by John Hanley
‘What about Fairfield then? What do you know about him?’ I sensed my questions were draining his patience to the point where he would drop his polite act. Even more reason to continue.
‘Sir Edward? Pillar of the establishment. Great servant of his country.’ His endorsement sounded hollow.
‘And the Germans? What about them? Aren’t they plotting against the government you’re paid to protect?’
‘We don’t protect governments. We uphold the law.’ He was smiling again. He wasn’t going to let a schoolboy unsettle him.
I tried again. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Why my uncle?’
‘He has some particular information we would like to retrieve.’ He hesitated. ‘I think you know what that is.’
‘You mean evidence about the conspiracy that your Fairfield is involved in?’
‘And what would that be, Jack? Tell me about this conspiracy.’ His voice leaked sarcasm.
‘To turn England into a fascist state, appease Hitler, betray Poland –’
‘Oh this is bloody ridiculous,’ Le Feuvre interrupted. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’
Greaves held up his hand for silence and leant forward again. This time his tone was intimate. ‘Tell me, Jack, I am interested. Who is the bigger threat to the world? Hitler or Stalin?’
I eyed him back. ‘Is that your question?’
‘Indeed. Your answer will tell me a lot.’ He waited.
He was toying with me again. Trying to suck me in. He wasn’t going to tell me anything useful but by talking, he was hoping I would let something slip.
It was time to end this, even if it did mean a beating. ‘Why don’t you ask the Afrikaners?’ I paused. Tensed myself. ‘Of course you can’t ask them, can you, because you are so fucking incompetent, you let them disarm you and get away.’
Clitheroe grabbed my hair and jerked my head back over the chair. Just as I sensed his fist swinging to strike, I heard the door open.
He released his hold as Le Feuvre leapt to his feet. Greaves looked confused.
‘What is going on here?’ The familiar voice of the President of the Defence Committee, Philip Tanguy QC, washed over me as he walked towards the desk. ‘I hope you are not harming this young man.’
‘No, sir, but he is being very difficult – refusing to answer questions and –’
‘Never mind that, Inspector. I will speak to you about this later.’ He turned to the door. ‘In you come, Aubin.’
My God. They’d arrested my father.
Tanguy was speaking again. ‘Allow me to introduce Sergeant Greaves of the Metropolitan Police – Mr Aubin Renouf.’
My father shook hands with my tormentor. I’d seen this magic handshake before and marvelled how it turned complete strangers into lifelong friends.
My father said, ‘May I have a word outside, Sergeant?’
Le Feuvre smouldered. Obviously, he wasn’t one of the brothers.
Tanguy left with the two men. He didn’t need to shake hands – his Masonic membership was written all over his patrician face. I tried to listen but, apart from distant voices, could hear nothing.
Minutes later, the door opened and Greaves returned. He sat at the table and looked at me with a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘Well thank you, Jack. You’ve been most helpful. We won’t forget to tell your uncle how helpful now that we’ve found him.’
He stood up and indicated the door. ‘You are free to leave.’
I was about to step through the threshold when he spoke again. ‘Oh, excuse me, I almost forgot. I need to draw your attention to this.’ He held up a booklet with a blue cover. ‘It’s a copy of the Official Secrets Act 1920. There’s a minor amendment going through parliament at the moment but it needn’t concern you.’
‘What’s this got to do with us?’ my father asked.
‘Well, quite a lot actually. I’m sure you don’t want me to read you the whole thing but section two, “Communications with foreign agents” and section three, “Interfering with officers of the police” are relevant here. Section eight, “Provisions as to trial and punishment of offences”, will also be of interest.’
‘I’m not going to sign anything. You can’t hush this up,’ I said.
‘No need. It’s already a law. I am just making you aware of it. Signing is irrelevant.’ He paused as a thin smile crossed his face. ‘I will be doing the same with all the others as well. Should you reveal any detail to a third party that you have omitted to mention during your interview then you will almost certainly be prosecuted to the full extent of the provisions under this law.’
