Dancing with Artie (Thaddeus Hunloke Book 1)

by Pete Heathmoor

  “Oh, it’s fine calling a heap of metal ‘she’ but when I refer to the house as such you call me mad...!” she muttered under her breath. Poppy swung open the two doors as wide as they would go.

  “Make sure there’s nothing on the floor in front of the car,” he instructed insistently.

  “What did your last slave die of?” came the piqued reply.

  “Overwork... And I didn’t have a slave, I shared a batman, and he died from a Hun mortar round.”

  “Yessir, Major! Anything else you’d like me to do...?” she enquired mockingly whilst saluting palm down in the fashion of the Royal Navy. As likely or not, she had picked up the style from the Wehrmacht prisoners.

  “We don’t salute when not wearing headgear,” stated an absorbed Hunloke. “Now shut up and get in, milady...”

  The interior of the car still reeked from the pungent aroma issuing from the leather upholstery. For Hunloke, it was a scent as heady as anything a Parisian perfumier might have concocted.

  “I haven’t seen you grin as much since you’ve been here, Artie. Certainly not when in my company. Perhaps you’d rather sleep with the car in future...,” observed Poppy wryly. He ignored her taunt. He was looking around the dashboard at the instrumentation and controls. He finally found the manual choke.

  “Wonder how much choke she needs?” he asked to no one in particularly. She looked at him from the left hand passenger seat with a look of distaste. He sensed she was going to make some sexual innuendo and spoke before she could offer her reply. “I’ll give her full choke and hope we don’t flood the carb...”

  He fired the huge four-litre engine that had almost four times the engine capacity of the Austin staff car. With a fully charged battery, the engine turned and coughed once before Hunloke paused. Poppy stared at his ragged left profile. His left eyed smouldered with gleeful delight when he fired up the engine for a second time. The starter motor strained for a few tantalising seconds before the engine caught and a deep satisfying mechanical growl filled the garage.

  Slapping the wheel excitedly, he played with the choke setting until satisfied and selected first gear. “Where to, milady?” he asked playfully.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere but I can’t see you taking no for an answer.”

  Despite his excitement, he drove carefully out of the garage and took the main driveway towards Honeysuckle Cottage and the east gatehouse. The row of leafless lime tress lining the route sped by in a blur as he gave the Snipe her heels.

  “You’re supposed to be getting ready for chapel, not practicing for Brooklands!” she shouted unnecessarily, for unlike the Austin 10, the sound of the engine was barely perceptible by the standards of the day.

  “God bless you, Lady Violet...,” grinned Thaddeus Hunloke. She was typically correct in her appraisal. This indeed was the most fun he had enjoyed since being at Flash House. With his clothes on, that is.

  The chapel service was due to start at 10:30. Had it not been for the Humber Super Snipe, Captain Thaddeus Clifford Hunloke, MC was convinced he would have backed out of fulfilling his date with Mrs Carey Gladwin. He had felt fine until he finally donned his greatcoat and hovered in the cloister where he was overcome by a consuming wave of self-doubt. What had he been thinking of?

  He knew nothing about Methodism, he agreed only because it had been Carey’s suggestion. What were his feelings with regard to Carey? He was supposedly in Derbyshire investigating multiple murders and making absolutely no headway whatsoever. He had released the one man who could make any sense of the situation for a dirty weekend in London, admittedly with research in mind. He was sleeping with the wife of the younger brother of the owner of Flash House, which he knew was wrong but inexplicably justified as... As what exactly? Nothing about Flash House made any sense. It was a world within a world with its own rules and manifestly bizarre goings on.

  When away from the house he was loath to return. However, standing on the threshold, he was now overwhelmed by a reluctance to leave. It was only after a shove in the small of his back from the hand of the adulteress Poppy Gray that he found himself in the teeming rain standing beside the Snipe, watching the globules of water pooled upon the waxed metalwork.

  He slowed the vehicle when he broached the outskirts of the village, the rutted track to the farm of Cathy Maxwell his visual marker. The village looked its familiar dreary self. He noticed the raised umbrellas jostling by the war memorial and the faces beneath them turn to look at the unfamiliar car gliding down the high street.

