Goodnight Sweetheart

by Pam Weaver

  Frankie closed her eyes and sighed. ‘My husband saved his little boy’s life.’

  Collins nodded. ‘That’s what he said. I don’t think he would have come back to report it otherwise. His statement tallies with yours. He said he’d seen Lyman Spinks coming out of the cottage.’

  Frankie looked puzzled. ‘He knew Spinks?’

  ‘He’s had dealings with him,’ said Collins. ‘He says it was business but, between you and me and the gate post, I think it was black market stuff. However, I’m going to let that go for now. I’m much more interested in finding out about your husband’s death.’

  Frankie’s face clouded. ‘His murder, you mean.’ She sank back onto her pillows, exhausted.

  ‘We’ll be going now, Mrs Delaney,’ said Inspector Collins. ‘Your aunt has given us her address and I believe you will be going back to Worthing shortly. Please accept our condolences and we shall be in touch.’ He put on his hat, lifted it to her, and left.

  Sidney Knight had put the mail bags down in the basement. It took him a couple of days to pluck up the courage to open them. Stealing His Majesty’s mail was a serious crime. You could get up to seven years in the clink for it. In the end he decided he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb so he broke the seals. The first bag contained registered mail and that meant money. He made up his mind to open a few at a time. He didn’t want any attention drawn to his spending. His maxim had always been don’t be greedy or you’ll get caught, so with the bags stashed behind the defunct boiler, he began his modest spending spree. He soon worked out that envelopes with what looked like birthday cards inside were usually signed ‘Love Auntie Joyce’ or ‘Love Granny’ and had a couple of quid inside, sometimes as much as five pounds. An hour later he was on the street corner waiting for the bookie to put half a crown each way on Romping Home, a dog which was racing that evening at Hackney Wick.

  Thirty-Seven

  Kingston Lacy, Dorset, June 5th 1944

  The United States army didn’t take kindly to the two British police officers who kept coming back to the base to speak to Lyman Spinks about kidnap and murder. Inspector Collins patiently explained that it was simply to eliminate the man from their enquiries and eventually it was agreed that he could speak to the staff sergeant provided another officer was present. The inspector and his sergeant were surprised to be taken to Kingston Lacy and onto a hospital ward to interview their man. Lyman Spinks, grey faced and clearly far from well, had a cradle over his legs. His doctor instructed them to be brief. ‘The staff sergeant is very weak.’

  Inspector Collins was tempted to ask him what had happened – had he had an accident? – but that wasn’t why he was here. When Collins explained his mission, Spinks was completely indifferent. ‘We have a way of dealing with animals like him,’ he drawled. ‘That fornicator should have stuck to his own kind.’

  ‘So you are saying that man was hung – lynched – because he was sleeping with a white English girl?’

  Spinks pulled himself up the bed and the inspector noted the snake ring on his finger. ‘He had no right to mess with that woman.’

  ‘You do know they were married.’

  Spinks stared at the inspector in shocked surprise. ‘That’s even worse,’ he spat. ‘You plummy bastards should do all in your power to uphold the purity of Anglo-Saxon blood and Christianity,’ he said speaking in a kind of chant. ‘I believe in one hundred per cent Americanism. By marrying that woman, that dog crossed a boundary.’

  ‘So you admit to hanging Doctor Delaney,’ said Collins’ sergeant.

  ‘I admit nothing,’ Spinks said, sinking back onto his pillows and closing his eyes.

  The doctor leaned over his patient. ‘You really do need that transfusion, sir.’

  Spinks’ eyes flashed open. ‘I thought I made myself clear on that one doctor,’ he hissed. ‘Do you have a written guarantee?’

  The doctor shook his head, ‘No sir, but …’

  ‘Then there’s nothing more to be said,’ said Spinks. ‘I have God on my side. I shall be fine.’

  Inspector Collins took this as his cue to leave and, quite frankly, he had heard enough. This man was a monster and he was quite happy to name him as chief suspect. He’d have to interview him at length at a future date, a prospect which didn’t exactly fill him with joy, but with Mrs Delaney’s testimony and an eye witness statement to the kidnapping, it felt like an open and shut case.

