Island Madness

by Tim Binding

“Well, he used to have lots to be jolly about. Are you sure you don’t recognize him? There’s a chequebook here too.”

  She picked up the card. “Come to think of it, I think I might have served him once or twice.” She looked around before lowering her voice. “Trouble is they all look the same in their uniforms, don’t they?”

  “What about without their uniforms?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “In ciwies. Bathing costumes. Au naturel.”

  “Bathing costumes? What are you on about?”

  “It’s just that I thought you might have known this fellow socially, Elspeth. In less formal surroundings.”

  “What on earth gave you that idea?”

  “Well, these actually,” he said, and laid the pictures before her. “They were in his wallet too.”

  Elspeth paled and clutching at the counter slipped off her stool in a heap. The girl at the back jumped up, knocking the bottle of ink over her carefully written figures. Ned ran to the side and ducked under the counter flap. The girl had Elspeth’s head in her lap. Her inky footprints ran clear across the waxed surface.

  “Let’s get her to her feet,” he suggested. Monty Freeman appeared at his side.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded, then, kicking at the girl’s foot, added, “Look what you done to my floor.”

  “Never mind that!” Ned shouted. “Get her a glass of water or something.” He put his hand under Elspeth’s armpit, and with the girl’s help half dragged her into Monty’s office. He could feel her heart pulse, smell the sudden sweat of her. Though her body was limp and her eyes were closed, she managed to keep her stockinged legs well away from any splinters. She hadn’t fainted at all. She was gaining time. Shooing the secretary out Ned sat her in Monty Freeman’s swivel chair before walking back to retrieve the photographs. When he got back Monty Freeman was standing outside with a glass in his hand.

  “I’m afraid you’re going to be short-staffed this afternoon, Mr Freeman,” Ned told him, taking the rumbler from his grasp. “When she’s back on her feet she’ll be coming with me.”

  “Coming with you, whatever for?” He looked over to Elspeth’s vacant seat and the teller’s drawer beneath. “It’s not the bank, is it?”

  “No, it’s not the bank,” Ned assured him. He closed the door.

  He watched while she regained her composure. Her head was just level with the desk. She struggled in her seat, then reached down and adjusted the height of the chair. She made one attempt to drink but her hand shook water out of the glass. Through the window she could see the other girls gathering around where she had fallen. She looked back, horrified.

  “It’s all right,” Ned reassured her, tapping his pocket. “I’ve got them here. No one saw them.” He stood up. “Come on, Elspeth. We can walk up to the station. The air will do you good.”

  Back in his office he pulled the chair over from the stove and indicated for her to sit down. She sat with her handbag in her lap, looking askance at the grimy walls. Ned walked to the other side and sat opposite.

  “Got a cushion?” she asked. “This seat ain’t half hard on my bum.”

  She wriggled impatiently. Ned couldn’t help but admire her. She had some stuffing inside her still. He leant over.

  “Might as well have a look in this bag of yours, since you’ve brought it with you. See if there’s anything else of interest.”

  He tipped out the contents. A bar of German chocolate, a packet of German tobacco, a little purse with two scrunched-up ten-mark notes, a bank book, a packet of hairpins, a powder compact, a mirror, and a three sticks of different coloured lipsticks. All brand new.

  “Now these pictures,” he said, taking them out and shuffling them like a deck of cards. Elspeth tried to snatch them out of his hand.

  “Do you mind! Them’s private. You’ve no right to oggle at them like that.”

  “I’m investigating a crime,” Ned said. “These could be evidence.”

  “Of what? They’re just photos, that’s all. Who I let take pictures of me is my own affair. Nothing wrong with it.”

  “Actually I’m not sure if you’re right, Elspeth. First, there’s the question of what you were doing.”

  Elspeth looked at him indignantly. “Figure studies, that’s all they were.”

  “I think the Lord Chamberlain might disagree. Leaving that aside there’s the question of what went on before or after and whether any remuneration took place.” He held her protestations at bay. “And lastly there’s the question of where all this took place. Strictly out of bounds, those bunkers. Do you have any idea of the dangers you were putting yourself in if the military thought you were spying?”

  She looked up. “We was just having a bit of fun, that’s all.”