  He purposely dawdled, allowing the group of mainly women to take a good look at the car. He recognised the face beneath the hat of Miss Claxon from the post office and offered his most intimidating smile when he drove by and waved, if such a thing was possible, mockingly.

  Parking the car in full view of the spectators at the memorial, he stepped carefully out of the vehicle, disguising his limp as best he could. He knocked on the door of Foxglove Cottage and stood expectantly bearing a small parcel in his hands.

  The door opened and Hunloke quickly stepped inside out of the teeming rain. Carey did not linger at the door. He followed her through the cheerless house into the warm kitchen.

  It was only at that moment, in the lightest room of the cottage, that he finally managed to study Carey. She wore a tightly buttoned sable woollen coat with a flaring skirt line. He smiled at the broad brimmed black felt hat with its circular crown fitted at a jaunty angle upon her head. For the first time since he had known her she wore full war paint, her face powdered, and scarlet lipstick embellishing her lips, conferring on them a thick and immodest appearance.

  “Wow...,” was all he could say. “Are we going somewhere special? You look...”

  “You could say I look nice,” she said, her face set with a look of grim resolve.

  “No, no, you don’t look nice. Such an insipid word. You look sensational...”

  The words seemed to shatter Carey’s stern pretence. Her stony countenance dissolved with a bashful smile, compelling her to look sheepishly at the range.

  “Thank you, Thaddeus. Is that for me?” She nodded at the package he held in his hand.

  “Yes, of course...” He clumsily handed over the packet and Carey excitedly tore away the wrapping paper.

  “Thaddeus, where on earth did you get this?” she beamed. She held a large bar of American chocolate in her hand as if it was a gold ingot.

  “Just something I liberated a few weeks back. I was saving it for a special occasion.”

  “Oh, thank you, Thaddeus.” She took a step towards him and kissed him on his cheek. “Oh dear...”

  Carey left a red smudge across the scar on his freshly shaven left cheek. She placed the chocolate on the kitchen table and fumbled for her hanky in her coat pocket. Spitting on the cotton, she dabbed at his scarred cheek to remove the lipstick. The last person to do such a thing was his mother. He studied her face as she concentrated upon her task. Despite her apparent ebullient welcome, her eye appeared distant, lacking the warmth of her words.

  Having completed the act of cleansing, she rummaged in her bag and with the aid of her compact mirror, reapplied the scarlet lipstick.

  “Why are all those people gathered by the memorial?” he asked.

  “They always do that before chapel.” she spoke in snatches between puckering her lips, checking the visual effect of the lipstick in the compact’s mirror. “They like to see who is coming and to be seen. It’s a sort of ritual.”

  “That you don’t join in with...?”

  “No... I’m not part of the clique. I think we had better go.” She spoke with determination as though setting out on some clandestine operation.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “Bit early...”

  “No it’s not. I want to make sure the others are still there to see me escorted by the handsome soldier boy.”

  “‘Handsome soldier boy’? Why, are you expecting Brian Conway?” he joked with a rare smile.

  The rain had sto
pped by the time Carey Gladwin and Thaddeus Hunloke emerged from Foxglove Cottage. He assigned his greatcoat to the rear seat of the car, so revealing his new uniform in all its splendour. He subconsciously checked the state of his highly polished brown shoes.

  He sensed the enquiring eyes of the bystanders when they reached the memorial and listened to the whispered gossip in their wake. He caught Carey nodding to one of the women and felt her hand tighten on his arm and realised that he was engaged in a point scoring episode. He was unclear to what part of her psyche the church pageant appealed. He was of the opinion that it wasn’t pride, but by the disdainful smile that illuminated her handsome face, he uncomfortably decided it was a look of vindictive one-upmanship.

  Thaddeus Hunloke dutifully played his part in the charade. With her arm looped through his crooked arm, he preened smugly wearing the smart uniform in public after so many years a civilian, to the extent he tolerated without complaint the pain in his left hip as he strove to walk as proudly erect as possible.

