Spies on Bikes

by Dennis Forster

‘Dissipate?’

  ‘You will feel less angry.’

  ‘Sir Charles, he’ll hurt your hand.’

  ‘Before you lash out, Jack, I must warn you that at the last moment I may remove my hand. If you punch hard and I am quicker at removing my hand than you are at punching you will hurt your hand. Do you want to play?’

  Jack grinned.

  ‘You’ve made him smile,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘But can I make his knuckles bleed? How angry are you, Jack? You look pretty bloody minded to me. You know the rules?’ Jack nodded. ‘Who will be quickest? I’m ready if you are?’

  Jack clenched a fist. He fancied his chances. He liked games like this. He’d have to be careful, though. When Egghead and Mike had been teaching him to play cricket Egghead had made an impressive number of difficult catches. When he had to, or wanted to, Egghead could move fast.

  This was man against man, old age against youth, experience against youthful reflexes. They were duellists. Egghead had thrown down the gauntlet, he’d picked it up. He was in no mood to back down.

  They exchanged looks, each trying to read the other’s mind. Sir Charles’s look said, ‘Come on, do your worst. Best man wins.’ Jack’s look said, ‘I know you are going to move your hand. You are tempting me to lash out. I know you are, but, I am not going to be tempted. I’m not.’

  No way was he going to put all his weight behind his first blow. You only dived into water when you knew its depth. First, a few pretend blows to test Egghead’s reactions, to see how fast he’d move his hand. How close would Egghead let him get?

  He threw a feint. Sir Charles pulled away his hand. He pantomimed more feints, grinning each time he made the target hand flinch. Changing tactics, he landed a light blow, then another. Not a twitch from Egghead’s hand. Another feint then, Wham! He lashed out. His punch hit home. What a pity he’d not used all his force. Ha! Ha! He couldn’t stop grinning. He’d been quicker than Egghead; he’d won.

  ‘Sir Charles,’ said Phyllis, ‘he’ll hurt your hand. I’m getting ice ready for whoever has sore knuckles. I never thought the new freezer would be a medicine cabinet, but it is … life’s full of surprises and it’s all the fault of that Adolph Hitler.’ She bustled off, shaking her head.

  Moderate success made Jack think he could hit the jackpot. Part of him, though, was still cautious. He pondered how to fool Egghead into thinking he was making a feint when really he was launching an all-out attack.

  ‘Think of the Nazis,’ said Sir Charles.

  Jack’s knuckles slammed into the wall. Ouch! The pain made him angry. It was a stupid game. He lashed out a kick at Sir Charles’ shin.

  ‘You knew the rules when you started to play,’ said Phyllis, pushing him into a chair. ‘You’re a bad loser, Jack Field. Put your hand in this basin of iced water. It’s a good job Phyllis is here to look after you, that’s all I can say. And don’t you go taking out your temper on Sir Charles. You played the game and lost. You’d have been like a rooster saying good morning if you’d won. It was a silly game to play.’

  ‘I wasn’t shooting barley at the American guests,’ said Jack. ‘I was shooting barley at one American guest.’

  ‘O’Neil?’

  ‘He doesn’t like you and you don’t like him.’

  ‘You were sticking up for me? That was very kind of you, but I think it best, I really do, that I’m allowed to fight my own battles.’

  ‘I know from what I saw in Berlin when someone is up to no good. Soon after he arrived that American went for a walk. He kept looking to see if he was being followed. When he thought no one was watching he hid behind a bush. He did not wish to be seen. I know. He smoked many cigarettes. Sometimes he took only two or three puffs, then threw the cigarette away. My father did that when he did not know what to do … when the Nazis were burning our synagogues. But in all other ways this man is not like my father.’

  ‘Perhaps O’Neil is of a nervous disposition. The aeroplane that flew over The Hall gave him the most awful fright … did you see it?’

  ‘Yes, a boy was flying it. He waved to me.’

