The Trebelzue Gate

by Anna Fitzwilliam

  She stirred the soup. Garth’s mixed grills were precise arrangements: mushrooms and tomatoes, small pieces of meat and offal and pat-a-cakes of mashed potato on the wire rack. Then, cigarette in hand and his glass balanced on the level part of the stove top, just above the New World trademark, he would watch intently as the flames did their work. ‘Happy Days!’ he had written in her birthday card that first year. ‘Happy Days!’ The large flourish of his handwriting reminded her of the script that appeared on the cinema screen at the end of a cartoon reel. ‘That’s all folks!’

  She remembered that there had been a letter from Cally and fetched it to read while the soup heated.

  The letter began ‘Dear Stepmother’.

  After their marriage Cally was invited to stay with them. Garth had suggested that his daughter should call Monica by her Christian name. At first Cally did so, with a deliberate self-consciousness, then she had said

  ‘Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not.’

  The child’s behaviour had seemed oddly formal for a nine-year old. Privately Monica wondered how many of Cally’s responses were pre-scripted by her mother. Bubbles in the beige soup began to pop gently around the edge of the pan. She stirred as she read

  ‘I visited Daddy at the weekend. He is not very well at all. I am trying to go once a month although my journey from Kent is not straightforward. One of his old colleagues who lives in Penn calls in on Wednesdays. The staff asked me when you will be visiting again. Perhaps you could let me (or them) know?’

  With the familiar mixture of disappointment and amusement she set the letter aside. From very early on she had held no expectations that Cally would love or even like her very much, but for Garth’s sake she had tried to be welcoming to the child. As Cally grew into adolescence, becoming slimmer and cultivating a long fringe which she constantly fretted over and puffed with dry shampoo, she behaved with a resentful sulkiness towards them both. Garth drank even more heavily during the visits. He addressed Cally as ‘Miss’ and spoke to her in exaggerated received pronunciation. Once he said

  ‘I tell you what, Miss, as our company is so obviously disagreeable to you, why don’t I just give you some money to go and spend the day at the shops? How about that, it would be a relief to us all, surely?’

  He was standing on the hearth rug looking down at Cally, still in her pyjamas, sitting with legs tucked up under her in the armchair, slapping down cards on a wooden tea tray. She played endless games of patience.

  ‘God, you’re a rude little bitch, aren’t you?’ he continued.

  Startled, she looked up at him and Monica, paused in the doorway, saw the glint of tears start in the girl’s eyes. But Cally did not cry, instead she swallowed hard and then she said

  ‘I think I would like to go home early.’

  And Garth had replied ‘The next train is at half past two, go and ring your sainted mother and tell her you’ll be on it.’

  Monica set aside the soup and went to the telephone. She dialled the number of the Canterbury University halls of residence. The telephone rang on for at least two minutes. She stood watching the gilt carriage clock which sat incongruously on the rough Cornish stone fire surround. Eventually a young man’s voice answered

  ‘Catherine Guard? Not in, according to the board. It’s cine club tonight of course. I can scrawl a message, if you like?’

  ‘Yes, please, if you could. Just say ‘your stepmother called, she’s sorry to have missed you. Thank you.’

  ‘Okey doke.’

  As soon as she had replaced the receiver the telephone rang.

  ‘You sound deadbeat,’ said Hermione Voes. Monica and Hermione Voes had joined the Metropolitan Police together in the 1950s. They had become friends immediately and had remained so. Hermione, recently promoted to commander, had been appointed to a liaison role at the Home Office.

  ‘So, how’s your first Cornish murder going?’

  ‘You’ve heard about it, have you?’

  ‘Of course I have. When Central Ops gets a situation report in the midday updates with an I/O allocation to one M Guard, I’m bound to take an interest, aren’t I? But seriously, how is it going – and you know you can be honest with me.’

  ‘Honestly - I’m managing, I think, but only just. I am resented on all sides …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m a woman and because I’m not Cornish. Every step I take is scrutinised, I know they’re all just waiting for me to make a balls-up. The Chief Constable has his secretary ring up every hour on the hour because of the MoD interest connection. Also, war – as in a mock one orchestrated by NATO in Brussels – is about to be declared next door to our scene of crime. I came home early this evening for some thinking time but instead of that I’ve just had to open a letter of reproof from my stepdaughter.’

