The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue

by Heneghan, Lou

  The Black Watch private shouted back. ‘I don’t know what the problem was but she’s all right now, Captain!’ The engine spluttered into life.

  ‘Full speed ahead then, Scotty!’ Seth yelled. He gave Ralf an impish look then admitted: ‘I’ve always wanted to say that!’

  Each of the remaining King’s Hadow boats made six more trips that night, until The Mona's Isle was full to capacity. At dawn, she steamed away carrying one thousand, four hundred and twenty men. The King’s Hadow boats each took on board one more load before full light when Luftwaffe raids began again.

  Major Swift ordered his men from the mole to the comparative safety of the wharf and said goodbye.

  ‘What about you, sir?’ Valen asked. ‘Your head needs seeing to.’

  Swift shook his head. ‘Not quite yet, I think.’ He gave a weary salute to the men aboard The Sara Luz and stood, alone, at the end of the mole. ‘Godspeed!’

  As the bright morning sun cleared the French coast The Sara Luz hit open water. They chugged past the beaches, which they’d first seen only a few hours before and saw in daylight the true scale of the problem. The dunes above the beaches were crawling with men, equipment and vehicles of every kind and here and there were even groups of horses, skittish and nervous in the salty breeze. Further down on the beach were more soldiers, thousands of them, turning the white sand khaki-black. Men queued four or five abreast from the promenade to the water’s edge. Men waded into the sea and stood, as statues, water lapping at their shoulders, their rifles held above their heads.

  The Sara Luz sailed on, its passengers staring in mute awe. At the bow, Val’s raven hair whipped in the wind and silent tears streamed down her face. It was the first and last time, that Ralf would ever see her cry.

  The four remaining King’s Hadow fishing boats huddled together in the vast expanse of blue. Mid-channel, Leo thought to break out the food. They passed round more of Urk’s apples and the soldiers shared the remains of their rations.

  Quiet conversations started. King and Gloria discussed the sweetness of the apples. Charles Hart, looking older and rather less debonair than in his film posters, was sitting up, wrapped in a blanket in the stern. Ron had handed him a hip flask, from which he gratefully drank. Seth, with colour in his cheeks for the first time in months, leaned over the side rail, eyes half closed, listening to the actor’s vivid recount of his time in captivity

  ‘Got any tea mate?’ a whiskery Cold Stream Guard asked, hopefully.

  ‘Val?’ King said.

  She beamed that brilliant smile of hers. ‘Please, Julian. Two sugars in mine!’

  Ralf had to laugh.

  An hour later they saw shapes on the horizon and all talk ceased. The boats instinctively drew closer together and they watched the approach of something they would remember for the rest of their lives.

  Destroyers loomed at them. There was the HMS Jaguar, The Sabre, The Malcolm and The Wakeful as well as two French destroyers, three minesweepers and a number of Army Landing Craft. All were powering towards France to begin the evacuation of the desperate troops stranded there. Huge and implacable, they towered over the King’s Hadow boats, sending them rocking in wash. Behind them – behind them was a sight that lumped their throats and blurred their eyes.

  Here there were boats – hundreds of them. There were passenger ferries, car ferries, day trippers, fishing boats, tug boats, lifeboats, cabin cruisers, trawlers, motor launches and dredgers. There was the Isle of Wight ferry and a pleasure boat, The Brighton Belle – a multitude of boats of different shapes and sizes, new and old – even the Admiral Superintendent’s barge from Portsmouth, still with its gold tassels and fancy red trim.

  Ralf’s skin prickled. He called to Seth and pointed. As the vessels drew nearer they saw clearly that they were being sailed by civilians, ordinary people in ordinary clothes, some still wearing smart jackets and trilby hats. The call had gone out and the people had answered. Here were little ships sailed by the little people, proud to do their duty.

  It was King who started the clapping. But he was only alone for a heartbeat. The applause swelled until it was taken up by every living soul on the King’s Hadow fleet. Hats were removed and cheers rang out across the water as the returning heroes clamoured their approval of the departing ones. Their shouts echoed like drums across the waves.

  The King’s Hadow to which they returned was a very different place from the one they had left. It was nearly noon when they got back and it seemed that the entire village was waiting on the harbour. Bunting had been strung from the cottages on the front and there were ‘Welcome home!’ banners fluttering in the breeze. The women, presided over by Rosie Kemp had set up tables groaning with food and Arthur Kemp was monitoring the progress of a whole pig, roasting over an open fire at the bottom of the High Street.