  ‘That was my grandson, George. You’ll meet him soon. He should be here later this afternoon. And, though I’m sure George would love to fly an aeroplane, on this occasion he was a passenger. The pilot was Harry. He arrived to stay yesterday, which I’m sure you know. You miss nothing – when you are older I’ll get you a job with MI5.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The British Secret Service.’

  ‘Would I have a gun?’

  Sir Charles nodded.

  ‘And use invisible ink to send messages?’

  ‘Do you know how to make invisible ink?’

  ‘You use lemon juice.’

  ‘Would you like Harry to take you up?’

  ‘Take me up, where?’

  ‘In his aeroplane, would you like that?’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘Of course there will be conditions.’

  ‘I’m not giving you my pea shooter.’

  ‘You may keep your weapon.’

  ‘But you don’t want me to use it on the American?’

  ‘Is that a deal?’

  ‘Put it in writing about the aeroplane.’

  ‘Jack,’ said Phyllis, ‘Sir Charles’ promise would be good enough for me. Sir Charles is an English gentleman.’

  ‘What if we just shake hands?’ said Sir Charles.

  ‘We have a deal. Phyllis, you will bear witness.’

  As they shook hands Sir Charles, solemn and serious, said, ‘I, Sir Charles of The Hall promise one Jack Field that I will persuade my nephew Harry, to take the said Jack Field up for a flight in an aeroplane on condition that the said Jack Field does not use his pea shooter on any of my American guests.’

  ‘I promise,’ said Jack. ‘Can I use it on other people?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If I tell you what Mr O’Neil did can I use it on other people?’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘I agree to your terms.’

  ‘Swear?’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘On the graves of your ancestors?’

  ‘I swear on the graves of my ancestors.’

  ‘He went into the telephone box beside the bridge.’

  ‘Did he make a call?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Phyllis, let Jack have anything he wants.’

  ‘I like ice cream,’ said Jack.

  ‘If I am His Majesty’s Eyes and Ears in the North, Jack, then you are The Hall’s Eyes and Ears. Raise your right hand and say after me, ‘I promise to be the Eyes and Ears of The Hall. If I break this oath I will have to give Phyllis a kiss every morning at eight o’clock when she is at her busiest making breakfast for everyone and is in no mood to be interrupted.’

  ‘I’d always find time to give Jack a kiss,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Jack, you are now working for MI5. Here’s a shilling.’

  He knew they were joking but you could never tell with adults. He didn’t fancy kissing Phyllis. She was fat and had a moustache.

  21

  She kissed him on both cheeks.

  ‘Lovely to see you, CB,’ said Lady Elizabeth.

  ‘That’s a French habit. I don’t like the French.’

  ‘To cheer you up I’ve brought you a Dundee cake.’

  ‘The only thing that’ll cheer me up is a war with Germany, can’t wait for the show to start, hope the Nazis shoot me right here–’ tapping his forehead – ‘best way to go, won’t feel a thing. When the war starts I won’t have time to brood.’

  ‘Don’t be ghoulish, you have everything to live for.’

  ‘No, I don’t and you know I don’t. What was all that shooting about? Upset the horses. I won’t have that
, had to go down and give Ginger a carrot. Has Mike organised a shoot? Why wasn’t I invited?’

  ‘Mike’s gone to pick up one of our American guests … Professor Marigold Striker.’

  ‘Striker, name rings a bell … Striker. I sold a stallion to a Striker last year. Come along in, we’ll talk about funerals … funny business that shooting, shotguns and rifles, unusual. Who the hell is that?’

  His question related to the figure he’d spotted some two hundred yards off in Ginger’s paddock.

  ‘The blighter’s riding Ginger. It’s a woman, one of those gypsy types. What’s she up to? Christ! She’s jumped the wall. She knows how to ride, I’ll say that for her … bare back, takes some doing. Hoy! Bloody gypsies. She’s stolen Ginger. Elizabeth, the keys to your car.’

  ‘Are you giving chase?’

  ‘Of course I’m giving chase. Do you know how much that horse cost? Your keys, Elizabeth.’

  ‘It may be your horse, CB, but it’s my car.’

  ‘I can drive faster than you.’

  ‘Bashful doesn’t like being manhandled.’