  ‘Whoops, mind the step,’ Hermione laughed.

  ‘Are you at home?’ Monica asked, imagining the mansion flat with its tall windows which overlooked

  Clapham Common.

  ‘Yes, I am, just, but we’re talking about you, not me. Come on, there must be some positives, what are they?’

  ‘I’ve got a good sergeant,’

  ‘Well that’s worth a guinea a box, and?’

  ‘I have an ally on the inside at the RAF station – apparently he met Garth during the War, he’s been very helpful over setting up the incident room for us.’

  ‘That’s also a positive. How is Garth by the way?’

  ‘Oh, you know, just the same. No, actually, he’s a bit worse, but then he’s never going to be better now, is he?’

  After a brief pause Hermione said ‘I can tell you something about your esteemed Chief Constable Scott that will cheer you up – at the Yard, he used to be known as Woof Woof.’

  ‘Woof Woof?’

  ‘Yes, the reason being that he spent most of his time there trying to take out a private patent on a barking dog alarm he’d invented, it was some kind of tape recording that was supposed to be activated by a doorbell being pressed.’

  ‘Is this really true?’

  ‘Absolutely. The trouble was, he couldn’t get it quite synchronised and there used to be an empty time lapse between the bell ringing and the bark starting. But the best part was - he went all over south London trying to record the fiercest sounding dog’s bark and he ended up at the Penfolds’ scrap yard, sublimely unaware that they’d been on the watch list for months – you do remember the Penfolds, in Battersea?’

  ‘How could I forget. When I was training, my sergeant had me there for a week, trying to identify some stolen copper piping.’

  ‘And, talking of training, I saw Shirley the other day, at a lunch.’

  ‘What, Shirley Becke?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. She asked after you, she made some reference to clotted cream and pasties so she knows where you’ve gone. She keeps up with us all, you know,’

  ‘She’s very good,’

  ‘We’re very good too, don’t you forget that my girl, and don’t let the buggers grind you down. If there’s anything you need, you know where I am.’

  It was almost dark when Nimrod call sign XV146 returned from its Atlantic patrol. Hour after hour, far out to sea, the aircraft had conducted a tapestry search, following rows like stitches, up and down and back and forth across a plotted square of ocean.

  The task of the Nimrod aircraft was to hunt for Soviet submarines using sonar tracking. On that day the sonar had detected no submarines but, for over an hour, it had allowed the crew to eavesdrop on the songs of a pod of whales. These other-worldly sounds, filtered through headphones, might have been the invention of some creative radiophonic workshop. The men of the crew were loath for the whales’ calls to end. Even after the songs had faded for the last time they continued to listen, hopefully, to the silence of the deep. Eventually over the intercom the Glaswegian gravel voice of Laurie, the master air electronics operator, announced with regretful finality

  ‘Show’s over folks, they’re
gone’.

  During the long flights when no Soviet submarine quarry was to be found, food alleviated the boredom of the Nimrod crews, and so the catering provision for a sortie was always generous. Just before the landing positions were called, a flight sergeant removed the last tray of sausage rolls from the galley oven, skilfully operating the door fastening with his heavy black boot. Because a nuclear air scrubber operated automatically whenever a Nimrod was airborne, the smells of cooking, however pungent, never lingered in the cabin or on the crew’s clothing.

  As at their departure, none of the crew looked down upon the Trebelzue gate as they returned. The sergeants and the master air electronics operators were completing their logs. The engineer and the navigator called back and forth the repartee of landing checks. The pilot, Squadron Leader Graham Jarvis, watched his trainee co-pilot, Flight Lieutenant Peter Reddy, perform the mechanical rituals of descent.

  ‘Nicely done’, he said as with skilfully reined restraint, the Nimrod’s tyres bumped its huge power onto the tarmac. Figures in mechanics overalls and ear defenders appeared from the buildings at the runway perimeter. The flight crew commenced the processes of handing over the aircraft to the groundcrew. Often as he ceded responsibility, Squadron Leader Jarvis observed to his trainee that any errors with a seven million-pound Nimrod would take a hell of a long time to pay off on your mess bill.