I absorbed this and was about to respond but my father spoke first. ‘I see. I can understand your wish to cover up this whole episode but what about all the people who wintessed the events at the hotel?’
Greaves shrugged. ‘The law applies to them as well and we have all their names. They will be visited and reminded. And, before you ask, none of this will be reported in your newspapers. The Lieutenant Governor’s office will be issuing a D notice to their proprietors.’
My father considered this for a moment then nodded. ‘It makes sense. No point in alarming people. I suppose it’s for the best. Thank you, Sergeant. Is there anything else?’
I was about to suggest something when my father tugged me into the corridor.
47
Tanguy marched off and left us.
My father spoke softly. ‘What a bloody awful mess.’
‘Where’s Alan?’
‘Shush.’ He tugged me away from the door. ‘He’s got nothing to do with this. Understand?’
So he was the shooter and Father was going to help cover up. He’d obviously been very busy already. ‘Where’s our section two foreign agent, Uncle Fred?’
My father’s voice and expression were deadpan. ‘He was in the hospital having his wrist fixed. He didn’t know anyone was looking for him.’
‘What happens now?’
‘We go home. Your mother is very upset.’
I’d get the full story from Alan. It shouldn’t be too difficult now that I’d had some interrogation training.
As we passed along the corridor, I couldn’t resist peeking through the glass panel in each door. I hoped to see the Germans handcuffed and awaiting their turn with Le Feuvre and the Special Branch bullies. The first room was occupied by a group of honorary policemen talking with Phillips. I hurried on. The second was empty.
The third held Malita and Miko, who was wearing similar overalls to mine. He looked better in shorts. I glanced around the room but there were two uniformed policemen sitting with them. They were in for a long night. I couldn’t imagine either of them giving Greaves anything other than a difficult time.
The next room held two women with their backs turned. I gasped in surprise. Rachel and Caroline were talking quietly. They were wearing yellow overalls. I wondered if Caroline was wearing the scratchy underwear. I peered in through the panel. An honorary policeman was staring into space.
The door opened and Saul stuck his nose in my face. ‘I hope your fucking ears are burning. Come in for fuck’s sake.’ No Shakespearian references to unpick there then. I was pleased. The Bard hadn’t been much use really.
My father’s grip tightened and he hissed in my ear, ‘Come on. Not now.’
Caroline and Rachel swivelled in their chairs and spotted me. Their faces were level – only inches apart. I had never seen them that close before. They looked at me as though I was a stranger. Perhaps I was.
I shrugged out of my father’s grip. ‘Five minutes. Please.’
He let me go.
Saul hauled me in and closed the door. I recognised the honorary policeman – the unfortunate haberdasher from Voisins. He didn’t look as though he’d been attacked by Caroline yet. Then she didn’t look as though she had the energy to attack anyone at present.
I stumbled in and sat next to them. Saul pulled up another chair. The haberdasher ignored us.
‘Man, where have you
been? I’ve had to listen to these two dissect you piece by piece. I had no idea women could remember so much. Everything, man – every fucking thing you’ve ever said or done. They don’t forget anything.’
‘We can forgive though, Saul, but not if you don’t shut up.’ Caroline held Rachel’s hand. ‘We’ve been talking, Jack. I know now isn’t a good time but –’
‘About me, behind my back?’ I didn’t want to hear this. ‘Where’s your brother?’
‘Gone. They’re all gone. It’s as though they were never here.’
‘What about your father and your –’
‘They’re here somewhere.’ She waved her hand to indicate the town hall. They’ll be taking me home soon.’
‘Why, Caroline?’
‘Why what?’
‘Your brother. Tell me about your brother.’
She exchanged an intimate look with Rachel.