  He waved when he saw Ralf and the others pushing their way through the crowd to come ashore. ‘Brindle’s sow!’ he winked, as they joined him. ‘She can’t take it where she’s going and these brave souls deserve it more than she anyway!’

  ‘She’s been arrested, then?’ Leo asked.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Kemp. ‘Oyler Munton and three fellas down Hasting’s way an’ all.’ He nodded down towards the seafront to where Gadd Munton was being escorted off The Sara Luz by Ron and Tom Arbuckle. Burrowes waited for him on the road. The back door of his Wolsely was open and Sergeant Minter, stony-faced, was brandishing a set of handcuffs. ‘And he’ll be joining them,’ he sighed.

  ‘You’re alright, though, Mr Kemp?’ Valen asked.

  ‘Thanks to you lot!’ He slapped each of the boys on the back and then bent to kiss Valen’s grazed and grubby hand, making her blush furiously. ‘Got the Bakery to rebuild o’ course,’ Kemp said. ‘But I been wanting new ovens for years.’ He gave Val a gentle push and added, ‘We’ll be living in one of the Manor cottages until it’s done. There’s plenty of room and what with Lloyd Hatcher being in the hospital Val, maybe you could come and live with us for a while?’

  There was a commotion on the harbour then and all activities stopped as Cabal let out a piercing greeting of doggy joy. Hettie, in a clean summer dress and looking two hundred per cent better than when they’d last seen her, called and waved to them. Laughing, she struggled to hold on to Cabal for a second but lost her balance and sat down heavily on the grass verge as the dog bounded across the road then wove in and out of tables and people to reach his master. Predictably, Ralf was knocked off his feet by Cabal’s enthusiasm.

  ‘You really should teach him not to do that,’ said Valen.

  Ralf grinned and hugged his dog, not caring one little bit, whilst Valen and the others scratched Cabal. Hettie, blushing prettily, was helped to her feet by a wiry East York’s private.

  Just then, the Sedleys, already reunited with Walter, spotted Alfie in the crowd and Old Jack gave a whoop of delight. The couple rushed forward to embrace the boy, alternately squeezing him, praising his bravery and telling him off for going in the first place.

  ‘If I hadn’t spotted that tam o' shanter we’d have missed you,’ chuckled Mr Sedley.

  ‘Ridiculous thing!’ Mrs Sedley exclaimed. ‘And it needs a good wash!’ She crushed Alfie in another hug and wept openly as she licked her handkerchief and used it to wipe soot from his Cheshire-cat face. Ralf wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him purr.

  ‘Come and get something to eat, loves,’ Mrs Sedley suggested eventually, dabbing her own eyes. ‘I bet you’re all well starved.’ She gave them an impish smile when she saw their surprise. ‘That is what you youngsters say, innit?’

  ‘Totally, Mrs S,’ Alfie grinned as the others roared. ‘I could eat a horse and chase the jockey!’

  The Sedleys guided them through crowds of soldiers to the food tables where Hilda was supervising a bubbling urn. Ralf’s sister nearly smothered him with her hug when she saw his newly bruised face, broken nails and the dried blood that splotched his clothing. She took a deep, shuddering breath then handed him
a sandwich and a steaming mug of tea. ‘Get that inside you,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘Now get out from under my feet while I see to these men.’ She managed a smile for the next soldier as she put an extra spoon of sugar in his tea, fighting to keep a glimmer of hope alive. Maybe in another harbour along the coast somewhere, a woman like her would be doing the same for Niall.

  The party lasted all afternoon. Ralf wasn’t sure whether the best part was the knowledge they’d defeated Scathferox, the fact that the Natus were all alive and well or the huge amounts of chocolate ration that the rescued soldiers were dishing out. Alfie, already stuffed with pork and several helpings of rice pudding, was tucking into his third bar and actually groaning with pleasure. Villagers kept walking past and ruffling their hair or pressing plates of food into their hands and Ralf’s back was starting to get sore from all the pats of admiration he’d had. Eventually, literally unable to eat or drink anymore, the Turnarounders wandered away from the tables to take in the rest of the celebrations.

