In Spite of All Terror

by V M Knox

  Russell turned the envelope over in his hand, his eyes taking in the official crest of the Ministry of Home Security.

  ‘You will notice that the letter is sealed. I cannot express to you enough the seriousness of this. This letter is both a protection and a death warrant for these men should it ever fall into the wrong hands,’ he paused. ‘When I receive notification that the invasion has occurred, I will come here directly and you can open the letter in my presence. Until then, it must remain sealed and locked in your safe, and I am to witness it being placed there.’

  ‘What’s this all about, Reverend?’ Russell said, his pink lips curling at the corners.

  ‘I have told you all you need to know. If you wish to confirm anything I have said, you should call Colonel Gubbins on this number for verification.’ Clement handed a folded piece of paper with Gubbins’s London telephone number on it to the inspector.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very. And I will not leave until I see that envelope placed in your safe.’

  Russell picked up the telephone receiver on his desk. ‘Bring the keys to my safe, Constable.’

  A minute later there was a light tap at the door. Matthews entered and walked towards Russell’s desk with a set of keys.

  Clement noted that Russell had blocked his view of the safe while he opened it and placed the sealed envelope inside. He considered it a contemptible gesture. Young Stanley flashed into his mind. He would have liked to chide Russell about the abusive treatment the man had served up to his son over the years. As it was, he was pleased to see the man reset the locks. Now he could leave.

  ‘Satisfied?’ Russell asked, handing the keys back to the constable and dismissing him.

  Clement stood. ‘Call Gubbins. And safeguard that letter with your life,’ he said, his eyes flicking to the safe.

  He left Russell’s office. Just being in the man’s presence made him bristle. Standing on the front step of the police station, Clement looked along the street in both directions. Opposite, the door to Doctor Haswell’s surgery opened and the doctor stepped out. ‘Evening, Clement,’ Haswell said, closing his surgery door.

  Clement smiled and returned the greeting. ‘What a contrast,’ he muttered thinking of the two men he had just seen. With the letter now in the hands of a man he did not trust, Clement felt vulnerable for himself and his men. There was little he could do; Gubbins had insisted.

  As Clement left the police station, the door to the doctor’s surgery opened again and Elsie Wainwright came out. The girl descended the steps and reached for Doctor Haswell’s old battered bicycle that was leaning against the wall adjacent to the surgery door. Clement smiled and lifted his hat in greeting.

  ‘Hello Reverend,’ she said.

  The crisp light voice was a stark contrast to the growl of David Russell.

  ‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you,’ Elsie replied. ‘Just one more to see, then I’ve finished my rounds in the village. It is hard with all the signposts removed. But I suppose I’ll soon learn the way.’ Elsie beamed her angelic smile. ‘I expect it is because they want to confuse the Germans, if they come.’

  ‘Well, I must not keep you. It’s getting late.’ Clement lifted his hat in farewell. His gaze followed her as she cycled down the street and past the police station, disappearing from view, her nurse’s cape billowing behind her.

  Clement walked back to the vicarage. Sitting at the kitchen table, he unwrapped his sandwiches.

  Chapter 10

  Sunday 15th September

  Clement reached for his cassock and placed his stole around his neck. His mind was troubled. He had worried all night and throughout the previous day about entrusting the list to David Russell. He had no wish to disobey orders, but his instinct told him it had been a mistake. At least Mary had returned safely and for that he was grateful. Collecting his Bible from his desk, he closed the front door to the vicarage and strode up the hill. By the time he reached the vestry, he had resolved to telephone Gubbins first thing tomorrow then visit Russell to retrieve the list. Gubbins would just have to understand.

  There were more people in church this morning, even more than the previous week. Fear of invasion was the most likely cause, but the number of young single men led Clement to believe there was another reason. Half way back on the left-hand side of the church sat Elsie Wainwright. On one side of the girl was George Evans and on the other was Stanley Russell. As Clement stepped into the pulpit, he cast his eyes along the rows of his parishioners. Behind Elsie were several other single men who seemed very keen to pass her a hymn book already open at the correct page.

