! We sees it and thinks it looks like hostile, so we makes sure it gets friendly bloody quick?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is good, Thomas. I can live with that.”

  “And me, Jan. Easier if the report says that you saw a German plane in French territory and c
hased it.”

  “Always, Thomas. It ran away and crashed in Germany.”

  “So it did!”

  “Is maybe twenty miles away in Germany?”

  “It ran fast.”

  There was a general air of satisfaction. They knew that they must not break the rules but thought they might be bent a long way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Gathering Clouds

  Chamberlain’s voice, slow and dispirited, announced over the radio that Britain was at war; a state of hostilities existed with Germany. The mess was full, and silent.

  “More like a bloody undertaker than a leader calling us to righteous battle! What sort of man is he, Thomas?”

  “A has-been, Henry. Shall we open the bar?”

  “Why not? Add a little alcoholic joy to the day. The lads will all be weeping in their cocoa otherwise. My shout.” He raised his voice to be heard by the whole room. “Get the glasses full!”

  They waited until every officer on the field was holding a drink. Henry proposed a toast.

  “To a big score and quick promotion!”

  The pilots cheered and drank deep.

  Thomas took his turn.

  “To our noble German adversaries – and hoping we kill every one of the bastards!”

  They bellowed and drank even deeper and called for refills.

  Thomas held a hand up for the attention of his squadron.

  “Before you all get rotten, gentlemen, breakfast will be at five o’clock. We will be flying out to France at any time in the next few days, probably at dawn, that being traditional. Be ready to go – a small bag for the cockpit packed with socks, clean shreddies, toothbrush and paste. Sidearms to be worn when flying.”

  “Is what, ‘shreddies’, Thomas?”

  “Underpants, Jan.”

  “Ha!”