by John Hanley
‘We’ve all got those now, Malita. Father collected ours last week. Mum even sent him back to get one for Victor.’
‘Oh, Yak, you silly.’ She giggled.
It wasn’t far from the truth though. I sometimes thought that Mum cared more for that bloody bull than she did for us. I picked up the mask and examined it. ‘This isn’t one of ours, is it?’
‘No. Fred no want ours. He get these from France. Say they safe. He get from town hall, he think they put pin holes in and he choke.’ She mimed him collapsing from a gas attack.
Fred wasn’t amused and said something in Spanish, which bought a flush to her cheeks. ‘That’s the one sensible thing the government’s done. That and conscription.’ He looked fierce. ‘It’s time to prepare. Those bastards won’t stop at the Channel once they’ve carved through the French.’
‘Oh, Uncle. Isn’t that just scaremongering? Hitler isn’t that daft. The French army is twice the size of his and –’
‘Twice as stupid. Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum.’
‘If you want peace, prepare for war – Vegetius.’
‘So you haven’t been asleep in your Latin lessons, even if you have in physics.’
‘No, Uncle. And I do read the newspapers.’ I hesitated. ‘If Hitler’s going anywhere – its east. It’s Stalin who should paraeparet bellum.’ That was a bit below the belt as he was always trumpeting the achievements of the Soviet Union.
He shot back. ‘What about Poland? Do you think that Danzig is safe? He’s very cunning, Mr Hitler. He absorbed Austria, Czechoslovakia and the Rhineland without firing a shot. And now Mussolini has joined him in the Pact of Steel – may they both rust in hell.’ He wagged his finger at me. ‘All the countries between him and Russia are fascist either openly or secretly. And what of us? What of the Great British Empire, bastion of democracy? What of Albion? Rotten at the core, that’s what.’
He was on his soapbox again.
‘Our leaders are in the pockets of big business rascals like Hayden-Brown – fascists, all of them. They keep their boots on the workers’ necks whilst lining their silken pockets. Mosley and his Union of Fascists – some think he’s just a crank, you know, but he’s well-connected. He’s in with the establishment. They want to accommodate Hitler –’
‘Uncle, you’re sounding like Churchill.’
‘And what’s wrong with that?’
‘I thought he was class enemy number one.’
‘Of course he is, and he’ll never be forgiven. But, Jack, in a time of war, my enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘You know, if Hitler does swallow Poland, Churchill will be back in government and Chamberlain will be finished. We have to watch out for that toff Halifax though. He’s in Mosley’s circle.’
‘What? The Foreign Secretary?’
‘The Foreign Appeaser more like.’
‘How do you know all this, Uncle? It’s never been reported in the news.’
‘Newspapers, and who do you think runs those?’ He waved my response away. ‘Let’s just say I know what I know and leave it at that.’
‘Hah. That’s a master’s response when he doesn’t know the answer.’
‘Well, I don’t know the bloody answer, either. All I know is that we’ve appointed ourselves Poland’s guardian angel. As soon as dear Adolph crosses her borders, we’ll be at war and no one is going to stop the bloody house painter from that adventure. He’ll crush her in months and then roll up the rest of us so that he can create his Fascist European Union. America will sit it out in splendid isolation and those of you who survive will have to learn German and how to goosestep.’
‘What about you, though, Uncle?’
He fiddled with the mask and looked at Malita. ‘There won’t be a future for me or Lita, even if these work. Socialists, Jews, Freemasons, Gypsies, Jehovah Witnesses, the mentally ill…’ he dropped the mask. ‘Everyone who isn’t Aryan is for the chop, Jack. But don’t take my word for it, read his bloody book. It’s all in Mein Kampf.’
‘Leave him, he is too young.’ Malita stared at Fred. ‘He does not understand.’ She waved her arm around to indicate the island. ‘How could he?’
‘Too young? How old were your brothers when the Falangists asked them questions, huh? How old were the boys who fought with us at Ebro?’