  ‘Bashful?’

  ‘It’s my name for the Austen.’

  ‘What about Ginger? If we don’t catch him he could be horse meat by sunset.’

  ‘CB, I don’t often remind you of this, but I am the daughter of a duke – do be a good peasant and sit your bum in the passenger seat. Bashful and I will do you proud. Don’t dither, man, or Ginger won’t be just horsemeat he’ll be a stock cube.’

  22

  The ‘eyes and ears’ of The Hall watched from the cover of bracken. They couldn’t see him but he could see them. What were the soldiers doing? They’d arrived in an army lorry. Why were they digging up the signpost? There were three of them. The short one with a big belly had three stripes on his arm.

  ‘Make your minds up, lads. I don’t mind if Hexham points to Screw My Arse, just so long as it’s pointing the wrong way. Our task is to spread confusion to the enemy. As I said last year when I put on a blindfold and went into that brothel in Cairo, I’m not fussy. I’ll bet King George never keeps the Queen waiting … just put your shoulders to the wheel for once in your bloody lives. I’ve not had a woman since seven o’clock this morning and my wife’s not a patient woman.’

  The three stripe man reminded Jack of the Nazis. He had a mean face. In Berlin there were lots of little fat Nazis.

  When they’d gone he left his hideout to study the signpost close to. Its new alignment had turned the world upside down. Take the Newcastle road and you’d end up in Scotland. At the sound of an approaching car he ran back into the bracken.

  The open-topped two-seater passed the signpost at speed, reversed back at speed.

  ‘I say,’ said Harry, ‘it’s telling pork pies.’

  ‘What is?’ said George.

  ‘The signpost. Someone’s made it point the wrong way.’

  ‘The Hitler Youth?’

  ‘Could be. If a stranger comes with an urgent message for Uncle Charles, the poor fellow might end up in Berwick. If it comes to war, despatch riders will be up and down this road seven days a week. Uncle Charles is an important man.’

  ‘Grandfather is retired.’

  ‘Your grandfather is the eyes and ears of His Majesty’s Government in Northumberland. If the Nazis invade it will be his job to organise the fightback.’

  Ginger had visited The Hall’s stables many times. At The Hall’s stables there was this soppy boss woman. Nuzzle her and she gave you a carrot. His rider might not know where she was going but he, most certainly, did.

  With flared nostrils he jumped the MG without missing a stride. The five barred gates he’d jumped on the hunting field made the motor car easy. He put on a spurt. No point hanging around when you were this close to bran.

  Ginger’s acceleration jolted Marigold from an astride riding position to a clinging crouch. She wondered for how much longer she could hang on. For Mike’s sake she had to. He needed help and she wasn’t going to let him down.

  ‘What a pair of legs,’ said Harry.

  ‘Is that why women should ride side saddle … for their modesty?’ said George.

  ‘Yes, George, for their modesty … only some of them aren’t very modest.’

  ‘You know a lot about women.’

  ‘More than you … get in, let’s see if we can catch up with the mad gypsy woman.’

  ‘She wasn’t a gypsy.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Why do you think she was?’

  ‘She was riding bare back … her skin was a dark colour.’

  ‘That was mud on her face.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘If you hadn’t been looking at her legs you’d have seen.’

  ‘I can’t wait until you reach puberty.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘The nine o’clock train takes you there.’

  ‘Is it near Newcastle?’

  ‘Cockermouth.’

  ‘I know where that is … why should I want to go there?’

  ‘Believe me, you’ll like it when you get there. Come on, back in the car. Something’s afoot and I for one want to know what it is.’

  From his hideout in the bracken, Jack pondered all he’d seen … soldiers pointing signposts in the wrong direction … a horse jumping over a car.

  The boy in the MG had to be George. He looked to be what the English called a ‘decent chap’.

  Not another car? He’d never known the road so busy.