  “You and this Schade?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Conrad? I don’t know. At the bandstand, I think. Or it might have been the cinema. They have these mixed evenings most Tuesdays.”

  “Well, it looks like they were a great success. When did you last see him?”

  “Couple of weeks ago. He’s on leave now.”

  “And he’d take you down there?”

  “Yes. We’d have a bit of a party.”

  “We?”

  She looked annoyed with herself.

  “Me and couple of girls from Boots, if you must know.”

  “What about the girls at the bank?”

  Elspeth shook her head.

  “Happen often, did they, these parties?”

  “Once a week, maybe. Whenever they were on duty.”

  “And you’d go there when? At night?”

  “They’d piek us up after curfew, up by St Saviour’s Church, drop us off at the top and walk through the security gates, change shifts. Then one would pop up to give us the all-clear and we’d climb down.”

  “And you’d spend the night there?”

  “We’d leave early morning, when the coast was clear.”

  “Bit risky for them, wasn’t it?”

  Elspeth brushed her sleeve. “Perhaps they thought we were worth it.”

  “And that’s all that happened there—these parties.”

  “It’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Said I was staying with a friend. We didn’t do anything bad, Mr Luscombe.” Her nose started to quiver. “You’re not going to tell my dad, are you? He’ll beat me black and blue.”

  “That depends on what else you tell me, Elspeth. The trouble is, that bunker, that gun emplacement, also happens to be the place where Miss van Dielen’s body was found.”

  “But that can’t be! Conrad would have told me.”

  “Conrad’s dead,” he told her.

  Now she faltered. Her hands began to shake. Ned felt sorry for her. She was just a silly girl, that was all. She reached out and touched the back of one of the photographs. He felt tempted to give them back to her and tell her to go home. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Nothing to with this. An accident.”

  “I had nothing to do with it, Mr Luscombe, honest. Never even spoken to her.”

  “What about the men there? Did any of them know her, do you think? What were their names, Rupp? Bauer?”

  “Rudi and Co.? No, she was too posh for them.”

  He nodded. He picked up the bank book and flipped through the pages. To date Elspeth Poidevin had £3,175 in her bank account. Three thousand pounds! Ten years of his pay!

  “Bloody heil, Elspeth, how did you come by all this?”

  Elspeth looked at the bank book as if she had never seen it before.

  “Savings.”

  “Savings! From what?”

  “Conrad was very genereus.”

  “I’ll say he was.” He looked back through the entries. She’d opened the account October 1940, four months after the Occupation. The entries came in regular weekly instalments, ten, twenty, thirty pounds.

  “You telling me all this came
from a lieutenant?”

  “Well, not all, obviously.”

  “Well, who, then?”

  Elspeth started to fidget. “Can’t say for sure.”

  “Forgive me for suggesting this, Elspeth, but you haven’t been taking a leaf out of the French ladies’ books, have you? The sight of them trooping in the bank with all their hard-earned money didn’t set you thinking, ‘If they can do it, so can I’?”

  She stood up, a flush of crimson racing down her neck.

  “How dare you say that! How dare you!”

  “Well, what else am I supposed to think? Here’s the lieutenant with pictures of you that would make a nawy blush, and here’s you with a bank balance that would be the envy of your bank manager.”

  Monty Freeman. That was a point. He leafed through the book again. Two years, five months, 1940, 1941, 1942, 1943. At the close of December 1942 the interest gained that year had been worked out, with Monty Freeman’s signature at the bottom. Monty Freeman knew of this, knew that Elspeth Poidevin was salting away more money in five months than he could earn in a year? Upright Monty Freeman? Then he remembered the swivel chair, and how Elspeth had reached down for the lever, as if she knew exactly how to use it, as if she’d sat in it many times before. Not in office hours, he’d be bound. When the bank was closed, then, and the other girls were on their way home. Elspeth Poidevin and Monty Freeman, together at last.

  Calling for Tommy, he jumped the stairs and starled to run down the hill. The girls were standing outside on the corner, talking to one another. Monty Freeman was shoving his hat on as he hurried down the steps. A minute later and Ned was hugging the left-hand side of the Lower Pollet following Monty’s bobbing hat as he trotted past the chemist and the goldsmith, past R. J. Collins the purveyor of home-made cakes, past all those shops and shop owners to whom he maintained such an unforgiving rectitude, his hand pushing against wall and window, his coat flapping, blind to the ripples his unscheduled progress was causing.