‘Jack, I’m sorry. I got everything wrong. I thought… you and Rachel… I was jealous. I didn’t think I could trust you.’ Her cheeks had bright spots in them – she was finding this difficult. I noticed Rachel squeeze her hand. ‘It was infatuation, I suppose. My own silly insecurity.’ She exhaled. ‘I asked Rudi to play along, pretend to be an admirer –’
‘She was testing you, Jack.’ Rachel spoke mechanically. ‘She wanted Rudi to like you, to –’
‘Approve, I suppose. I don’t know what I wanted. You were so confusing, Jack.’
She let go of Rachel’s hand. ‘I always thought that you were just, you know… I thought you were really keen on Rachel – do you know how many times you mentioned her name in your letters? Only, I thought you didn’t have the courage to tell her.’ She swallowed. ‘I thought that if I let you…’ She stopped.
I looked quizzically at Rachel. They may have been talking intimately but I didn’t think they had been telling each other the truth. I glanced at Saul. He rolled his eyes.
I felt desperately sad. Rachel’s eyes were hooded, her face blank.
Saul broke the silence. ‘It’s like quick-sand, Jack. Stay out of it. She’s told us about Rudi. I could almost feel sorry for the bastard -’
‘Shut up, Saul. This has nothing to do with you.’
‘Oh, really? What the fuck am I doing here then?’
‘You had no choice. You’re a witness like the rest of us.’ Rachel sounded exasperated with him.
I pointed at the constable’s officer. ‘I’m sure he’s been making notes, haven’t you, Officer? Your bosses will be interested in everything that’s been said. Make sure you get it right.’
Saul nudged me. ‘Don’t worry, Jack, they haven’t been indiscreet. No references to Shylock and his daughter’s theft.’
That was something. They’d had the sense not to mention diamonds in front of the poor man, who was looking quite bemused enough.
‘Okay, I’m all ears – even if they are rather red. Tell me. Make me feel sorry for the German bastard.’
‘Jack, that’s enough.’ Rachel sounded angry with me.
What had been going on in here?
‘It’s okay, Rachel.’ Caroline patted her arm. ‘It’s just that we’ve all had rather a lot of secrets dragged out of us in the last few days –’
‘Just tell me one thing, Caroline. You’re not my sister as well – are you?’
It was a vicious slap – perhaps undeserved – but I was still very angry. Her face dissolved and she started to sob. The other two stared aghast at me. Even the haberdasher leant forward in his chair. Had her reaction confirmed it?
She balled her hands into fists. ‘How could you? How could you? Do you think I would have let – you fucking cruel bastard!’
Saul couldn’t handle silence. ‘Well – just for the record, Jack. In case Caroline never speaks to you again. Her mother moved to Berlin in 1913 with her parents. Colonel Hayden was a military attaché. She met Tobias Kempler, had a fling, produced Rudi then buggered off to England with her parents when war broke out. Had to leave the little bastard behind because the Kemplers wouldn’t let him go. In normal times it might have caused a diplomatic incident but the Germans had launched one of their own by then and there was nothing she could do. This was probably a relief to her father as having an illegitimate grandson fathered by the enemy wasn’t a great career move. Tobias was killed by a British sniper in 1917.’
He paused waiting for a reaction.
Caroline’s voice was flat, unemotional. ‘My mother met Wilbur in Jersey before the war. It’s a complicated story. I’ve seen photographs of Tobias. He was very handsome, came from a well-placed family. After Tobias was killed, Rudi was adopted by his uncle Ferdinand.’ She tried to smile and turned to Rachel.
‘It seems I’m not the only one to have family secrets kept from them.’
So they’d been sharing more than their opinion of me. Rachel’s face was blank.
I waited.
Caroline looked into the distance. ‘After the war, my mother met Wilbur again in Jersey, though it would seem that Jack’s father got there first.’
I couldn’t protest, not now my mother had broadcast the affair, so I kept silent.
‘The Renouf men appear to be equally bewildered about relationships.’ She sounded more sad than bitter.
I waited, again not knowing how to react.
‘But he chose his wife. Love? Loyalty? Who knows. Perhaps Jack will ask his father one day.’
‘He’s outside. Do you want me to bring him in? You could ask him, Caroline. If you think it would –’
‘That’s not the best idea you’ve ever had, Jack.’