  He recognised it. Once Lady Elizabeth had driven him to the village in it to buy sweets. While reversing she’d put its back wheels into a ditch. She’d kept apologising, not to him, but to the car, ‘Bashful, I do apologise. I really do.’ The English were mad. Today they seemed madder than ever. Perhaps it was the heat. They weren’t used to it. When it had been hot in Berlin his uncles had closed their shops and taken a siesta. Maybe the English needed to be taught the benefits of an afternoon nap.

  At the signpost the car did what driving instructors call an emergency stop.

  ‘Ginger went that way,’ said CB. ‘I can smell him. If I’d been driving, we’d have caught him by now.’

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ said Lady Elizabeth.

  ‘Yes, there is, someone’s stolen my horse. I know you are the daughter of a duke, Elizabeth but my father was a bishop.’

  ‘The signpost’s telling me the wrong way to The Hall.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘CB, please do stop kicking my car’s door. It’s not Bashful’s fault your horse has been stolen. If you dent the door I will send you the bill.’

  ‘I want my horse back. It’s my horse and I want him back.’

  Sir Charles drove the open-top Bentley like a gun-dog looking for a shot pheasant. In its front passenger seat a swaying Bert was removing his collar and tie. The Webley, the one he kept under his coat tails, now, for all to see, on his lap; also a shotgun. A bandolier of cartridges hung round his neck like a horse’s collar.

  The Bentley had a good turn of speed. When he saw Bashful Sir Charles had his foot to the floor. The emergency stop he executed skidded him to a halt within a cat’s whisker of putting a dent into the front mudguard of his wife’s pride and joy.

  ‘CB,’ shouted Sir Charles, ‘the very man we need; climb aboard, I’ll explain later.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Lady Elizabeth.

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong,’ said CB, ‘someone’s stolen Ginger.’

  ‘Shut up, CB. What’s happening, Charles?’

  ‘No time to explain. CB, get in, that’s an order. Bert?’

  ‘Sah?’

  ‘Give CB the shotgun.’

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Elizabeth, you look after the Americans … oh, and by the way, George is here
… Mike’s been hurt … watch out, here comes the cavalry.’

  The MG, driven by Harry with Marigold at his side, passed Bashful and the Bentley without stopping.

  ‘She’s the one who stole Ginger,’ said CB.

  ‘Ginger is safe,’ said Sir Charles. ‘You wanted war, CB, well, you’ve got one. Hang on.’

  23

  The blow from behind pushed George to the ground.

  ‘Why do you not answer when I speak?’ said the German.

  ‘Because I did not hear you. I am deaf.’

  ‘Why do you spy on us?’

  ‘I am not spying on you. I am picking mushrooms for Phyllis. She’s our cook. Can’t you see, my trug, it is full of mushrooms. If I am deaf maybe you are blind.’

  ‘We have seen you many times. We call you “The Fox”. When we do not see you we know you are there. You are a spy. We do not like spies. In Germany we tie spies to a post and shoot them.’

  ‘It wasn’t me you saw. I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘When you think you are going to be shot you blame … someone else. When the war starts you English will blame … someone else. When you lose the war you will blame … someone else. You are a coward.’

  ‘I am not. Grandfather has the Victoria Cross. I have better things to do than spy on men wearing short trousers.’

  ‘Lederhosen is the German national costume. You do not wear the kilt?’

  ‘I am not a Scot. I am a Northumbrian.’

  ‘You wear the short trousers … you wear the English lederhosen. The Fuhrer wears the lederhosen in all the weathers.’

  ‘I’m wearing short trousers because I’m on my hols. At school I wear long trousers. Mother says I’ll soon be allowed to wear Oxford Bags.’

  ‘You trespass, this is the Hitler Youth campsite.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. This is my grandfather’s land. I have every right to be here. You are the trespasser. And, another thing, pick up the mushrooms you made me spill, that’s what a decent chap would do.’

  ‘I like mushrooms, maybe I take them for my supper.’

  ‘No, you will not. You have taken Alsace-Lorraine and the Rhineland, but you will not take my ink caps.’

  ‘Who is going to stop me? You bristle like the hedgehog. You have a limp. You tell me you are deaf. You are not the perfect specimen. The Fuhrer would not let you have children.’