‘Enough. Es una chorrada!’ Malita slammed her fists on the table and leant over Fred, her face contorted with rage. She screamed at him in rapid Spanish, gesturing obscenely with her hands as she berated him. She paused for breath then turned to me. ‘Is best, Yak, you go now.’
‘No. Hujer perdida. You go. You leave us alone. I must talk with Jack. Go!’ Fred towered over Malita, his anger overpowering.
She bowed her head and muttered something before backing towards the door. She turned to speak but dropped her head instead and started to climb the stairs.
8
We listened to her footsteps, heard the bed springs creak then waited until the house echoed with her silence. Fred slumped back into his chair and reached for the teapot. He poured another cup for both of us. I wanted to leave but couldn’t.
‘What have your parents told you about me?’
‘Very little. Mum told me about what happened at Ypres, your posting to India and Russia, but Father has never said anything.’
‘Apart from “stay away from him”.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Do you know why?’
I recalled Nutty’s words, but that was trivial. I thought I knew the real reason for my father’s dislike of his brother-in-law.
‘One reason, Uncle Ralph has said so as well, is that you’re a Marxist.’
‘Red Fred, eh?’ he laughed.
‘Yes, I’m afraid it’s your nickname.’
‘I know, but I have worse names.’ He leaned forward. ‘Do you want to know why they call me that, why I believe in Marxism, why I believe that Hitler means what he says?’
I swallowed then nodded. I did want to know. I wanted to know why my fifty-year old uncle looked seventy, why his face was scarred with worry, his hair white, and why he lived with a woman who was barely in her thirties but looked older than my mother. Most of all, I wanted to know why they were all so frightened of this man and his ideas.
He told me. He used words like weapons, describing horrors which made my flesh crawl. How could men do these things to each other? I felt sick. I’d drunk far too much tea and had to leave the room and seek relief in the toilet in the yard. The physical and mental relief was incredible as I emptied my bladder and some of my mind. I couldn’t cope with much more, though I had wanted to know, to understand.
When I returned, the room was empty. I heard him shuffling about in the front room. Soon the sound of a tenor singing filled the house. It was Gigli or Bjorling – his Caruso records were more scratchy. It was from a Puccini opera, though I didn’t know which one. The Italian composer was one of his few passions. Caroline preferred Beethoven but I couldn’t help but feel moved every time I heard this music. If I could get a gramophone outside, I might try to sooth Victor with it.
Fred returned and slumped over the table. Devoid of expression, he seemed unaware of my presence. I looked at him with a sense of overwhelming sadness. I felt something for my father as well and now appreciated why he refused to talk about the war. I looked at my watch, it was time to go, but I couldn’t leave him like this. I wanted to put my arm around him.
I got up but stopped as I heard Malita’s feet padding on the stairs. He looked up and listened. He waited until the door creaked open, got up and walked over to her, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. He led her to the chair, sat down beside her and whispered in Spanish. She nodded then they both looked at me. We sat listening to the music until it died away and the needle started clicking.
Malita left to attend to it and Fred leaned towards me again. ‘What is your greatest fear, Jack?’
I hesitated. I was sure it wasn’t
drowning that terrified me. I saw it. ‘I think I’m frightened of losing control, of showing fear itself. Does that make sense?’
He nodded. ‘It’s a good question to ask people, though don’t expect an honest answer. Not many have experienced real fear.’
‘What of you, Uncle?’
He looked across at Malita, who had returned and was now brewing another pot of tea. ‘That particular reservoir is empty. There’s a limit in each of us. I exceeded mine years ago. I’m still full of other emotions though; especially hate for Hitler and all his beliefs. You read his book but understand that, evil as he is, he is just a servant.’
No wonder I couldn’t beat him at chess. He was full of surprises. My puzzled expression must have been sufficient.
‘Oh, yes. He’s the Pope’s general.’
‘Uncle, that’s crazy. You don’t mean that.’
‘He mean it, Yak. He think Hitler will destroy all Communist for Pope. He think Catholic big enemy of the people.’
She shrugged, in that peculiar way of hers – why argue with someone who won’t listen? She shoved the teapot at him. ‘Here, you drink. Keep quiet.’ She looked at the clock above the dresser. ‘Is time Yak go.’