  As he walked through the swing doors, the ward sister, an English girl, invited them into her office for a cup of tea. Collins accepted the invitation gratefully.

  ‘I shall have to come back at a later date,’ he told her. ‘There are still some lose ends to tie up.’

  ‘I’m not sure that will be necessary,’ she said placing a cup and saucer in front of him and another in front of the sergeant.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He’s refusing treatment,’ said the sister.

  Collins was puzzled. He had Spinks down as the sort who would demand the best of everything.

  ‘He needs a blood transfusion,’ said the sister, ‘but we cannot guarantee that only a white man has donated that blood.’

  Inspector Collins spluttered into his cup. ‘What!’

  ‘Sergeant Spinks has strongly held beliefs,’ the sister went on. ‘It’s not just Jim Crow he hates. He doesn’t like Jews, Italians, Russians or Catholics either.’

  ‘So you’re saying he’s refusing a blood transfusion on the grounds that one of them might have donated it?’ the sergeant asked in disbelief.

  ‘That’s about the sum of it,’ she said, sipping her tea. ‘He’s pulled out the tubes so many times we’ve given in to his wishes now.’

  ‘But that’s crazy,’ cried Collins. ‘Blood is blood, isn’t it? Somebody should tell him it’s not black or white, it all red.’

  For a split second, the sister grinned, then, turning serious again, she added. ‘I just wanted you to know he’s getting weaker all the time. I honestly don’t think he’ll survive this.’

  ‘What happened to him anyway?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Between you and me,’ she began, ‘and if you say anything I shall deny I ever said it, he thought he was going to stay over here but then they told him he was being sent to France.’ She put down her cup. ‘Unfortunately there was an “accident” (she drew the inverted commas in the air) with his gun and he shot himself in the foot.’ She drew breath and sighed. ‘I’m sure the other men must have heard the shot but it was some time before they found him.’

  Collins looked away. Bloody coward. Whenever men were sent abroad there was always a small number of them who had this type of ‘accident’ so that they didn’t have to go to war.

  ‘So you’re saying he did it deliberately,’ the sergeant said dryly. He glanced up. ‘I suppose that’s why nobody found him.’

  ‘Did they save his foot?’ Collins asked.

  The sister shook her head. ‘Sadly not. In fact, Doctor Delaney was the only one who would have tried to save it, but he wasn’t here, was he?’

  Collins nodded sagely. ‘From what I’ve heard, Spinks probably would have refused to let the doctor touch him anyway.’

  The sister raised her eyebrow. ‘You’re probably right. Before you go, I want you to know that Doctor Delaney was a wonderful man and here at Kingston Lacy we shall all miss him terribly.’

  Inspector Collins stood to shake her hand. He was feeling very emotional. So, Spinks wouldn’t be around much longer and, in all honesty, he wasn’t sorry. He didn’t really want to talk to him again. If he did so, he’d have a job keeping his hands to himself.

  After a couple more days, Frankie was moved back to Worthing but she was only in the local hospital for a day before being transferred to the Catherine Marsh Convalescent Home along the seafront just past Beach House. Slightly old-fashioned and earmarked for closure, the home had been a feature on the Brighton Road since the turn of the century. Under the terms of her annual subscription, Aunt Bet was all
owed to recommend up to two patients a year for a three-week stay for seven and six a week. The normal charge for non-subscribers was fifteen bob. Everybody agreed that a short period with a more relaxed regime might help Frankie to begin to come to terms with her loss.

  She was struggling. Her thoughts ranged from happy memories to agonisingly painful ones. One minute she was reliving the moment she and Romare had met by the town hall door in Wareham and he’d handed her the posy which was to be her wedding bouquet. From there they had walked hand in hand into the foyer where Aunt Bet and Uncle Lorry were waiting for them. She’d been so excited to see them and Barbara. Fancy all three of them coming all that way for such a short period of time. Apparently Doreen had been invited as well but there was a bit of a flap going on and she’d been unable to get leave.

