Sherlock's Squadron

by Steve Holmes

  ‘You didn’t?’

  John grinned, signalled over to Joyce, put two fingers up and pointed to Norman and himself.

  ‘Two pints, John?’ she called over.

  John nodded and stood up. ‘I’ll just pay for them mate.’

  Norman grabbed his jacket as he stepped from behind the table.

  ‘You didn’t answer me, John.’

  ‘Answer what?’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  John bent over and whispered in his ear.

  ‘You bet I did mate. At least half a dozen times, she rode me like a jockey in the Derby, the Grand National and the St Ledger all rolled into one.’

  For a few seconds Norman lost the power of speech as his jaw fell open but no words came.

  John took a few paces towards the bar. ‘That reminds me, I’ll be needing a haircut soon to pick up some more military hardware.’

  ‘Well I never,’ mumbled Norman as he picked up his glass. ‘The dirty… rotten…lucky bastard.’

  The meetings continued for some weeks, as did John’s dates with Joyce, and by this time he had another two girls on the go and he never tired of giving Norman a blow-by-blow account of each passionate encounter.

  ‘You’re some fellow, John Holmes,’ he joked. ‘You want to be careful – that cock of yours will drop off.’

  The two friends sat at their regular table in the bar. The door opened to the street and a shape appeared in the doorway. It was a pleasant interlude. The girl took a step forward and gazed around the bar, obviously looking for someone. The only girls that came into the pubs and clubs of Lancaster at that particular time generally stood behind the bar and pulled pints. John’s jaw dropped. Suddenly Joyce had lost her appeal.

  ‘Look Norman, look.’ John pointed over to the girl.

  Norman put his beer glass on the table and peered over, curious as to what John was so interested in.

  The girl in the doorway couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, very petite, but extremely good looking and smartly dressed in a close fitting jacket, a tight pencil skirt and black high heels. John caught his breath as she seemed to recognise him and smiled. And to his absolute joy she closed the door and started walking towards their table.

  ‘Look Norm, she’s coming this way, she’s absolutely gorgeous.’

  Norman turned to face him.

  ‘That she is, John…that she is. But I’ll thank you to keep your dirty fucking paws off her. That’s my sister Dorothy.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘I’m warning you John, you keep your bloody eyes in your head and your hands in your pocket. She’s my sister and she is strictly off limits. End of story.’

  ‘Spoken like a father, Norm,’ John said as he slapped Norman on the back. Norman shied away, making John well aware his body language had purpose and meaning.

  ‘Fuck off John and stop patronising me.’

  John edged forward in his seat and rested his elbows on the table, his face barely inches from his good friend’s. He took a quick mischievous look around the bar and then stared back at Norman as he cautiously glared over the top of his pint pot.

  ‘Don’t you worry Norman, I’m an honourable man.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘After all, mates are mates.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And you are like a brother to me.’

  Norman leant forward with heavy shoulders as he reluctantly showed his approval but a facial twitch also displayed a tiny hint of suspicion.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I cross my heart in God’s honour.’ John made the sign of the cross on his chest.

  ‘You don’t believe in God.’

  John hesitated.

  ‘You’re right…I’d forgotten about that.’ He grinned again. ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll swear on my Mam’s life, anything.’

  ‘Swear what?’

  ‘I swear, my best mate Norman, that I’ll keep my hands off your sister Dot.’ John rose from the table, placed his cap on his head as he looked at his watch.

  ‘Got to get going old mate. It’s a long walk home.’

  Norman was nodding; he smiled for the first time that evening.

  ‘The thing is, Norman…’ he stood up, leant over the table and slapped his friend gently on the cheek. ‘Can she keep her hands off me?’

  John Holmes had timed it perfectly. Norman jumped up from the table, spilling what was left in his glass onto the table.

  ‘You cheeky little bastard, I’ll fucking brain you.’