‘Saul’s right. He probably doesn’t know the answer anyway.’ Caroline looked towards the door. ‘He’s suffered enough this evening. Anyway, it’s not about your parents. The question was about mine and I don’t have any more answers – apart from guesswork and I’m not thinking very clearly at the moment.’
No one spoke.
Again the silence defeated Saul. ‘Caroline didn’t know she had a brother until she met him in Berlin. She didn’t know about your father’s relationship with her mother until this evening. She’s got lots of questions for her mother –’
‘That’s enough, Saul. I think we’ve heard enough secrets for one day.’ Caroline slumped in her chair.
Saul stopped and looked at Rachel.
She looked at me.
I looked at Caroline.
She looked at the floor.
She looked up and we all swapped the direction of our gaze.
When our eyes had settled, I was looking at Rachel. She seemed to have grown in strength as Caroline collapsed.
It struck me that Rachel’s discovery about her parentage had been more devastating to her than the revelation of my father’s and Isobelle’s past misdemeanours to Caroline and myself. Now, I sensed that she was distancing herself from us – retreating to examine the reality of who she was.
There was nothing more to be said. I got up and walked to the door, leaving them with their silence. Father was waiting. He took me home.
Epilogue
Sunday 17th September – Evening
The wreckage of the Mauritania’s raft is all around me. The only recognisable parts are the copper drums; the wooden planks are scattered, like matchwood, across the beach, victims to last night’s unexpected storm.
I crunch through the smooth pebbles and pick up a two-foot spar, careful to avoid its jagged edges. I hurl it towards the sand, but it pitches short into the stones, bounces twice before planting itself in the seaweed deposited by this morning’s tide.
I am midway between the pool and the Dicq Rock; the tide is reaching in again and will be high in a couple of hours. I sit on one of the copper drums, dented but still in one piece, and contemplate the wreckage at my feet. If there is a symbol of my summer, then I am in the middle of it.
It is a fortnight since we listened to the BBC news and discovered that we were at war with Germany once again. What none of us had wanted to believe is now
the reality.
I feel particularly sorry for Uncle Fred. He had been confused and upset by Russia’s pact with Germany in August and devastated today when we heard from the lunchtime broadcast of their stab in Poland’s back.
His belief in the salvation that Communism offered the working man has been as badly dented as the copper drums scattered around me. But it hasn’t shattered like the wood at my feet. He tried to convince us, though I feel he was trying harder to convince himself, that Stalin is just playing with Hitler and will turn on him as soon as he is ready and stamp out fascism forever. Two months ago my father would have thrown him out of the house for mouthing such sentiments but he seems more tolerant now. He even smiled sympathetically at Malita as he served the beef.
Alan turned up late. He’d been practising again at Crabbé with my rifle now that his own was in so many different parts buried around the farm.
He hadn’t needed much encouragement to tell me about his part in the sinking. Fred had slipped away from the hotel, found one of his comrades who worked on the Palace Farm next door and persuaded him to drive to our house in their delivery van.
He’d roused Alan and they hurried to the field overlooking the breakwater. He’d spotted while Alan shot. My brother was disappointed he hadn’t hit anyone on Alf’s boat but Fred told us that he’d been spotting away from human targets. Instead the bullets had frightened the helmsman so much that he’d driven the boat onto the rocks.
They’d observed another white-hulled boat approach then spotted me waving. Fred had insisted on no more shooting so they’d watched the Afrikaners and their crew clamber aboard and drag Sleeman with them, leaving Fairfield and the Germans to their fate. As the police bells clanged past below, Fred had made Alan strip the rifle, wrap the components in oiled rags and distribute them around the farm.
When the police finally interviewed him, he confessed to firing on our range with Father’s rifle. When they refloated and examined the boat, they found one bullet. It didn’t match.
All of Hayden-Brown’s guests, including Rudi Kohler, whose surname was actually Kempler, had flown out of the island the following morning.