  They stopped outside The Crown, which was packed to the rafters with people singing, dancing and generally having a grand old time. The band was playing and Frank Duke had broken the habit of a lifetime and was serving beer on the house. It was a little early, and not strictly legal, but no one seemed to mind.

  They peaked through the doorway to see fishermen, Mr Cheeseman and, astonishingly, a whole group of masters from St. Crispin’s School. Ralf stood open mouthed as Asinus sang an excruciating version of ‘There’ll be bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover’ and Frank Duke plied a red-faced Weedy Green with beer.

  ‘You know there aren’t actually any bluebirds in Britain,’ Ralf said eventually.

  Leo laughed and thumped him on the arm. ‘You really need to get out more, Wolf, you know that?’

  They were both distracted by the arrival of a midnight blue Rolls Royce, which thundered over the cobbles far too fast. Its door popped open and Major-General Kingston-Hawke emerged to frantically scan the crowd. Ralf and the others watched as, all thoughts of decorum forgotten, the Major spotted his wife and son and rushed to sweep them into a bear-like embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ King said formally, when he’d recovered his balance. ‘I’m afraid The Sea-Hawke is sunk.’

  ‘Casualty of war, old man,’ said the Major, flushed and puffed with pride. ‘Only a boat, though. Can always buy another. Just glad you weren’t in it!’

  She’d been doing it for an hour or so but Mrs Kingston-Hawke, unable to show her relief any other way, continued showering King with kisses as they spoke. She was, yet again, checking him for injuries when she saw Gloria, her arm in a sling, face smudged and hair wild tottering along the cobbles. She was struggling to carry her tripod and camera case.

  ‘What on earth is she doing now?’ Mrs Kingston-Hawke exclaimed. ‘I left her for one minute!’

  She hurried over to intercept her daughter. Ralf and the others followed with Cabal at their heels.

  ‘Important to take a picture for posterity, don’t you think?’ Gloria gushed. ‘Marvellous day, isn’t it?’

  Mrs Kingston-Hawke nodded to her son who gently prised the equipment from Gloria’s fingers.

  ‘How about if I take it, Sis?’ King suggested. ‘You go and stand with the others.’

  ‘Whizzo idea, Jules,’ Gloria beamed, her eyes glassy. ‘Ralf and his friends can fly, you know!’ she giggled, as her mother guided her back to a chair. ‘And they can stop bullets with the power of their minds! Honestly, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw!’

  Mrs Kingston-Hawke patted her daughter on the arm reassuringly and raised her eyes at Ralf. ‘Ignore her,’ she said, through the side of her mouth. ‘She’s had very strong pain medicine.’

  They stifled their snorts of laughter as Mrs Kingston-Hawke whispered comforting words in Gloria’s ear and King organised the village for the photograph.

  ‘Say cheese, everyone!’ King called.

  Glasses were raised, hats thrown and all eyes turned to the camera – all eyes, except Ralf’s. Because just at the moment that King was about to take the picture, he saw something. On the far side of the harbour, by the most inland of Fox Earth Cottages there was a flash of colour. Kat Noakes stood waving a large banner.

  ‘Swann’s Circus and Tremendous Travelling Show.’

  Next to her, in the shadow of the little house stood Ambrose. Ralf couldn’t contain his gasp of surprise or control the sinking feeling in his belly and he raised a hand to point. King pressed the button and the shutter clicked. ‘That’s it everyone!’ he called. ‘Carry on as you were!’

  Ambrose was waiting for them up on the top field. Standing in front of his blood red tent, he cut an imposing figure in blue and silver fortune-teller’s robes and was sporting a long, curled black moustache. The Turnarounders stepped forward to greet their old friend, who shook their hands and clapped his own in obvious delight. Ambrose spread his arms wide at the circus tents and entertainers that surrounded them.

  ‘We’ve come full circle!’ he chuckled. ‘And to think, for a while there, I had doubts you’d pull it off!’

  The first few villagers were starting to arrive at the edge of the field, looking to continue the party. They smiled at the sound of Ambrose’s deep laughter.

  ‘Oh, but you’ve done so well! You really have!’ Old Father Time enthused. ‘Let’s just do a final check, shall we?’

  With a wink at Leo, he waggled his fingers theatrically and his book appeared in his hands, seemingly out of thin air. He rifled its pages until he found the one he was looking for.