  It had been a lovely wedding. She smiled to herself, remembering the moment he’d made his promises and put the ring on her finger. Everyone knew they only had a few hours before Romare and Frankie had to be back on duty so the wedding reception had been limited to a drink in the Duke of Wellington. Aunt Bet, Uncle Lorry and Barbara were going to catch the afternoon train back to Worthing but as it turned out, all civilian trains were cancelled until the next morning. No reason was given but nobody moaned about it. It was plain that something big was about to happen.

  Reliving those sweet memories took her to the moment when she saw the hooded man at the bottom of the stairs. After that it all became jumbled. The baseball bat, the blood, the sound of Romare’s feet flopping on each stair as they dragged his unconscious body downstairs, the venom in Lyman’s voice, and then the ringing blow to her own head. She still had nightmares and at times the aching pain of loss in her chest rendered her unable to breathe. And she wept. She wept until she felt ill; she wept until her eyes were so swollen she could hardly see.

  One of her first visitors to the convalescent home was Barbara. It was a lovely sunny day so they sat in the grounds overlooking the sea. Frankie had a rug over her knees and although she greeted her with welcoming smile, Barbara was quite shocked by her appearance. Frankie looked pale and drawn and she still had a huge bruise on her jaw. She had also lost a lot of weight.

  It was difficult for Frankie to talk about Romare because it still made her cry and her greatest grief (something she mentioned several times) was the fact that she didn’t have a photograph of him. ‘They haven’t sent on the stuff from my billet yet,’ she said sadly. ‘And the US army haven’t given me Romare’s things either.’ Even after so short a time, it was becoming difficult to remember his face.

  ‘As soon as I can, I want to get back to work,’ she told Barbara.

  ‘Will they have you back so soon?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘They’ll need dispatch riders, especially in France,’ said Frankie. ‘And it’ll give me something else to think about.’

  It occurred to Frankie as they talked that Barbara had changed too. She was no longer the bubbly girl with a joie de vivre she’d once known. Frankie guessed it was because Barbara’s mother was still refusing to let her have much hands-on contact with her baby. ‘How is Derek?’

  ‘He’s doing well,’ said Barbara, her eyes lighting up. ‘Into all sorts of mischief. He’s coming up for five now. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Does your mother …?’ But before Frankie had even finished the sentence, Barbara was shaking her head so she added, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I wrote to him again,’ she told Frankie.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Conrad,’ said Barbara, ‘but this time, instead of using the ENSA PO Box I sent a letter to his agent. Oh Frankie, his agent told me he’ll give Conrad my letter at the earliest opportunity.’

  Frankie struggled to find the right thing to say. It was unbelievable that her friend still held a torch for that man after all this time. Conrad had never written to her and as far as Frankie was concerned, he was an absolute rotter. ‘I hope for your sake he writes,’ she said gently, ‘but after all this time …’

  ‘I won’t give up,’ Barbara interrupted vehemently, ‘I won’t.’ There was an awkward silence, then she added, ‘I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m supposed to be cheering you up, not getting cross. Have they found the fellow that did this to you?’

  ‘Just before I left Worthing hospital Inspector Collins came to see me,’ said Frankie.

  ‘The policeman from Wareham?’

  Frankie nodded. ‘It turns out that Lyman Spinks shot himself in the foot so he wouldn’t have to go to war.’

  ‘So that means …?’

  ‘Inspector Collins says he made such a botched up job of it, he’s going to die,’ said Frankie matter-of-factly. ‘In fact he may be dead already.’

  ‘What about the other two?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Probably over in Normandy by now.’

  A nurse walked towards them. ‘How are we feeling today, Mrs Delaney? Are you ready for lunch?’

  Frankie feigned eagerness. ‘Yes, please, nurse. I’m famished.’

  ‘All right then,’ the nurse said cheerfully. ‘I’ll come back in a minute to fetch you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Frankie, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll follow you in.’