  That was by far the highlight of the next hour. The only hymn he knew was ‘To be Pilgrim’, seemingly a firm favourite with the congregation. He mumbled the words along with the tune whilst Carey sang in a pleasing soprano voice. He doubted that she usually sang with such conviction and noticed the rearward glances in Carey’s direction from the worshipers sitting in the front-most pew.

  Richard Rogers conducted the service and Hunloke realised, aside from the singing, that he appreciated nothing about Methodism. It appeared to be a fairly informal service with none of the solemnity he associated with church as a child. Nevertheless, the proceedings revolved around the fundamental Christian message and he wished Rogers had chosen a different subject upon which to speak other than fidelity and righteousness.

  He attempted to dissociate himself from the sermon by looking about the congregation. He and Carey were sitting on the numbing pew at the rear of the chapel, where he had seen her sitting when he first visited the sacred store. All he could make out were the backs of heads and various forms of Sunday best headwear. It was only when she turned to look to her side that he recognised the profile of Daisy Burrows from Flash Farm in the company of a thick-necked man he took to be her husband, George. He looked further along the row for a glimpse of Cathy Maxfield. Try as he might, he failed to locate her.

  The service ended not before time from Hunloke’s point of view. He felt neither cleansed nor fortified by the proceedings; all he now desired was to speak to Daisy Burrows before she left. He speculated upon whether she was part of the tea-drinking sect who congregated in the kitchen after the service.

  He watched Daisy and George shuffle along the pew and head down the aisle, apparently keen to make a quick getaway. “I want to have a word with someone a sec...,” he whispered to Carey. He struggled achingly to his feet and literally dragged her by the arm so that they were in a position to intercept the fleeing Burrows.

  “Ah, Mrs Burrows,” declared Hunloke brightly, “good to see you again. I take it this must be your husband? I assume you know Mrs Gladwin?” Whilst Carey smiled politely at the two people she clearly did not recognise, Hunloke grinned and held out his hand towards the burly farmer. The man stopped but refused to accept the hand. Instead, he looked with confused consternation at his wife.

  “George, this is the man I was telling you about from the camp. He wanted to speak with Cathy about the escaped Germans,” announced Daisy nervously. Hunloke recognised the look of ill-educated brutishness on the man’s face. Perhaps he was a good sort when you got to know him like many of the country lads who had joined the pre-war Territorial British Army. Be that the case or not, he appeared the type of man who when confronted with a difficult situation would most likely throw his fists first and to hell with the consequences.

  “Got ‘em, ‘ave yu?” enquired George.

  “No, we haven’t, not yet,” smiled Hunloke reassuringly.

  “Pity. Gonna shoot ‘em when you do?”

  “No, we won’t shoot them, not if they give themselves up.”

  “Pity. Snidey buggers, especially the un...”

  “Please don’t use that language here, George!” Daisy smiled apologetically. She had no idea that the woman with the gammy eye, who always sat at the back of the Sunday gathering, was the partner of the Army captain. Before Hunloke could ask any further questions, Daisy Burrows bundled her husband out of the chapel.

  “What was that all about?” asked Carey.

  “I’m not sure...,” mused Hunloke. Indeed, he wasn’t certain but he knew he wanted to speak with George alone. “Come on; let’s get a cup of tea. You can show off the ‘soldier boy’ to your tormentors.”

  Hunloke performed with admirable wit and chivalry to the gathered tea suppers. He noted Carey’s condescending expression when she talked to Mrs Claxon of the Post Office and enjoyed the way the ladies of the village fawned over him. He was treated like a celebrity. God knows how they might have reacted had George Formby turned up.

  It was as he was beginning to tire from his performance, suffering from an irrepressible urge to ask Miss Claxon why she wore a raddled and moth-eaten old fox fur around her neck, that he felt the rescuing hand of Richard Rogers on his shoulder.

  “Could I have a word with you, captain?” asked Rogers. Hunloke made his bogus apologies and followed the minister into his office. “Thank you,” said Rogers from the sanctuary of his swivel chair.

