Harry found out that Mayer could play chess. Harry wasn’t good at it, but he knew the moves, and it was a way of getting close to the crafty little German. ‘Did that German officer ever threaten you?’
‘Miessen? Of course. He threaten everybody. He had a little book. To write names in. Anybody who said something about Hitler or Goering and Goebbels. They went in the book.’
‘He wasn’t very popular then?’
‘Eh? What’s that? All those soldiers would have been shot when they got back to Germany. They knew that. That’s why they killed him. Check.’
‘Why, you sneaky little bastard.’ Harry moved his king to comparative safety. ‘How would it be if I wrote down what you’ve told me? About the bayonet and Miessen and the plot to kill him. If you like it, you could sign it.’
Mayer stared at the chessboard. ‘I can speak but not read,’ he said, without looking up. ‘Two moves.’
‘Two moves?’
‘Two moves to checkmate.’
‘I could read it to you.’
‘Your move.’
Harry moved a knight. He mind was not on the game. It was on the possibility of getting Mayer’s story on paper.
The same matter was on Mayer’s mind also. He knew what Harry was after. Was there any danger in supplying it? ‘Will it get me in … trouble? ‘Arry. I like you. Tell me true.’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Harry. ‘As I see it, you’ll be a bloody hero. You’ll be getting a medal or something. Let young Jimmy off the hook …’
‘Goot,’ said Mayer. ‘I do it. By the way. I think that’s checkmate.’
Rosa was filled with a sense of trepidation. Charlie was ‘somewhere in Kent’. He sounded cheerful on the phone. He had been put on a signalling course, learning the intricacies of the Morse code. He was going to be a signaller not in the Royal Corps but in the infantry, setting up phone lines in a battle situation and keeping in touch by Morse with HQ. The signalling course would take three months. To become proficient at Morse sending and receiving normally took two years, but it had been speeded up in wartime. He said that every piece of writing he saw he automatically transcribed into dots and dashes. Three months to continue to breathe easy. After that it was inevitable that he would be sent abroad. Three months for the war to end.
She had been excited at the change in him, and yet, while he was the craven coward Daft Charlie, he was safe. He said that if he were to be sent abroad he would get leave. Maybe only forty-eight hours but sufficient to see her. For the last time? That was the implication. A short happy period with the background of foreboding. Although the signs were good. The offensive, after a rocky start, was making progress. And the Russian Army was at the outskirts of Berlin. Her father said that it could all be over very suddenly. That there would be an army coup, and Hitler would be thrown out so the generals could negotiate terms of surrender. At the hospital the atmosphere had lightened. All the talk was of how it would be without rationing, without clothes and petrol coupons. The prospect of being able to buy stockings and far-from-utility underwear and shoes that looked good, that weren’t hard-wearing, filled many a conversational hour. There were no certainties as yet, but for the first time in four years the British public dared to hope.
There were even plans for a Victory Parade, when all Britain’s heroes, those who were left, would parade down the Mall before the relieved and grateful public. The King and the Queen would be on hand to give out medals by the bucketful, and Winston Churchill would be given bumps in a huge blanket. Victory wasn’t there yet, although it was near. You could feel it coming. There were bound to be little setbacks. When Rosa went into Manchester there was a sudden rash of Union Jacks. Manchester was not a place for extravagant gestures. Manchester had its feet on the ground. The people were solid and hard-working. And yet there was this outburst of patriotic fervour; like a dour, sober-suited bank manager had suddenly sprouted a clown’s red nose.
So she could keep in touch by phone or letter. She wanted him to come on leave and yet, at the time, was fearful of what it would mean. She felt that they had grown up together. It had been a painful journey for him, while she had stood patiently by. Why? He was a shaky, inept lover who got her pregnant at the first hit. Maybe it was because of his difficulties that she loved him.
Harry slipped the paper in front of the Major.
‘What’s this, Harry?’
‘Thought you ought to see it, sir.’