  Down near the roundabout Ned spun on his heel. Poor Monty had stopped up by the Savoy Hotel, out of breath. Ned waited a minute before turning again. Not that there was any danger of being discovered. Monty had crossed the road and was flagging a Pullman as it came up the Esplanade. He tipped his hat to the driver and settled down on the front bench.

  Ned kept a good fifty yards back, walking on the same side as the bus, hanging over the railings or the sea wall whenever necessary. He didn’t need to run any more. The horse buses weren’t built for speed. Women passed him with shopping bags and children. Men whistled carrying tooi kits and empty lunch bags. A window cleaner cycled by, one hand on the handlebars, one hand holding his ladder. Then a doctor’s car. If he shut his eyes to the harbour, the seafront looked normal. Towards Spur Point the crowd began to thin out, so he crossed back to the shore side again and hung back while the old horse pulled its load round the bend and into the South Quay of St Sampson’s harbour. He could see the horse’s bones working under the dull skin, see the age and suffering of the beast in each weary plod. It was easier for Ned to hide himself here, for the harbour was awash with activity: swinging cranes, shouting longshoremen, guards, soldiers, ordinary civilians, all mixed together. They looked happy enough. They were working, earning a decent wage, eating decent food. The bus pulled up. A woman clambered down, her pram handed down by two others who jumped down after it. A boy with a barrel hoop. His mother. Then, from the dark of the canvas, a pair of hands carrying a hat. Monty Freeman.

  A minute later he had crossed into van Dielen’s yard. Ned ran round and pulling himself up looked over the fence. Monty was knocking on the little wooden door, but there was no one there; he tried the handle, but someone had fitted a new lock. He sat down and squeezed his head. There was a rumble of thunder. He looked up as the light rain returned. Monty hunched his shoulders and jammed his hat down. He was going to wait.

  At the end the of the harbour stood a small sentry hut. Ned walked over and showing his warrant, asked if he could sit by the window and watch.

  “Kriminells,” he said, exaggerating his consonants.

  The guards were polite, dragging a chair to the greasy window, wiping the glass clean with an oily rag. The rain outside had settled into a steady drizzle. The wind from the sea had turned the day cold.

  “Kaffee?”

  Ned took the tin cup gratefully. The two guards trooped outside, leaving the door open. He could see their capes and their boots and the butt ends of their rifles. He breathed on the hot liquid and stared out. Back on watch, the guards resumed their conversation. He could understand some of it. There was a new girl over at the local brothel. French. Young. Very good. Something about a bottle. Much laughter. Someone had managed to drop one of the new field guns into the harbour. Smashed a boat in as well. Then a complaint. He couldn’t work that one out. Their boots rang against the cobbles as they passed it back and forth. For zwei Woche. Two weeks. Jeden Tag. Every day? Boots, uniform, the lot. He followed their gestures. He got it. Another inspection.

  George Poidevin arrived two hours later. Ned nearly missed him. A line of trucks queuing up for the depots on the north side had obscured his view. As the last one moved off he caught a glimpse of van Dielen’s green lorry before the gates were shut again. Ned turned his collar up and ran through the puddles.

  There was a light in the shed now, low and flickering, and though half the window was covered with brown paper he could see the two of them moving back and forth inside. Monty Freeman was waving his hat in the air. George was trying to calm him down. Ned’s arms grew tired. In about ten minutes the two of them came outside and walked over to the lorry. George clambered aboard and started throwing things out of the back.

  “We’ll wait until nine,” he said. “It’ll be dead quiet by then.”

  “Can’t we start earlier?” Monty sounded bitter.

  “It’s a weekday, Mr Freeman. It wouldn’t be safe. Come on, help me put these out of the rain.”

  Ned dropped to the ground. Waiting was not a game he was used to. In Southampton it was always a knock on the door or a quick twist of the elbow. He walked down the road to where the phone box stood. At least they still took the old currency. Ned called the station.

