The Cuckoo (Rufus Stone Detective Stories Book 1)

by K. J. Frost

  Chapter One

  Early October 1939

  “Kenneth? Is that you?” I hear the familiar cry and wonder, not for the first time, what would happen if one day I called out, ‘No. It’s Horace.’ Or Theodore. Or Marmaduke. I quite like the idea of being called ‘Marmaduke’. The name makes me smile, although I have absolutely no idea why.

  “Yes, Mother. It’s me,” I reply dutifully, as I close the door and pull the blackout curtain back across, checking to make sure no light can show through.

  “You’re late.”

  I’m not. I’ve come home at this hour every night for the last six months, ever since I transferred into the new department. Prior to that, I occasionally had to work shifts, so my hours were irregular and I came and went at various times of the day and night. But six months ago, my mother didn’t mind so much about my time-keeping. She had George to appease her, to tend to her every need and whim, to make things just that little bit shinier. George was good at that.

  “Yes, Mother. Well, it’s raining, which meant the bus was running behind.” It wasn’t. It was exactly on time. But I’ve learned not to disagree with her. It only makes her even more argumentative. I shake the worst of the rain from my coat and hang it up on the old walnut rack in the hall, placing my hat on one of the hooks down the side of the elaborate piece of furniture, and giving it a frown as a couple of droplets of water tumble onto the parquet flooring beneath. I’m not overly keen on this hat. In my view, it’s rather too formal for my age, which is only twenty-eight, after all. But my father wore one in the same style, and when the time came for me to buy my first hat, my mother insisted that I should have one just like it. I shake my head, recalling the shrill argument in the department store, and go through into the living room.

  Although there’s a fire lit in the grate, I’m struck by the chill as I walk in. This is undoubtedly caused by my mother, who’s sitting in one of the two chairs, placed either side of the hearth. Like her surroundings, she looks dull and worn, as though she’s seen better days. I pay her little attention, and quickly glance around the familiar room instead. The plain green curtains are drawn, the thick blackout material visible by about six inches beneath their slightly frayed hem. A large old-fashioned sideboard takes up the entire wall opposite the window, adorned with photographs, mainly of George – naturally. There’s one of him as a smiling baby, with three teeth to show the camera; and beside that, one to commemorate his first day at school, in short trousers, with a fully-toothed grin and neatly combed hair; one of him captaining the local football team to success in some competition or other, when he was about fifteen; and yet another of him, taken quite recently, standing outside the front door in his Royal Air Force uniform, not long after he was accepted into their ranks at the beginning of the summer. The largest picture of the group, however, is of my parents on their wedding day, my father resplendent in his best suit and tie, my mother wearing a long white dress and a half-smile. She’s carrying a bouquet of lilies which sets off her outfit perfectly and does a marvellous job of hiding the fact that she was four months pregnant at the time. Naturally enough, I was born in due course of time, and tongues were quick to wag about the fact that significantly fewer than the customary nine months had elapsed between the nuptials and my birth. But there are no baby photographs of me. Not one. In fact there are no photographs of me at all. There’s nothing to show a mother’s pride in her first-born son, because there was no pride. There’s been precious little love either; only a lasting, biting shame. It’s always felt as though my parents’ pre-marital dalliance and its natural consequence were somehow my fault.

  My mother looks up from her knitting for just a fraction of a second as I enter the room.

  “How is it that you always manage to make a suit look so untidy?” she asks, sighing loudly.

  “I have no idea, Mother.”

  She shakes her head and squints at her knitting pattern in the light from the small lamp set on the low table beside her. “Put the kettle on, will you? Father will be wanting a cup of tea with his supper.”

  I don’t bother to reply, but go back out into the hallway and along to the kitchen, passing the closed dining room door on the way. Checking the blackout is in place, I switch on the kitchen light, letting my eyes adjust to its brightness after the dim lighting in the living room and hallway. I can smell the supper cooking, the pungent aroma of boiling cabbage having accosted my nostrils the moment I entered the house. I imagine there will be some kind of stew to accompany the overcooked vegetable, but I know it will fail to be appetising. Most people say you can’t go wrong with a stew, and yet somehow my mother always manages it.

  Filling the kettle from the tap, I place it on top of the stove, light the gas and sit down at the small table that’s pushed up against the only spare section of wall in the room. This has been my routine, Monday to Friday, day in, day out, since George’s death, just over five weeks ago. At the weekends, I escape and go fishing, if work permits. And while my mother may complain about my absence from the house – not because she misses my company, but because it means she has to do everything herself – she does appreciate the fish I bring back with me. I, on the other hand, appreciate the fact that she lets me cook my catch, and for once, we get to eat something that hasn’t been boiled or stewed to death.

  The kettle’s whistle makes me jump and I quickly turn off the gas before Mother can cry out in complaint, then make the tea, covering the pot with the garish knitted cosy she fashioned a few years ago, and insists on using. After that, I check inside the oven, finding a large casserole dish, which I pull from its cocoon and place on a mat on the table, before lifting the lid and attempting to identify the contents.