The Major adjusted his glasses. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a statement by the prisoner Mayer, sir. I thought it might be important.’
The Major started to read. ‘By God, Harry! This is dynamite! Mayer took the bayonet out of the private’s scabbard and passed it round. Almost as if they were drawing lots or getting the short straw. A bit Agatha Christie that, eh?’
‘Do you think it’ll make any difference, sir?’
‘Well, it’s always important to get at the truth,’ said the old man.
‘I mean to Private Fossett, sir.’
The Major looked puzzled. ‘He was in charge of his own weapon, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but he had no idea that someone would want to take it. The lights went out.’
‘Yes, yes. I know the circumstances.’
‘He’s been a good soldier in every other way.’
‘Exemplary. I know. Well, it’s not up to me. And as for this German bastard …’
‘He feels that as he had deserted from them he was on our side.’
‘We’ll see …’
Harry looked the old man in the eye. He didn’t seem to realize what was going on. What did he have to do to get through to his few remaining brain cells? How could he make the daft old sod realize that a better response was needed? A quid pro quo in fact.
‘The fact is, sir, that I got the prisoner to sign this on the understanding that you might put in a good word for him. After all, he didn’t stab Miessen himself.’
The old man looked puzzled. Up to now Harry had given him good advice – had steered him away from trouble.
‘With that in your hand, sir, I don’t think there’ll be any further inquiries.’
Ah! Now he saw it. Harry had engineered this to help him out of a hole. ‘Ah yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Good man.’
‘Sir!’ Harry saluted and left the room. He walked noisily down the passage and then crept back until he was outside the door. He heard the Major dialling.
‘I need to speak to Colonel Stepney,’ the Major said. ‘Yes, I’ll wait.’
Harry grinned and crept away. The old man would get the credit for the discovery, and the rest would follow.
The Major felt good. For the first time in a long while he felt in charge of a difficult situation. ‘It’s Major Le Surf. Got some information about the German officer. Miessen, you remember.’
‘Yes, yes. What is it?’
The Major sketched out the details.
‘Bloody hell!’ said Stepney. ‘So the man who was killed was one of those Gestapo bastards.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘Good work, Major. I must say I wasn’t relishing the idea of a Red Cross inquiry. They let everything out to the press, you know. I’ll let them know the substance of your investigation.’
Corporal George (sometimes Gordon) Gross was feeling low. He had tried to phone Flora, but one of her parents always answered. Yes, they would take a message for her, but she was very busy right now. She had applied to go to a drama school, and they were waiting to hear from the council whether it would support her application. Gross sighed. If he could only get to the girl he was sure that he could change her mind. After all, he knew she was keen. What had happened? Had some other attraction arrived?
He wandered about the town aimlessly. He went into the Midland. It was a large, respectable hotel which still had a touch of its original Regency elegance. There were pageboys in tight uniforms and hall porters in tailcoats, who looked as though they had just stepped out of
a pantomime. The drinks were pricy, but you never knew whom you might meet. And he needed to meet someone – quick.
There were various women in the bar. None of them were particularly luscious; no young bits of stuff but a number of older women who seemed to be on their own. He took his drink from the bar and sat at a table. He thought that the whole place was eminently respectable, staid almost. But he knew this was just a sheen.
‘Another drink, Corporal?’ The voice came from behind. It was deep, confident.
He turned. It was a woman in a purple dress with dyed blonde hair. Mutton dressed as lamb.
‘No. I’m all right,’ he said.
He noticed that the woman had some chunky rings on her fingers. She sat down opposite him. Christ! She looked like one of the Ugly Sisters.
‘Too late,’ she said. ‘I’ve ordered it.’
A waiter appeared as though he had been waiting for his cue. He unloaded a tray with two glasses and a fancy bottle, as though he was used to the procedure.
‘Thank you, Stanley,’ said the woman, and pressed some notes into the waiter’s hand.
‘What’s your name, soldier?’ she said.