  “Tommy? I’m at St Sampson’s. By the custom hut on the south side. I want you to bring me a bike. You can ride it over and walk back. Oh, and get me something to cover myself with. It’s chucking it down and I’m wearing my best suit.”

  Tommy tried to be helpful. “A cape, you mean.”

  “No, not a bloody cape. I’m trying to look inconspicuous. Something from lost property, something to cover my legs. And hurry.”

  Tommy arrived twenty minutes later. He had a white bundie underneath his arm. A coat. There was black lettering on the back.

  “Deckchair attendant!”

  “It’s all I could find,” Tommy told him, helping him on with it. “People don’t seem to lose things like they used to.”

  The lorry nosed out of the gate at around ten past. As it neared the hut the guard stepped out. George had all the papers ready; his driving licence, his petrol permit, identity card, the firm’s accreditation to the Todt. The guard waved him on. Ned eased out onto the road and started to pedal hard. The coat was tight around the shoulders and flapped uselessly about his legs. The beam on the lamp flickered on and off but there was the grey of the sea and the light of a sullen sky to help him. The cranes were silent now, the gunboats and barges dim silhouettes. On the rolls of barbed wire hung strands of dark seaweed, dull with oil. Back in St Peter Port George swung the lorry up Julian’s Hill and then turned sharp left, down the narrow alleyway that served as a rear access to the shops on Smith Street. The lorry crept along slowly, its tarpaulin sides brushing against the cobbled walls. At the end the alley broadened out into small courtyard. George wheeled the lorry round then backed it up against the back door to the bank. A jangle of keys later and the two men slipped in, Monty with a hurricane lamp in his hand. Ned counted to
thirty, then followed down the narrow passageway that led to the bank. He could hear the echo of footsteps hurrying over the parquet floor. Inside the main area the smell of floor polish seemed even stronger than before. He stood in the doorway, trying to find his hearings. The counter was straight ahead of him. To his right rose the wooden partition which made up the back wall to Monty’s office. On his left stood the table where the girl with the ledger had worked, and behind, illuminated in fading flickering light, an open door with a whitewashed ceiling sloping down. He could feel the cool air rushing up from the cellars below. He took a deep breath. As he moved towards the door he heard the heavy tread of George Poidevin labouring back up. Ned skipped across and hid under the shell of the hinged counter. A grunt and George stepped into the hall.

  “Mind the ink.” Monty’s voice was close behind. “Here, I’ll go first.”

  They were carrying three of four boxes apiece, the stack higher than their heads. Monty moved forward gingerly.

  “This’ll take all night,” George complained.

  “What if it does. I’m ruined if they find this lot here.” He squealed. “Oh, Christ, I’ve done it myself now! Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ! What am I to do?”

  George balanced his boxes on the desk and laid down a carpet of paper.

  “Walk on those,” he said, “otherwise your footsteps will be all over the place.”

  Ned let them make six journeys. That way if there was any trouble they’d be more tired than he. Not that he could envisage Monty Freeman having a go at him. George was a different matter. He was a big man but quicker than he looked. On the seventh trip down Ned followed. As he made his descent he was struck by the low metal glitter that seemed to radiate from the walls, like a thousand polished boots, a curious royriad of glossy lights. He had never considered what might be found in a bank vault but he supposed it would be notes and coins and a stack of safe deposit boxes; never a grocery store. Stacked up against the wall were fairground pyramids of cans: sliced peaches, fruit cocktails, spiced pears; cans of peas and carrots and butter beans; tins of pilchards and sardines and round halves of salmon; corned beef, jellied ham, fish paste, evaporated milk, vegetable soup, and huge buggers of apricot jam. Sides of ham and bacon hung from hooks in the ceiling and bags of flour were stacked up on the floor. Ned stood and watched. George’s fat back was bent towards him as he dragged a couple of sacks across the stone flagging. Monty was stacking loose cans of cocoa into a half-opened box, methodical even in haste. Van Houten’s Cocoa. Ned could almost smell the bittersweet of it, hear the drum snap of the spoon handle as it broke into the paper seal. It would be easy for him to lift a couple and take them home. It would perk Mum’s spirit up no end, to hold a real cup of cocoa in her hand. He stepped out and stood under the solitary bare bulb.