  The crew disembarked and walked wearily towards the Operations building for debriefing. Through the lengthening shadows a police panda car passed, driving slowly beside the dispersal towards the runway’s end.

  ‘What’s that all about, I wonder,’ said the engineer.

  ‘It’s them bastard Yanks causing trouble again, I’ll bet,’ growled Laurie.

  In the debriefing suite the men lounged and sprawled over the seating, stretching their tired limbs. The trainee pilot stood at the front, beside a lectern of pale wood.

  ‘I won’t need to keep you long, gentlemen,’ he said.

  ‘Seeing as we found sweet FA,’ said one of the flight sergeants quietly.

  ‘… and then the Station Duty Officer would like a word with us, I believe.’

  The crew turned to stare curiously at the young man waiting at the back of the room.

  When the debriefing was over the trainee pilot said ‘All yours’ and the duty officer stepped forward. He had soft brown hair and held his pen left-handed to follow the notes on a memo pad.

  ‘Right, gentlemen, for those of you who don’t know me, I’m Dick Cliffe. It’s really just a word of warning for any of you heading back to the married quarters sites at St Eval or Padstow, especially if the TACEVAL kicks off and you’re called back in again. You may well encounter some hold ups and increased civvie police activity on the roads, especially out by the Trebelzue Gate. That is because a body was found this morning.’ The sprawling men became more alert. ‘Not much being said so far but we do know that it’s a murder enquiry. The CO’s allowed them to set up a police incident room, over by that end of the runway.’

  ‘Was it one of ours?’ asked Laurie.

  ‘No, that much they have told us, it was a young woman – but not a WAAF – that’s all they’ll say for now. Apparently it is someone local – there’s a lot of gossip and speculation but we’ve been ordered to keep a lid on it. Word is also that the Chief Constable was on to the CO trying to get the TACEVAL postponed.’

  All the men laughed. One of the sergeants snorted ‘Good luck with that,’ and another said that perhaps they could cancel the ruddy Cold War while they were about it.

  Then Squadron Leader Jarvis dismissed the crew and they went out towards the car park on the hill. Walking off in twos and threes, they might have been a team leaving the field of play after a sporting match. At the guard room the sentry lifted the barrier and one by one the men drove forth into the narrow lane, headlights raking across the hedgerow where a pale owl was hunting. The flight sergeant who lived at the St Columb Minor married quarters site always waymarked his homeward journey by the silhouette of one particular tree beside the Newquay Road. The tree had been bent into a fantastical human form by the prevailing winds. It reminded his young son of the Pied Piper.

  The last car to leave was the squadron leader’s white Lancia. He paused at the guard room barrier and wound down his window to speak to the airman on sentry duty. The squadron leader used a distinct tone of voice to address other ranks, it was even and affable but with an edge to convey superiority. The other ranks in his air crew used a similar vocal device when dealing with servicemen who did not fly. ‘What do the administrators fly? Desks.’ they said, dismissively.

  ‘So, what’s been happening out at Trebelzue, Bevan?’ he asked.

  ‘Couldn’t say sir,’

  ‘Couldn’t say or been ordered not to say?’

  The airman gazed steadily ahead and replied only ‘Sir,’

  An RAF police warrant officer emerged from the guard room and saluted as he approached the Lancia.

  ‘Everything all right sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Warrant Officer yes. I’ve been on ops all day, what’s been going on here?’

  The warrant officer smiled. ‘Apart from us chasing our own tails for TACEVAL preparations you mean, sir? The body of a young woman was found this morning, out by the Trebelzue gate.’

  ‘Do they know who she is?’

  ‘They’re not saying sir, not officially anyway. But the word is, she’s well-known locally.’

  He lowered his head in a nod of emphasis as he imparted the last sentence. His chin and his downturned mouth and the peak of his cap, worn low, resembled the shape of typewritten brackets.

  ‘Goodnight to you sir,’ he said and saluted as the white car accelerated away.