  He sprinted across the room to the doorway but John was already running away into the night gloom laughing mockingly as he went. Norman reached the doorway and peered out into the darkness. John had disappeared.

  John’s initial sprint had turned into a jog. There was no way Norman Shaw would ever have caught up with him even if he could have seen him. It was at least half a mile before his chuckles had died away. Norman Shaw was the easiest man in the world to wind up. John Holmes looked up into the night sky. A fine drizzle began to fall, the tiny droplets stood out against the dull glow of the street lights. He pulled up the collar of his coat to protect him from the cold, damp night air. As he did he gazed up into the sky. He wondered where his brothers were, if they were okay or if they too were cold and wet in a trench somewhere in France. As he turned the corner into Ashton Drive a GPO telegram bike stood outside the door of number 43.

  ‘It’s bad news, I’m telling you,’ said his father.

  ‘It could be anything, Bill…’ his mother replied.

  William Holmes sat with an untouched cup of lukewarm tea.

  ‘Not at this time of night. They don’t send a telegram announcing a birth or an engagement at this time of night.’

  Georgina Holmes stood motionless, her thumb and forefinger stroking at a troubled chin.

  ‘Do you think I should call on her?’ she eventually said.

  ‘I’ll come with you, get your coat, it’s turned into a horrible night.’

  He took his big overcoat from the hook on the back of the kitchen door, pulled his cap from the pocket and John was left sitting in the kitchen on his own.

  John was still sitting in the same spot two hours later. Alice and Mary had joined him and they sat in stony silence until they heard the front door slam. Alice stood up.

  ‘That’s Mam back now, I’ll go and…’

  ‘Sit down,’ John interrupted. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  The two statuesque faces of William and Georgina Holmes as they walked through the door told the three siblings everything they needed to know. Georgina Holmes’s eyes were red and moist. She had been crying for some time. As she looked into the vacant stares of her children she broke down again and collapsed on a seat next to the kitchen table. William Holmes went to comfort her. He turned to his children.

  ‘Your Mam remembers Frank being born, playing out in the street in short pants.’

  He didn’t need to tell his son and daughters what they already knew but he did.

  ‘He’s been killed in France.’

  The war had truly arrived in Skerton.

  But life went on. Life had to go on. The shops and the factories continued to operate, the picture houses and pubs opened as normal, even the local dance halls continued to flourish, young men and women eager for release, keen to show the Germans that they would never break their resolve.

  Norman and John had gone to the local dance at the Roxy on Market Street the following Saturday night. Norman’s sister Dorothy also sat on a table over the far side of the room with at least a dozen of her friends. The atmosphere in the hall was a little sombre at first; it seemed everyone knew Frank Roberts or at least knew someone that knew him. The band leader gave out the bad news and called for one minute’s silence. But afterwards he called for an air of normality, said it was what Frank would have wanted, and almost ordered the crowd to enjoy themselves as he conducted the band to open with ‘A String of Pearls’, one of Glenn Miller�
�s most popular tunes. By the third or fourth tune the dance floor was beginning to fill, and by tune six – with the gentle persuasion of a few beers, not to mention the ladies’ favourite, port and lemon – it was in full swing.

  Dorothy Shaw nudged her best friend Mavis Walsh.

  ‘Hey Mave, that’s John Holmes over there sitting with my brother.’

  ‘Oh yeah, so it is. He’s gorgeous isn’t he?’

  ‘Think I stand a chance?’

  ‘No way, he’s hooked up with Joyce from the Greaves Hotel. They reckon she’s teaching him the tricks of the trade.’ Mavis laughed. ‘He’s a couple more on the go too, I’m told.’

  Mavis looked her friend up and down and a mocking smile flicked across her face.

  ‘And Dot, I think he’s a bit young for you anyway. Best leave him alone, nothing but trouble, that one.’