  “For what?”

  “For coming along with Carey and making an effort with the others.”

  “It was nothing...,” shrugged Hunloke honestly.

  “No, it was certainly something. You are fond of Carey?” Hunloke felt his hackles rise but swallowed the rising anger sparked by the man’s apparent impudence. “I don’t mean to pry, but you know Carey has had a difficult time.”

  “Yes, I like her...,” agreed Hunloke as civilly as he could.

  “Good. Don’t be too hasty with her. Take your time. I know there is a war on, which tends to hasten the pace of life, even so...”

  “What are you, her father?” asked Hunloke, his acerbity finally surfacing.

  “In a manner of speaking...,” smiled Rogers. Hunloke recognised the man’s fair intentions and nodded apologetically.

  “I have no intentions of hurting Carey,” declared Hunloke.

  “She’s been staying at Flash House with you?” continued Rogers.

  “Yes, but you have my word that no impropriety has taken place.” Not with Carey thought Hunloke, with perhaps the faintest hint of culpability.

  “I didn’t think there had been for one moment, captain. Forgive me, but I don’t want to see her hurt again.” Hunloke again nodded. He found the man’s sincerity humbling and offensive in equal measure. “How is the search for the POW’s going?”

  “It isn’t...” Hunloke would not normally have been so forthcoming had it not been for the conversation concerning Carey Gladwin.

  “No sign of them then?” pressed the minister.

  “Nope, just vanished from the face of the earth.”

  “So they made their bid for freedom or are lying low...”

  “Something like that... What is George Burrows like?”

  “George? He’s a rough and tumble dale’s farmer. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’d like to speak to him.”

  Richard Rogers knew better than to ask why. “With it being Sunday, I think you might find him in the Barley Mow at lunchtime.”

  Chapter 23 - The Barley Mow.

  Sunday, 3rd December 1944.

  “I didn’t expect you back so early,” declared Poppy Gray from the sofa in the morning room at Flash House.

  “A bit of business to attend to, thought I’d change before I went to the Barley Mow,” replied Hunloke. “Brought a house guest along, hope you don’t mind...” Hunloke offered a sort of a smile before hurrying away leaving Carey Gladwin to stride elegantly into the morning room.

  “My, we do look every inch the mo
vie star. Very Margaret Lockwood...,” announced Poppy from behind her hardback copy of ‘Wuthering Heights’.

  “Are you saying I get to play the bad girl, an opportunistic vixen like in the film with James Mason, ‘The man in Grey’?” suggested Carey, who certainly knew her movies.

  “An apt name for this house, wrong spelling of course... Do take a seat, my dear.” Carey cringed at the patronising epithet, coming from someone nine years her junior. Poppy may have been only nineteen years old but like so many of her class, she behaved in many ways older than her years when the occasion demanded it.

  Carey sat carefully in the high-back chintz fabric seat and by chance remembered to remove her hat before leaning back into the chair.

  “Good service was it?” asked Poppy with more than a hint of distain.

  “Yes, very pertinent considering all the things happening around here,” smiled Carey knowingly.

  “And what did Mr Rogers talk about? The evils of alcohol and tobacco?”

  “No, fidelity and righteousness.” Carey tilted her head to one side and stared enquiringly at the unflinching Poppy.

  “How tedious... Talk about preaching to the converted. I don’t assume the village to be a hotbed of matrimonial mischief, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t get on with the villagers.”

  “Caught you on the hop, did he, bringing you back here?” Poppy smiled disingenuously.

  “I really don’t know what you mean?”

  “Come, Carey, there is no need to be coy with me. I know you’re not exactly what you pretend to be. I admit I don’t know exactly who you are. I wonder why you haven’t had your eye fixed. Couldn’t afford it? Or do you wear it as a badge of honour, as some sort of statement? You hide your lamp under a bushel, if I may quote the scriptures without upsetting your Methodist soul.”

  “Why are you concerned that Thaddeus brought me back with him?” teased Carey, displaying a steadfastness that would have surprised many people who assumed to know her.