  His sermon was on trust and betrayal. Not that the one person he had in mind for his instruction was actually in the congregation. In the twenty years Clement had been at All Saints, he had never seen David Russell in church.

  After the service he stood at the door and shook the hands of his parishioners as they left.

  ‘I see you have met our new nurse, Stanley,’ Clement said, shaking Elsie's hand.

  Stanley blushed. ‘Elsie told me she met you and Mrs Wisdom in Lewes.’

  George joined the group. ‘She is coming with me to Brighton next week. We are seeing the new flick at the Palace Theatre.’

  Clement glanced at Stanley. Then George. He saw the rivalry. Beautiful girls, lovely though they were - and Elsie was lovelier than most - caused trouble. And trouble between his men he could not have.

  ‘Have you found somewhere more permanent to live yet, Elsie?’ he asked.

  The girl shook her head. It seemed to sway side to side, the corn-blonde hair falling and floating over her shoulders. On duty, Clement knew she would have to wear her hair pinned up under her nurse’s neat cap, but not today. It was loose and curled and it glittered in the morning sunshine.

  ‘We mustn’t keep you, Elsie,’ Mary said, standing beside him. ‘Mrs Faulkner! Good morning to you. And don’t the flowers look lovely today.’

  Elsie and her entourage wandered away.

  Among the congregation was another new arrival. Not to the village, as with Elsie, but among his flock. Coleshill may have shifted things for Reg Naylor, but Clement did not believe the man to have had an epiphany. Attending church, or so it appeared to Clement from where he stood in the pulpit, kept Reg involved and informed. The man had taken a seat in the back of the church. During his sermon, Clement could see Reg’s eyes scanning the assembled group, waiting and watching for trouble. Clement found it unnerving. The penetrative gaze had even sent Mrs Greenwood hurrying from the church. He decided that back row dwellers fell into two camps: shy and retiring, or misfits and rebels. He remembered his school days and the boys who claimed the back row. Without fail that second group ended up in the headmaster’s office every Friday morning.

  ‘A word, Clement?’ Reg demanded.

  Reg’s pragmatic voice brought Clement back from the past.

  ‘That needs to be nipped in the bud,’ Reg said, his eye shifting to Elsie flanked by George and Stanley. ‘I’ll do it. You’ll be too soft. Besides they know not to mess with me.’

  Clement watched Reg stride away. He hadn’t actually said anything, yet Reg had taken it upon himself to sort out what the man evidently saw as a breach of discipline. It concerned Clement that the man was becoming obsessive about their clandestine mission. Major Bannon had said that Reg was a born sniper. Clement knew Bannon was not only referring to Reg’s weapons handling. It was the psychological profile that fitted and that worried Clement.

  ‘Reverend?’

  He heard the shrill voice coming to him from the lychgate.

  Ilene Greenwood was calling. ‘Do you know where Nurse Wainwright is?’

  ‘I last saw her walking towards The Crown, Mrs Greenwood,’ Clement said. ‘Is something amiss?’

  ‘No,’ the woman replied. ‘I have a message from Mister Knowles. His wife has gone into labour.’

  ‘Well you best hurry, Mrs G
reenwood,’ he replied. Babies. He knew nothing about them.

  Checking to see that no-one was still at private prayer, he reached for his key and locked the door. He did not like having to secure the church. There was something inherently wrong about closing a house of God. Yet he would never challenge a directive from the Archbishop of Canterbury who had sent out the circular requiring the closures. Apparently churches had been used by German spies as dead letter drops. Until his visit to Coleshill, Clement didn’t know what a dead letter drop was.

  He thought of George Evans. He had chosen the lad to be their runner because of his knowledge of all things to do with the post and telegraph and for his ease of mobility. George collected Clement’s report for General Headquarters, which commented on happenings around Fearnley Maughton, and took it to their dead letter drop for collection by persons unknown. Amateur radio operators then forwarded the messages to London. The reports should have been simple enough, except that Johnny had decided that their fifteen-mile radius sector should also include the country adjacent to the coastline from Eastbourne to Brighton. Cuckmere Haven, just west of Beachy Head, had been added to the list of possible German amphibious invasion sites, so his reports of the coastline had to be received and transmitted daily, without exception. Al-though, Johnny had been explicit that none of his team should ever actually go to any of the beaches, especially Cuckmere Haven. Clement didn’t know why and he did not care to know. Besides the beaches were off-limits anyway and most were festooned in barbed wire and, reputedly, mined.