  Dorothy Holmes found a burst of courage as she laughed and rose to her feet. She’d gazed across the darkened room, peered in between the dancing figures. The dance floor was one big jumping, pounding, bouncing Jitterbug as a thousand sparkles from a revolving silver ball suspended from the ceiling lit up a hundred happy, smiling faces. They looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Frank Roberts was a memory now and the war a million miles away. Dorothy Shaw could barely pick out the shape of her brother and his friend but she was on a mission and nothing was going to stop her.

  Another friend chipped in.

  ‘Where are you going, Dot? The bar’s over there.’ She pointed in the opposite direction to where Dorothy was looking.

  Dorothy Shaw didn’t answer; already halfway across the crowded dance floor she dodged flailing limbs and twisting bodies as the five piece band from Lancaster mimicked the sounds of Benny Goodman’s Big Band. As she reached the table Dorothy realised how unprepared she was. What was she going to say, what would she do? There was a pregnant pause as she looked at her young brother and then at his friend. She looked almost hypnotically into his piercing blue eyes as they held her gaze there for a moment and she felt an uncontrollable but pleasant shiver run the length of her spine.

  Norman’s voice brought her back to the present.

  ‘What you after, our lass?’

  ‘Nothing Norman, just wondering what you were doing here. I didn’t know you could dance.’

  ‘I can’t, neither can John here but we heard the beer was good and anyway we like the music.’

  It was the perfect opening, a gift from the Gods. Good old Norman, she thought, and the words came to her as naturally as asking for a loaf of bread at the local shop.

  ‘I could teach you if you like John.’

  Norman’s head fell into his two hands and he shook it from side to side. He’d never seen his sister look this way before. It was his worst nightmare and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  As Dorothy took John by the hand and prepared to walk onto the dance floor she stopped and turned to face her brother.

  ‘By the way Norman, there’s a girl on my table called Laurena. I think you should ask her to dance.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  Dorothy leaned forward and whispered into his ear.

  ‘Because she fancies you, you twit.’

  John Holmes and Dorothy Shaw danced all evening. They danced to the Jitterbug, did the Foxtrot and smooched to the Waltz. When they weren’t dancing they stood at the bar drinking and talking, mostly talking. By the end of the night they were inseparable and despite the best efforts of Norman and Dorothy’s friends they would not return to their respective tables. When the evening ended John asked if he could walk his new girl home. Norman had long gone, as had Dorothy’s friends. She agreed. By the time they turned right onto Penny Street and set off in the direction of Greaves Road their hands were entwined and by the time they reached the junction of Ashton Road John knew, just knew, that he had met the girl he was going to marry. They turned left into Greaves Park. They walked through slowly, glad of the silence and the loneliness of the park. As they neared the exit on the far side a lodge house loomed up through the darkness blocking out the lights from the nearby streets. Dorothy turned to face him.

  ‘I think it’s best you leave me here. Belle Vue Terrace is just around the corner.’

  John nodded.

  ‘No problem, Dorothy, no problem at all.’

  He was trying to act the gentleman, be polite. He was trying his hardest not to put his foot in it, not to do anything that would spoil this beautiful, beautiful evening. Dorothy gave him a little peck on the cheek and bid him goodnight. It was a long walk home but it mattered not. John Holmes would walk home floating on air.

  John was pleased he’d had so many conversations with Norman. Norman had given him the entire history of every member of his family – including Dorothy. He knew what she did and where she worked and even what time she clocked on and off. Good old Norman.

  The textile mill where Dorothy worked was on South Road. It backed onto the Lancaster to Preston Canal. John had completed his routine maintenance in double quick time that day and the supervisor saw no reason not to let him out of work 30 minutes early. He arrived outside the gates of Storey Brothers’ Mill with five minutes to spare. The entrance was impressive, a big old white stone fronted facade, the name Storey Brothers carved deep into the stone and painted red. Behind the stunning entrance it was a mill just like any other, a huge, imposing dirty grey bricked building that seemed to block out the whole landscape. He looked up to the elegant edifice, noticed turrets standing proudly at each end. He had been told it had been home for a Battalion in the Crimean War but now it housed only a workforce who didn’t want to be there. It shouldn’t have been depressing, but it was.