  Frankie took Barbara’s arm and they strolled back towards the house. ‘They certainly look after you here,’ said Barbara. ‘What’s the food like?’

  ‘All right I suppose, although I still have most things mashed,’ said Frankie. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I’ve lost my appetite.’

  They parted with Frankie promising to keep in touch. ‘Try not to be too upset about Derek,’ she said, giving Barbara a hug. ‘At least you’ll get to see him grow up. Lots of girls have their babies taken away.’

  Barbara nodded bravely. ‘You take care,’ she told Frankie. ‘Things will get better, I promise.’

  Frankie smiled grimly.

  *

  Across the Channel things were moving on swiftly. By the end of August Paris had been liberated and General de Gaulle’s rallying cry, ‘Paris outraged! Paris broken! Paris martyred! Paris liberated!’ reverberated throughout the free world. But it wasn’t all plain sailing. The people of Paris were in the middle of a severe food shortage. Hardly surprising when the railways had been destroyed and the Germans had stripped everything stock piled in warehouses before they left. A British convoy called Vivres Pour Paris and consisting of five hundred tons of food entered the French capital on August 29th and Alan was part of it.

  He was coping fairly well now. He still had flashbacks and Ginger was never far from his mind, but since Carrie had asked him to be Billy’s godparent, Alan had a better focus in life. He had already amassed quite a bit of his money for Billy’s savings account. It comforted him to know that Ginger would have been surprised – pleasantly surprised.

  With the Americans flying in supplies and the French themselves in the surrounding areas pitching in, the terrible shortages and the threat of starvation in the city were alleviated within ten days.

  The French women were very attractive, especially one of them. She had been in the crowds lining the streets as Alan’s convoy rolled through Paris. She had dashed towards his lorry and jumped onto the running board with a red rose in her hand. As driver, for a split second he’d panicked but then he’d turned his head to look into the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen. When she jumped down from the running board, having given him the flower, he thought she was gone forever but to his utter joy, she was at a reception the people of Paris had put on for the Allies by way of a thank you. He couldn’t take his eyes off her and when the chairs were pulled back for a dance, he was the first at her side.

  She was young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, with a fresh face. Her dark brown hair was softly pinned back and she wore only a faint trace of lipstick. Her name was Thérèse. She spoke no English and he spoke no French but through smiles and gesticulations they made themselves understood. He quickly became aware that they were being watched.

  ‘Mon père,’ she smi
led when he pointed to the man, so as soon as the dance was over, Alan went over to him to shake his hand.

  In the days that lay ahead, Alan began an awkward relationship with the family. Naturally, the father was very protective of his daughter and Alan appreciated that the man didn’t want his daughter to be seduced by some fly-by-night chap who was here today and gone tomorrow, so he did his best to let the man know that his intentions were strictly honourable. For the first time in his life, Alan was smitten and when the war was over, he knew he would move heaven and earth to make Thérèse his wife.

  Thirty-Eight

  Wareham Cemetery, Conniger Lane, Wareham, Dorset

  A week and a half later, Frankie and her family went back to Dorset for Romare’s funeral. It was a traumatic time for everyone. Normally the body of a deceased American soldier was interred in a British cemetery or repatriated back to the States but to all intents and purposes, the army – who promised that they had informed his parents of his death – had, in essence, washed its hands of him. That meant the arrangements and the expense were left to his wife of less than one day. The question mark the Americans left hanging over Romare’s demise (they still insisted that he must have committed suicide) meant that he couldn’t be buried in consecrated ground. With no inquest and no trial, it seemed the problem would never be resolved. The service was conducted in a non-conformist chapel and he was laid to rest in the local cemetery.

  The weather on the day itself couldn’t have been better. It was warm and sunny and they stood around the graveside under a clear blue sky. Frankie looked around. Several of the locals had turned up; some people Frankie had never seen before.

  ‘Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God …’

  Frankie was only vaguely aware of the minister’s monotone voice. She was listening to the sound of a blackbird singing his heart out and the humming of bees and the clicking of grasshoppers in the long grass.