  “Beef?” I muse. “Or maybe mutton.” It’s hard to tell. There are definitely lumps of meat at the bottom of the pot, in a congealed gravy, with a few chunks of carrot and some poorly peeled potatoes. I drain the cabbage, which is limp and pale by comparison with the vibrant green I know it will have been upon being cut up and tossed into the saucepan, probably forty or forty-five minutes ago.

  Taking three plates from on top of the cooker, where they’ve been keeping warm, I dish up the food, before pouring the tea and placing a cup of it, together with one plate of dinner onto a tray. I leave that to sit on the side, just for a moment, while I quickly lay two places, one on either side of the kitchen table. Going through into the living room again, I announce, “It’s ready,” in the same way I have for the last few weeks, before returning to the kitchen, putting my own dinner in the oven and depositing my mother’s plate and cup of tea on the table, and then taking my father’s tray of food upstairs.

  “Back in a tick,” I call out, as my mother gets to her feet, even though I know she won’t wait for me.

  Upstairs, I carry the tray around the landing and in through the half open door to my left. This is my parents’ bedroom, which until my father’s stroke two years ago was strictly out of bounds to both George and myself. However, when it became clear that our father would not make a full recovery, and would need help with things like washing, eating, getting to the bathroom, existing on a day-to-day basis, we were allowed entry into the sanctuary.

  I remember my surprise when I discovered that our parents slept in separate beds, and how George and I laughed about it that first evening on our way to the pub, wondering how my little brother had been conceived. George even made some crude joke about our father having a ‘long one’ if he’d managed to impregnate our mother, in spite of there being a bedside cabinet and nearly three feet of aged Axminster in between the two of them. Even now, the memory brings a smile to my lips. My,
how we laughed.

  On the far side of the room there’s a a dressing table, the top of which is crammed with various pots and brushes, creams and perfumes, not that I’ve ever been aware of my mother using or wearing any of them. In the back corner is a china vase which contains some large silk roses in full bloom. I imagine they were once a bright vermillion perhaps, but they’re now pale and faded, covered with a thick layer of dust. I wonder if they might have been a gift from my father, and whether that’s why Mother keeps them, despite their poor condition. Although if that’s the case, I’m surprised she doesn’t take better care of them, rather than leaving them to become just a reflection, a shadowy reminder of better days.

  As usual, I place the tray on the stool in front of the dressing table; a stool my mother has covered several times over the years, most recently with a plain blue fabric that matches the curtains. Then, picking up the plate, I sit on the edge of the bed and, very slowly and carefully, feed my father. As usual, it’s a long process, being as the left side of the old man’s face has a permanent droop, caused by the stroke, and he tends to dribble at fairly regular intervals. I’ve brought a cloth specifically for the purpose of wiping my father’s chin, and I make frequent use of it, while chatting, mainly to myself, about the news of the day, which tonight consists of Mr Churchill, in his position as First Lord of the Admiralty, giving a radio address from London, in which he reviewed the first month of the war. For myself, I don’t think there’s very much to review. Nothing seems to have happened really, and everything that has occurred is in Europe, or Russia. It certainly doesn’t seem to be much to get worked up about, even though several of the men from work have insisted on joining up, despite ours being a reserved occupation.

  Before long, Father starts to turn his face away at the prospect of more food, which I know to be a sign he’s had enough.

  “Right ho, Dad,” I say, trying to sound cheerful as I put the half-finished plate back on the tray. “Let’s give you some tea.”

  I bring the cup of now lukewarm tea up to my father’s lips, holding the saucer beneath to catch the inevitable spillage. After just a few sips, he turns away again and I heave a sigh of relief, glad that chore is over for another day. Pouring the surplus tea from the saucer back into the cup, I replace both on the tray and, without another word, I leave the room.

  Back on the landing, I can’t help but notice that the door to my brother’s bedroom is slightly ajar. That in itself is surprising, as the room has been kept shut since George’s death. Intrigued by this unusual state of affairs, I deposit the tray on the cabinet at the top of the stairs and push the door open. Inside, the room is in darkness, but the curtains are pulled back and, as Mother hasn’t bothered to put up any blackout in here, I can’t put on the light. Drawing the curtains closed to block out the glow from the landing, I glance around. The room feels dead – like George. His personality has vacated, even though his belongings remain, exactly as he left them that fateful evening. On top of the single bed, which is pushed up against the wall, I can make out George’s Air Force blue uniform, his new ‘wings’ proudly displayed above the left-hand breast pocket. George had laid it out like that the night he died, and Mother has left it that way, almost reverentially, a lasting reminder of George’s achievements. He was never able to prove himself in battle – although of course, he would have been heroic if he had – because he was killed in a car accident while out celebrating earning his wings, with one his RAF chums, before war was even declared. For some reason, both men decided to wear ‘civvies’ for the evening, and were driving down a country lane when their car collided head-on with a lorry. George was killed instantly; the other man – who was driving – survived for a few hours, no longer. The local paper wrote eloquently of George’s accomplishments and described the loss of the two men as a ‘tragic waste’, which did nothing to diminish our mother’s grief.

  I sit down on the bed, resting my hand on the tunic of my late brother’s uniform.