  ‘You know what they are saying about Margaret Knowles?’ Mary whispered into his ear.

  The question jolted Clement back to village reality. ‘Mary, I have never taken you for a gossip.’

  ‘You need to be prepared if John Knowles comes back again. That is all I am saying.’

  Clement stopped, his heart sinking. ‘Oh dear! In all that’s happened I forgot about him.’

  ‘You know that they are saying the baby is not his,’ Mary went on. ‘She never deserved a husband like John. And that David Russell, he is a predator of the worst kind. They also say he takes bribes. They deserve each other!’

  ‘Mary, I have never asked you to remain silent in the twenty years we have been married but I must ask you, please, no more. John has enough to worry about, especially if what you say is true, without being the victim of village gossip.’

  Clement pushed open the vicarage door and went straight to the telephone. Lifting the receiver, he dialled John Knowles’s number.

  Mary sat beside him eating her lunch. There was no conversation. That was unusual. John had refused to speak to him. Clement felt the icy silence. Mary’s wouldn’t last but his forgetfulness towards John Knowles made Clement profoundly anxious. As did the revelation that David Russell took bribes. If the Inspector was corrupt with his own, how quickly would he tell the Germans about the list, especially if the man thought it would save his life? Clement’s mind was made up, but he needed to think about how he was going to convince Gubbins.

  ‘I’m going for a walk, Mary. I’ll be back in a couple of hours,’ he said reaching for his coat and hat.

  Closing the front gate, he walked down Church Lane. As he turned the corner into the High Street he hoped he may meet Peter walking Boadicea and they could chat about the Operational Base while walking the Downs. He had not yet seen it, but Peter said it was exactly the same as the one they'd used for training at Coleshill and that they had chosen a site adjacent to the old Roman ruins about half a mile into Maughton Forest from the western side of the woodland.

  Clement walked towards the village green, intending to take the bridle path to the South Downs Way. Even from some distance he could hear the laughter. He paused. The front windows of The Crown were open and he could hear the jollity flowing into the street.

  Laughter. It is a wonderful sound; full of fun and happy expectation. He smiled just listening to its joyous tones. The bombings and chaos of London seemed worlds away and for a moment the village had taken on the innocence of its pre-war isolation. He walked towards the inn and opening the door, stepped inside. The pungent aroma of tobacco smoke filled the small, low-beamed front room. As the men jostled about, Clement caught a glimpse of someone sitting on the bar itself. It was Elsie. He could see her clearly now. The slender, crossed legs were swinging, the skirt pulled high over her knees and one high-heeled shoe was dangling from her toes. She was holding their attention so completely that no-one had even noticed him.

  ‘You better drink up, gents,’ the barmaid called. ‘We’ll be closing in fifteen minutes.’

  There was a chorus of groans. ‘Go on, Elsie. Don’t mind her,’ one man said.

  ‘You should have heard him scream,’ Elsie was saying. ‘She is grunting like a stuck pig, the baby’s head just visible between her legs and he starts yelling, “Whose is it, you whore!”‘

  ‘Well?’ said one of the men. ‘Is it his?’

  ‘Unless he had red hair as a kid,’ she said. ‘I’m guessing you probably know who.’

  All heads turned. As the noise settled the crowd hushed and Clement could see Stanley sitting beside the fireplace. Stanley placed the glass on the hearth, his movements slow and deliberate.

  ‘You’ve got a brother, it seems, Stanley,’ one said.

  Stanley stood and moved through the crowd, stopping beside Elsie.

  Clement wasn’t sure what Stanley intended to do, but as he watched, the door to the street opened and John Knowles staggered in.

  All heads turned.

  ‘Have a drink, John,’ someone said. ‘To wet the baby’s red head!’

  Laughter ricocheted around the small room.