‘Gordon,’ he said.
‘Are you on leave?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
‘And where are you stationed?’
‘I’m not supposed to say. You know. Walls have ears.’
The woman pursed her lips. There was something funny about her eyebrows. They didn’t move. It was as if they were stuck on. In fact her whole face could be a mask.
‘You looking for a good time, soldier?’
Christ! he thought. This was pretty direct. He began to feel uneasy. ‘I’ll have to go.’
‘Pity to waste the bottle,’ the woman said and began to pour some sort of red wine into the two glasses.
Gross took a sip. It was warm and sweet.
‘You married?’ the woman asked.
‘You want to know a lot.’
‘Just curious. I’m a widow myself. My husband died last year.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘He was a jealous bastard. If he’d seen me talking to you like this he would have gone into a rage. He had a terrible temper. Never mind. He left me all right. He had a toffee factory. Still going. Brings in the pennies.’
Why was she telling him this? She was saying that he’d fallen in with a toffee millionairess. He took another sip of the drink. It seemed to run around his veins, setting off little explosions as it went. For the first time he began to relax. What the hell. He couldn’t have Flora, but he could still attract a woman. True, this one was a bit odd, but she was friendly, open and generous.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Blanche. Where are you staying?’
Harry met Joan at the station. As soon as he saw her his whole mood lifted. He took her in his arms and kissed her soundly.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Give yourself time.’
‘How long can you stay?’
‘Just tonight really. I’ve got to get back to the hospital …’
‘Not tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow, but I’ll have to leave tomorrow. I’m on at eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘Come on then,’ he said, pulling her along. ‘We mustn’t waste time.’
They went into a small café in Deansgate. They sat down, and he just lost himself in looking at her.
‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘Smashing.’
She was thrilled by his enthusiasm. ‘Do you think we could have some tea?’
‘Of course,’ he said and went to the counter.
She was getting concerned about the baby. Her dead husband’s parents were looking forward to the event. The baby would be a link with their son. They kept coming round, fussing and bringing baby garments.
‘Are you going to tell them?’
She looked worried. ‘I’ll have to, won’t I? Especially if he looks like you and starts talking like a cockney.’
He laughed. ‘I went home for Christmas.’
‘Good?’
‘No. I was thinking about you all the time.’
She frowned. ‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’
He poured the tea. ‘It’s not going to be easy.’
She looked at him seriously. ‘Do you think it’s right? I mean there’s so many people who’ll be upset. Are we just being selfish?’
‘Yes,’ he said briskly. ‘But you don’t get many chances. You have to grab them with both hands.’
‘If we did take the chance, would you expect me to come to London?’
He knew it would be a wrench, but he also knew that it would have to be a clean break. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll come up to Blackpool.’
‘But what will you do, in Blackpool?’
He grinned. ‘Open an antique business.’
Corporal Gross woke up. The curtains were drawn, and the dawn light was beginning to filter into the room. A woman in a nylon nightdress but with the build of a rugby player sat on the bed holding a cup.
‘Coffee,’ she said. ‘I can get tea if you want.’
He levered himself up on one elbow. ‘Have I been here all night?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Not very flattering, is it?’
‘I’ll have to get back. I’ll miss the parade.’
‘What parade is that, soldier?’
‘Morning parade of course.’
‘I thought you were on leave.’
‘I am, until this morning.’
The woman put an envelope on the bed. ‘Just a little something. I know I’m no oil painting. Ring me some time if you fancy it.’
Gross scrambled out of the bed and into his clothes almost in one movement. The woman watched.
Gross’s brain was reeling. Had he stayed the night with this woman? Had he screwed her? He couldn’t remember. What was in the envelope? He dashed out of the hotel and found the nearest bus stop. He felt shaky, as though something had happened that was out of his control. Who was the fearsome woman?