  ‘Right! The Natus. So, Winters is code breaking with Turing at Bletchley Park,’ he informed them. ‘That’s the Battle of the Atlantic back on track. In two years time, Walter Sedley will join up and play his part in the Battle for North Africa. And Ron and Tom Arbuckle will, as they’re destined, canoe up the Gironde Estuary to Bordeaux and sabotage six enemy battleships. So, thanks to them, the war will still end in 1945 and not six months later.’

  ‘And Gloria?’ Ralf asked. ‘Does she really parachute into France?

  ‘She’s already working for SOE,’ said Ambrose. He ran his finger down the tiny lines of text in his book, read silently for a minute and gave a satisfied smile. ‘Early next year, she’ll be working with the French Resistance. Her photographs of V2 rocket emplacements will be vital in giving the RAF accurate target information. She’s going to save hundreds of lives.’

  ‘Told you she was a diamond,’ said Alfie.

  Ralf grinned back at him.

  ‘You were right to keep an eye on Gordon Kemp too, though,’ said Ambrose, chuckling. ‘He wasn’t one of the Natus in this timeline but he's not not too shabby on the righteous stakes!’

  ‘His colour was very bright,’ said Ralf.

  ‘I should think so too!’ Ambrose exclaimed. Kemp turns out to be rather special. Through a cunning use of lights and bonfires, he’ll manage to dupe a Luftwaffe squadron into bombing Urk Fitch’s back field instead of annihilating Folkstone as they’ve been ordered. Not bad for a night’s ARP watch.’

  ‘What about Hart, though?’ Leo asked. ‘Hart was one of the Natus. He was ‘the greatest of them’, wasn’t he? Does he still go on to be Churchill's double?’

  ‘Churchill's double?’ Ambrose chuckled. ‘Oh, no. They use someone else. After all those months in captivity Hart’s far too ill for that kind of work. And too thin!’

  ‘But what does he do?’ asked Leo. ‘Does he work as a spy or something?’

  ‘No,’ Ambrose smiled. ‘He makes a couple of films which do wonders for British morale but Archie’s finest moment doesn’t come until the war is over.’ He flicked forwards in the book and tapped the new page. ‘He’s touring the United States when the hotel in which he’s staying catches fire. A hundred and nineteen people are killed that night in Atlanta but Archie manages to rescue four other guests and a young man who is funding his college education by working as a night porter
.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leo, strangely deflated. ‘I – er – I mean, that’s good and everything but I kinda expected him to have done something else. You know – bigger. More important.’

  Ambrose sighed. ‘But Leo, it is important. Hart does many noble things in his life but his achievement that December night in 1946 is world-changing! It sets in motion a chain of events that continues right up until your own time. You see, the young night porter Hart saves that night is a sixteen year old student by the name of Martin Luther King Junior.’

  ‘Whoa!’

  ‘Quite,’ said Ambrose.

  Valen grinned. ‘So History’s back on track then?’ she asked. ‘All of it?’

  ‘Almost,’ said Ambrose. ‘Ah, yes, about now, I think.’ He pointed and Ralf saw King and his father hovering at the edge of the field. ‘The last piece of unfinished business. Wolf?’ Ralf hesitated but then, waving the other Turnarounders to stay, walked over to join them. Cabal, unwilling to be parted from his boy so soon after getting him back, trotted along beside him.

  ‘Thanks for what you did back there, King,’ Ralf said. ‘For pulling me out of the water, I mean.’

  King attempted his old sour look but it came out as more of a wonky grin. ‘Forget it,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘Would have done the same for anyone. No hard feelings?’

  Ralf smiled, took the hand and shook it firmly. ‘No hard feelings.’

  Major Kingston-Hawke roared with laughter at this. ‘I should think not! Did you hear that, Fran?’ he cried, beckoning his wife over. ‘Saved Osborne’s life and he’s making light of it!’ He slapped his son on the back so hard that he stumbled. Then, with a nod to Ralf he whisked King away into the gathering crowd. ‘Have you met my son?’ he said to anyone who’d listen. ‘Was part of the rescue, don’t you know! Took himself off to France!’

  King grinned back over his shoulder. ‘I’ll call round tomorrow? We could go for a swim in the lake if it’s warm enough? All of us, I mean. Leo, Seth, Valen and Alfie too. Bring the dog if you like!’