  For a few seconds John stood shaking, his thick spectacles askew on his nose. Knowles was only a slightly built man but the facial tick that manifested under stress caused the man’s whole body to twitch and an unsightly red skin rash flamed across the pale cheeks. For one second he seemed to be attempting to show bravado, even defiance, but he stumbled backwards into the bar.

  The crowd laughed aloud.

  Knowles’ shoulders drooped in defeat. ‘I want a whisky!’ he demanded, turning and grasping the counter.

  ‘You must be drunk. We haven’t had whisky for over a month,’ the barmaid scoffed and pulled a beer, placing the glass on the counter.

  The man drank it back.

  No-one spoke. All eyes were on him.

  ‘I’ll kill that bastard! Do you want to help me, Stanley? Or perhaps one of your special army friends could do it?’ John slurred.

  Clement felt his eyes widen. He stared at Stanley. John’s words sent alarm bells clanging. He glanced around the room. All eyes were on either John or Stanley who were staring at each other. Had it been a throwaway line? A derisive, even sarcastic remark about the Home Guard? Or did John know something? Clement frowned remembering the telephone conversation. Knowles had been dismissive of him and the church, because he felt forgotten. Had John overheard anything? He had come to the vicarage the day Clement and Johnny had selected the members of the team. He glanced again at the crowd. It seemed to Clement that they had not paid much heed to the remark. Their interest lay in knowing the paternity of the child. A few seconds later John slumped onto the bar, his head in his arms. He appeared to be sobbing.

  Stanley moved towards John then stopped and put his arm around Elsie. As the big man swept the girl from the counter, Clement met Stanley’s gaze. Everyone turned, the chatter abating.

  ‘You want a drink, Vicar?’ the barmaid asked. ‘You’ll have to hurry if you do. I got to close in a few minutes.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Clement turned to leave. ‘John, go home. You have had enough alcohol. That applies to you too, Stanley.’ He paused. He wanted the whole room to hear. ‘The child is innocent. Just remember that when you cast your judgement.’ As Clement turned to leave he stared at Elsie. The wide blue eyes flared back. She had bewitched them all. Even him. Mary had had the girl’s measure from the start.
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br />   Leaving the bar, Clement closed the door on all he had witnessed and stood on the opposite side of the street. He felt for John Knowles. He had let the man down when he was most needed. For that Clement would be eternally sorry. But John’s remark about special army friends worried him. There was nothing to be done. In fact, investigating it further would only increase speculation. He no longer wanted to walk on the Downs. He just wanted to be with Mary.

  The public house door opened and John staggered out ahead of the other patrons who, no doubt, would return to the pub when it reopened in the evening. There was no point remonstrating with John about his condition or anything he had said in the heat of the moment. Whatever the man may or may not have overheard, he knew nothing. His head and heart were consumed with bitterness and the lifelong consequences of the day’s event. Such things were all pervading. Clement tried to imagine the public humiliation John must be suffering. Small villages are unforgiving places. Yet forgiveness was the price he had to pay; for his wife and for David Russell, and for his own sanity. Not easily done. Anger and its brooding by-products were the outcome if John could not or would not forgive.

  Clement stood in the street and watched the inebriated Knowles stagger away from the public house. For one moment Clement wondered if he should make sure the man went home. He couldn’t. John had too many issues to deal with. Home for him would never be the same again.

  Clement walked back across the green, but after only a few paces he stopped. Overhead he heard it beginning. The unmistakable low drone. He looked up. He knew from the radio that planes had been dropping bombs all day in London. In the afternoon light and with his eyes lifted, he watched, mesmerised. Within minutes the skies were filled with aeroplanes. Wing tip to wing tip, in massive formations; bombers and fighters. As the minutes passed, hundreds and hundreds of aeroplanes passed above him. He felt his heart sinking. Planes of every size and type were heading for the capital. People came out of the buildings and were standing in the street, struck dumb by the clamorous noise and number of aircraft. Clement looked around him and saw the young grocer’s wife crying, the tears falling unrestrained from her eyes. He felt dizzy with the volume of aircraft.