‘But I haven’t told him about England or Spain yet.’
‘Good. You save for another day. Yak think you mad old man.’ She waved her hand at me then touched her finger to her lips. ‘You drink tea. Then you go home.’
We supped in silence.
After she had cleared away, Malita decided that it was too late for me to catch the bus from Snow Hill and suggested that Fred take me back on his motorcycle. I’d helped Fred rebuild the bike and knew how special it was to him, but felt brave enough to suggest that I might be allowed to borrow it to ride myself home.
‘Bugger me, you cheeky sod. Borrow my bike? I suppose you want my hat as well. Here, take my shoes and socks if you want –’
Malita grabbed his arm and laughed. ‘Yak, tiene cojones; he help mend this beast. Why no let him ride her?’
‘Ride her? Ride Boadicea? She’ll buck him off and leave him bleeding in the gutter. He’s too young to handle a machine like that.’
‘Stupid man. It is you she buck off. You scared he ride her better. Yak is man now and he has cojones as big as yours.’ She moved towards Fred, her hand stretched out in a claw. ‘Perhaps bigger.’
He edged away, keeping the kitchen table between them. ‘Right, but remember the history of this bike.’ He sounded very concerned.
‘Yak, he is stupid. He believe silly story when he buy this bike of bits. Is nothing wrong with bike – just man who ride it.’
Though I’d longed to, I’d never asked to ride Boadicea before and was somewhat deflated by uncle’s dismissive response.
‘It’s okay, Malita, Uncle is right. It’s better if I don’t. I’ll walk.’
Fred dodged round the table, clasped my shoulders and pulled me towards the door. ‘Why do I listen to her? You wouldn’t ask unless you were sure, would you?’
‘No, I wouldn’t. I know every bit of her, from her Norton box, through her Castle forks, to her JAP heart. I’ve polished every part of her, listened to her breathe. I think she knows me as well –’
Malita giggled. ‘He has made choice. He love her, not Caroline.’
Fred sighed in resignation and pulled me into the yard. Together we lifted the tarpaulin away from the 1933 Brough Superior SS100. Her black nickel-plated paintwork gleamed in the shadows as we manoeuvred her out of the yard and into the road. I held the machine on the front brake and caressed my left hand over the stainless steel petrol tank between my knees.
‘I suppose you want my goggles as well as my shoes, socks, pants and bike?’
‘Just the goggles will do, Uncle.’
Fred extracted a pair of well-worn flying goggles from the saddlebag and slid them onto my head.
I began the complicated procedure of starting the Brough from cold. Eventually the long chrome twin exhausts spat out behind my right leg as the engine throbbed into life. I let it settle into a steady beat, almost as fast as my heart’s.
Fred clapped me on the shoulder and mouthed, mêfi-ous – take care.
I smiled over my shoulder at Malita, then nodded goodbye to them.
Boadicea was ten times more powerful than Bessy, my little 250cc BSA, and much heavier. I pulled in the clutch lever with my left hand, took my right off the twist throttle and nudged the gear lever forward into first, released the clutch and stalled.
I expected Fred to complain but something had distracted him. He grabbed Malita’s arm and cocked his head towards the end of the road. She turned to look and I followed her gaze.
A black Jaguar was parked about fifty yards away. The sole car in the road gleamed in the evening sunlight. Two men, wearing hats, sat in its front seats. Fred mumbled something to Malita. She shrugged.
Fred waved me away. I was curious about the car but didn’t want to ask any more questions. I’d had enough for a while and Boadicea beckoned more enticingly than one of Fred’s mysteries.
I kicked her into life again and this time managed to slip the clutch and bounce down the street with only a seductive wobble from her rear tyre to indicate her displeasure as we turned right into Dumaresq Street.
9
Once I was out of their sight, I relaxed, though it occurred to me that my third-party insurance certificate was insufficient to pay for any damage should Boadicea and I have a falling out with each other. The airflow began to tug at my jacket until I summoned the courage to take my left hand off the handlebar, undo the buttons and let it flare out behind me as I leant forward into the thirty miles per hour wind.