  “It could’ve been me,” I whisper. “It should’ve been me.” I can’t disguise the bitterness in my voice and I feel my anger rising as I recall the sympathetic expression on the face of the RAF recruiting officer when he pointed out that my poor eyesight prevented me from serving, immediately after having passed George fit for service, with a broad grin. Both of us had seen that war was coming several months beforehand, and while I had a steady, some might even say worthwhile, profession, George had never really settled to anything after leaving university. Joining the RAF together seemed like a good idea. We’d discussed it over a few evenings, and several pints in the local pub, weighing up the pros and cons, and made the decision that we’d do it. What did we have to lose?

  “Kenneth? Don’t forget your supper. I didn’t cook it for you to let it to dry out in the oven, you know?” My mother’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I jump up from the bed, taking a few moments to straighten the candlewick bedspread before going back out onto the landing.

  “Make sure you come back in quietly, won’t you?” Mother admonishes as I put my coat back on.

  “I’m going for one pint,” I reason. “I’ll be back within the hour.”

  “Well, I’m tired. I’ll be going up soon. I don’t want you waking me just as I’ve dropped off.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  I put on my hated hat, pulling my collar up to give me some protection against the rain. I don’t care how hard it’s pouring, I’m going out. I need to escape.

  The walk to the pub is only about ten minutes and I take it fairly quickly, despite the pitch blackness. It’s odd having no street lights, no lamps shining from windows, and tonight not even the benefit of the moonlight to guide my way. Fortunately, this is a path well trodden for me and I arrive at the darkened pub just before eight o’clock, negotiating the blackout system, which consists of a covered porch door that you have to pass through and close before entering the building itself.

  Inside, I take off my coat and hat, hanging them by the door, and go over to the bar.

  “Where’s Angus?” I ask, looking around for the usual barman.

  “He’s joined up,” replies the woman who’s serving. “I’ve just started today, so bear with me.” She gives me a smile, showing slightly yellowing teeth.

  “Joined up?”

  “Evidently.” She nods and looks around the room. “Look at them all. Anyone would think there was a war on.” She laughs at her own joke as I follow her gaze and take in the number of uniformed men dotted around the pub, either standing at the bar, or sat at tables, perched on low stools. In most cases, they’re accompanied by pretty young women, who gaze up at them, their eyes glistening, their smiles revealing perfect white teeth – or so it seems to me, anyway.

  “What can I get you, love?” the woman asks.

  “A pint of mild, please.” I turn back to her. She’s probably a good ten years older than she’d like to admit, if her choice of low-cut blouse is anything to go by. But even so, her very ample bosom is having the desired effect, and I shift from one foot to the other, trying to accommodate the sudden tightness of my trousers, without making it too obvious.

  The barmaid places a glass in front of me, a full head of froth on top.

  “That’s five pence, dear,” she says.

  “You expect me to pay for the head as well?” I joke, handing over the correct money.

  “Well, like I said, it’s my first day.”

  “I’ve seen worse.” I take a quick sip of my drink. “Tasted worse too.”

  “Thanks, love,” she replies.

  “So, what’s your name?” I ask her.

  “Trudy.”

  “I’m Kenneth.”

  “You come here a lot, do you?”

  “Now you’re here, I think I’ll come more often.” I give her a wink. Well, why not?

  She blushes and touches my hand. “You’re sweet, you are,” she murmurs, just as the door opens and two soldiers come in.

  “Hello, lads,”
Trudy says, raising her voice and giving them the benefit of her yellowed smile. “What can I be getting for two of our finest?”

  They come over to the bar and ask for pints, which she pours with only marginally more success than she achieved with mine. I ignore them and take another sip of my drink, waiting for Trudy to return, so I can continue flirting with her. Okay, so she’s no oil painting, but she’s got a good figure, and it’s been a while. Somehow it seemed wrong to have fun too soon after George’s death, but seeing his uniform lying on the bed like that earlier this evening, reminded me of the times we had together. Besides, life’s too short not to take a chance when it comes along.

  Although I say so myself, I’m quite good at sweet-talking the ladies – at least when I’m socialising, anyway. At home, I toe the line, just for the sake of a quiet life, if nothing else. And at work, well, I don’t get that many opportunities, but when I do, I can’t seem to turn on the charm with quite the same effect. I think it must be the surroundings or something. Whatever it is, I often end up saying the wrong things and making a fool of myself. Still, none of that applies now. Now, I’m out, I’m free, and I intend to enjoy every minute.

  Of the two of us, George was probably the better looking; I don’t mind admitting it. His hair was a shade darker than mine, being almost black in colour, and his jaw was also a little more square and rugged. I always used to think that his face had more symmetry than mine does. Don’t get me wrong, I’m handsome enough, until you put me beside my brother – or any other good looking man, I suppose – and then I revert to being merely ordinary. Still, whatever I may lack in looks, I certainly make up for in charm. I smile, as I bring to mind an occasion last year, when George and I came across two sisters at a local café. George particularly liked the younger one, but I preferred the older. She had bigger breasts. I like big breasts – they’re a weakness of mine. I smirk to myself. That was a very good evening indeed.