On the top of the bus he opened the envelope she had given him. ‘Thanks, Blanche.’ Also inside were two crisp white five-pound notes, one with a telephone number written on it. Ten pounds was more than twice he got for a week on his army pay. But what had he done for it? He couldn’t remember. Easy money?
He dozed a bit on the bus, waking up only when it stopped or shunted forward. In one of his dozes he saw a big head, grimacing, just in front of his face. Someone had got hold on his dick. It must have happened! What was in that drink she gave him? Anyway, she was obviously grateful. And would be in the future if he was running a bit short …
Chalkie’s solicitor had advised him to change his plea from not guilty to guilty of manslaughter. The evidence of the two girls, who, after all, were witnesses, had left little room for doubt. Manslaughter meant that Chalkie hadn’t set out with the idea of battering Chuck Lannigan to death. It was just something that happened. It was not intended.
‘What will it mean?’ Chalkie asked.
‘It will mean almost certainly that you will go to prison, but you might get off the capital charge.’
It was clearly a matter of life or death, so Chalkie agreed to the change.
But the judge wouldn’t accept it, so there was a legal argument in his chambers which dragged on for three days, during which Chalkie got down on his knees in his cell and started praying. Eventually his solicitor ferreted out a precedent, and the plea was altered. There was no longer any presumption of innocence. Whatever happened now Chalkie was in for the chop.
16
IT was an explosion of pure joy. A lifetime of Christmas and birthday parties all rolled into one. It had been a long time coming. Some thought they would never see it; the fact was that some didn’t. There was dancing in the streets, singing in the pubs, uncontrolled laughing and shouting; street parties where the tables stretched around corners. It seemed as though there was an accordion player on every corn
er, playing Vera Lynn songs of patriotic yearning that would soon be out of date. Faces set from years of anxiety suddenly smiled. Shoulders, for years hunched against bad news, relaxed. People shouted at each other without reason, smiled and waved at each other indiscriminately, waved flags, clapped perfect strangers on the back, punched the air in a gesture of triumph.
Children, seated and bibbed for jelly and custard, were taught to say ‘VE Day’, as though it was a phrase that they must remember for the rest of their lives. After years of waiting and hoping it all seemed to come too quickly. One day the German Army agreed to an unconditional surrender, and the next day everybody behaved as though they had all been let out of prison at once. There were lines of housewives doing the ‘Lambeth Walk’, seemingly determined to show their knickers in the execution. There were men roaming the streets carrying pints of beer, women crying and laughing at the same time. Children viewing the adults with wonderment, not comprehending why everybody was acting crazy. Not all went mad, because of the ugly fact that some were missing, and the ones who remembered had sadness mixed with gladness.
The mad party was not a local event. It had spread all over the country. Even hidden hamlets and dot-on-the-map villages joined in the celebration. The unconfined joy spread like wildfire. Of course there was the sense of satisfaction that right had triumphed over might, that British values had been vindicated. After all, no one in Britain had wanted a war. They had all been forced into it by the unreasonable behaviour of a madman. Where was he now, then? Just a charred heap of bones in an underground cellar. And all his mad henchmen had been arrested. They weren’t war leaders any more, just common criminals. Maybe they should have been shot on sight, but after a fair trial they would be dealt with. Reason and good sense had prevailed. God knows what would have happened otherwise.
They had lived through bombing and threats, skimpy food, patched-up clothes, watery beer, long grinding working hours in conditions that would not have been allowed in peacetime, crippling income tax, petrol coupons, the horror of ‘holidays at home’; and all the time being told to ‘keep cheerful’ when there was nothing to keep cheerful about. They had got used to a deprived existence, to doing without, to ‘making do’, making meals from scraps you wouldn’t give to a dog, to playing second fiddle to the Yanks. They knew there was still a way to go before chocolate was unlimited, before the return of bananas and juicy oranges, but these delights were in sight. As were fashionable clothes, trips to the seaside, the resumption of test matches, League football and Wimbledon tennis. Life would be like it used to be. As it should be.
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