  Spot on six o’clock the security guard unlocked the huge padlock that secured a thick chain around the gates, unwrapped the chain and swung the gates open. A few minutes later the workers drifted out into the huge compound eager to make their way home. Dorothy spotted him before he spotted her. She stopped at the gates.

  ‘Well well, John Holmes, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to ask my girl if she would like to go out on a date.’

  ‘Your girl. Is that what I am?’ She broke into a forced laugh. ‘You dance with me a few times and I’m your girl?’

  ‘Fourteen dances actually.’

  ‘You were counting?’

  John nodded and grinned. ‘And anyway I was wondering if my girl would like to come and join me for a picnic this weekend?’

  ‘A picnic, are you mad? It’s November, its freezing! Where, when, what time?’

  John held up a hand, ‘Whoa… steady on, no more questions. Just tell me you’ll go and I’ll pick you up at home around one on Sunday.’

  Dorothy stood with her hands on her hips. ‘Very well then if you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘One more question though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  John fell back against the mill wall and looked into the sky.

  ‘That’s an easy one, Dorothy Shaw. I’m taking you to the most beautiful place in the world.’

  The World, and Europe in particular, were far away from being described as a beautiful place in the spring of 1941. It was clear from the radio reports that the war was far from over. John and his father listened with dismay as the BBC announced that Swansea and Glasgow on the River Clyde had been sought out for special treatment by the German Luftwaffe and the worst bombing of the year had taken place in London, the Luftwaffe bombs even managing to hit Buckingham Palace. German and British troops had also confronted each other for the first time in North Africa, at El Agheila in western Libya. John’s father shook his head.

  ‘What is it, Dad?’ asked John.

  His father’s chin rested on the palm of his hand as he let out a sigh.

  ‘I don’t know, John, I just don’t know. When this bloody war started I was convinced it would be over in a matter of months. We’re fighting all
over the bloody world now, even in Africa.’

  Despite the doom and gloom of the BBC man, as always he finished on a bright note, the irony not lost on John. He always ended with some good news as he informed the listeners that the United States President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had signed a lease act allowing Britain, China and other Allied nations to purchase military equipment and to defer payment until after the war.

  ‘That’s good news isn’t it Dad, the Americans on our side, giving us weapons?’

  ‘Yes son… good news indeed.’

  And yet John noticed something in his father’s eyes, a look that said he wanted more than that. The BBC would not tell their listeners that the spring of 1941 was not a good time for the Allies. Their troops were being run ragged. Portsmouth had also suffered heavy casualties after another night of heavy bombing by the Luftwaffe and huge convoy losses had been suffered in the mid-Atlantic. Rommel had also reoccupied El Agheila, Libya in his first major offensive against British troops. The British retreated and were driven back into Egypt. Hitler could have been forgiven for thinking he had the upper hand against the Allies; his confidence was at an all-time high and he ordered his military leaders to plan for the invasion of Yugoslavia and sets his sights further afield on the Soviet Union. At the same time he gave the order for the expansion of Auschwitz prison camp, to be run by Commandant Rudolph Hess.

  So William Holmes wanted more; he wanted the bloody Americans to come in and help the Allies. The Germans were sinking their merchant ships by the score but still they sat on the sidelines. What was wrong with them?

  The BBC announcer wrapped up his report. There was a two or three second delay and a beautiful American big band sound filled the room. William grinned sarcastically.

  ‘Glenn Miller,’ he said pointing at the radio. ‘Glenn bloody Miller. Why doesn’t he put his trombone away and pick up a bloody gun?’

  John turned down the sound on the radio, turned to face his father. ‘Do you think the Yanks will come in to the war, Dad?’ he asked.