  Some minutes later the Lancia reached Trebelzue. A police patrol car was parked in front of the gate. In the low illumination of the interior bulb, a constable was lost in thought, or perhaps dozing with his eyes open. He did not react when the Lancia slowed and paused some yards ahead. Beyond the two still men in their two still cars sounded the repeating rhythm of Atlantic waves breaking upon the shore. After a few minutes the squadron leader slipped the car back into gear and drove on. With careful deliberation PC Sweet, who had appeared oblivious, noted the time of night, the model and registration number of the Lancia, and a description of its driver.

  At half past seven the day shift patrol car arrived at the Trebelzue Gate. PC Sweet said that he would not be sorry to hand over.

  ‘My arse is numb.’ He rubbed his palms together enthusiastically, ‘Right, I’m off to see Janet for my eggs and bacon.’ Janet was the tall, raucous woman who ran the police station canteen.

  ‘Not yet you’re not, matey, here comes Herself,’

  As he spoke Monica’s Mini Clubman drew in beside them.

  ‘Good morning, if your report from last night is written up, Constable, I’ll take it straight in with me.’

  ‘Lucky I’ve bloody done it then,’ he mumbled as he removed the sheets from the clipboard. The other man grinned out to sea. More audibly PC Sweet said

  ‘Yes, M’am, it’s all here. I radio-ed in the registrations of any vehicles that stopped so I’ve added in the driver details too.’

  ‘That’s very good, thank you, constable. I don’t suppose they’ve changed their minds about letting us use this gate, have they?’

  He shook his head, ‘Still got to go all round the houses I’m afraid, M’am.’

  She released the hand brake and the men watched her and listened to her careful, considered gear changes as she drove the small beige car away towards the main gate.

  ‘Don’t know what to make of her,’ said the day shift constable.

  ‘Nor me,’ said PC Sweet, ‘But right now I don’t care. Janet’s calling. Enjoy your shift, boy,’

  A second sentry, armed with a self-loading rifle, watched with half-formed menace as Monica showed her pass and was waved through the gate. As she drove up the road the hill brow rose as with the promis
e of a sea view in childhood. She passed individuals and groups of men walking purposefully to their places of work, pink cheeked, newly shaved and breakfasted. Efficiently and around the clock, the air base was fulfilling its global function. In the middle of farmers’ fields and cob villages and bus shelters and Spar shop signs, its advanced technologies were calibrating ready reckoners for the survival of civilisation. Someone had told her that the crucial end time was known as the Brown Hour, adding ‘But the Brown Hour cometh, and now is.’ There were maps for when and if the Hour came. These maps were marked with Vitruvian circles like the ripples on a pond. The circle shapes being ripples not of a watery oscillation, but the waves of thermonuclear fusion. The maps had been drawn to calculate collateral damage, the Canon of Proportion for civilisation. Within the maps’ circles lay civilisation’s civilians, grocers and primary school children and nursing sisters, old men who had marched with the Camborne Pals, ballet dancers and lorry drivers and babies cutting teeth.

  Monica arrived at their allotted SECO hut and saw that placards on short wooden stakes had been positioned in the turf around it. The placards directed: ’By order of the Officer Commanding RAF St Mawgan, this building is excluded from hostilities.’

  She was pleased to find that none of the day shift had arrived. She had always preferred to be the first on duty, able to work alone and in silence with her notes and her thoughts.

  ‘You’d have made a good scholar,’ Garth had said, ‘shut up in some obscure university library in middle Europe.’

  ‘I would,’ she had agreed and silently regretted for the hundredth or the thousandth time the failed matriculation which had precluded her academic career.

  At the age of eleven Monica’s promise had been recognised by a scholarship to the Burlington School, an establishment for girls which stood behind the Royal Academy. One of the mistresses, a scholar of Elizabethan history, had been a noted suffragette. With the outbreak of war, the staff and pupils of the Burlington School were evacuated to Oxford. Monica experienced a fervent and immediate devotion to the city, a nostalgia even in the first instant of knowing. The head mistress, Miss Burgess, took groups of her girls for poetry readings on the river. One of the girls was a German refugee named Berthe.