I turned into Pier Road, opened the throttle and let her surge forward up the hill until we were rattling windows as we passed. The acceleration was fantastic, almost jerking my arms from my shoulders. I swung her up the steep slope to Mount Bingham and twisted the throttle to the stop. The sound was glorious as it echoed off the granite walls on either side.
I pulled across the road and slipped into neutral. Below was the harbour with HMS Jersey tied up alongside the Victoria Quay. There were still crowds of people standing about admiring her sleekness. This was arrow-like, compared to the St Patrick mail boat berthed at the adjacent Albert Quay, which would be Alan’s transport to Southampton the following morning.
What a bloody strange day. I still couldn’t believe that I’d thrown Caroline over the quay. What did I feel about her? There were so many competing emotions, so many contradictions, that I just didn’t know. Was it lust that had held us together or was it love? I realised that Jack, the great observer, the clever scholar, didn’t have a bloody clue.
I looked down at HMS Jersey again and remembered the sound as she’d hit the murky water. Whatever I felt was now irrelevant. Our relationship had drowned amongst the weeds in the harbour.
Malita had also said something about Rachel – is difficult choice, no? Choice for whom? Rachel and I were friends, talked at lot, but we’d never shared any intimacy. She was the opposite of Caroline in almost every respect: she was kind, considerate, undemonstrative, unsophisticated but also very pretty in an intense way. She was slim, almost thin, and carried herself with purpose. She didn’t swing her hips like Caroline, didn’t play to the crowd. Yet she was just as good a diver, better in many ways, though she didn’t risk the high tariff twists and rotations. She was a far stronger swimmer and we’d splashed alongside each other many times in deep-sea training before my scare. She’d never given me any visible sign that she saw me as more than a friend but, now I thought about it, she always seemed to be there. She’d been watching me during the match. Perhaps it had been her who had called out and not Caroline.
‘Is difficult choice, no?’ What had she meant? Had Rachel confided in her, or was she just guessing?
I looked across the bay to Noirmont Point. The headland and wedge of coastline to St Aubin was in silhouette now as the sun dipped towards St Ouen. Its late ev
ening rays still dazzled and, through the glare, I spotted an insect-like shape rising up from the airport. Seconds later I heard the twin-engined buzz as the de Havilland Rapide turned towards me and set a course for France.
Fort Regent stood sentinel over the dozing town and I thought I could hear the bark of orders as the militia drilled in the parade ground beyond Glacis Field. It was a beautiful evening and I was sitting astride the most wondrous machine. I should fire her up, steam off towards the sun and blast along the five-mile road. I wanted to test George Brough’s claim that she could reach a hundred miles per hour. Yet I felt unsettled and couldn’t find the enthusiasm. I needed to clear my head of girls but they wouldn’t disappear. Caroline was such an enigma and Malita had intrigued me with her sly comments about Rachel.
I knew she wanted to talk to me though. Whether it was about her feelings or something more urgent, I had no idea. I kicked Boadicea into life. Feel the rush and roar of Boadicea’s bloodlust for speed, or try to unravel the puzzle Malita had set?
Sod it. I’d had enough talk for one day. I turned the handlebars towards the sun, pushed her into gear and aimed her nose towards the harbour. She picked up speed but wobbled as I reached the crest then, of her own accord, she leant right and I was riding downhill towards the east and the pool. I shrugged – my fate was now in Boadicea’s handlebars.
We trundled along Havre des Pas, past the holidaymakers stretching their legs after dinner. Fred had mentioned that her previous owner had a connection with the area but refused to tell me more. It was a riddle, a teaser, as he called it. He loved little mysteries. It was a bit too deep for me, though I assured him I would solve it one day.
Turning up Roseville Street, I weaved towards the imposing granite house where the Vibert family lived. Dark green shutters covered the windows on the ground floor but the sash window of Rachel’s bedroom was half-open. Her net curtains danced over the sill. I pulled Boadicea out of gear and coasted to a halt opposite the stern-faced front door, the very image of its master.