‘You’re not thinking of going back, are you Ruby?’
Ruby opened her eyes in surprise. ‘Blimey. I thought you couldn’t wait to get rid of me.’
Millie shrugged and Ruby leaned across the table, shoving her on the shoulder.
‘Not a chance, lovey. I ain’t got no home left to go to and I sure as hell don’t want to start dossing down with no uncles and aunts. Perhaps June’s got family somewhere who’ll take her in. Besides, I’m having far too much fun out here. D’you think I want to go back to all that rationing?’ She shovelled another forkful into her mouth and said as she chewed, ‘Reckon you’re stuck with me for the duration.’
* * *
On the other side of the valley, Morney Beswick arrived home. He strode into the house, not even pausing to greet the dogs or his wife. He went straight into his study, shut the door and told the operator to connect him to a Whitehall number.
As he waited he twisted his finger round the wire and tapped his foot irritably.
‘Captain Trevelyan, soon as you can,’ he said and began to chew at the edge of his lip. ‘Ah, Trevelyan. Now look here, I thought it was agreed how this matter was going to be handled.’ He listened, nodding then said, ‘Yes. Precisely. But I’ve just come from Enington Farm and some ruddy constable from the Shawstoke police station arrived to question Sanger again. What on earth’s going on here?’
He gazed out of the window as he listened.
‘Well, someone certainly hasn’t got the message. What? No. Of course the police know nothing about the buttons. The ruddy man can only be going on circumstantial evidence. He can’t have anything concrete. Precisely. But my hands are tied. I can’t be seen to have anything to do with this. Get onto the sergeant down there again. If he can’t control that constable, the sergeant must recommend him for a transfer, get him moved somewhere where he can’t put the kibosh on the whole thing.’
Chapter Sixty Three
One morning, instead of being escorted down to begin his work, the guard told Lukas that Sergeant Thalhaüser was waiting for him at the service entrance.
‘Good morning, Lukas,’ Joseph said when the guard was out of ear shot. ‘It’s a glorious morning. I thought it might be pleasant to take a turn around the gardens.’
It was still chilly and the grass was laden with dew but the sky overhead was a perfect blue except for the vapour trails of Spitfires passing high overhead.
‘I’ve some quite good news for you,’ Joseph said. ‘It seems the government have decided to completely relax their internment policies.’
‘They’re letting me go?’ Lukas said.
‘Of course not,’ Joseph said but he was laughing. ‘Perhaps it was their English sense of humour, to imprison Germans who’d fled their country to escape Hitler. What do you think?’
‘Perhaps it was.’
‘Anyway, the British government have finally come to their senses.’
‘Finally? I assumed they already had.’
‘Oh, you mean me? Yes, I was one of the first releases but I spent enough time on the Isle of Man to understand the mind-numbing effect of boredom. Now there’s a positive landslide of releases which means that soon we’ll have more than enough excellent German speakers who are eager to help with the war effort.’
They were walking through the shade of an unkempt shrubbery. Spiders had built huge webs across the canyons of vegetation, barring the way with their delicate stickiness. Lukas lifted a hand to snap a thread from in front of his face. He saw the blob at the centre of the web sprout legs and scurry for cover.
‘Are you saying that my services will no longer be needed?’
‘In the not too distant future, perhaps. I know you’ve always been uncomfortable with this work and I’ve never agreed with my superiors that you should be kept in solitary confinement.’
‘But if I’m not working here, surely the authorities will make it difficult for the person who helped me.’ Although he knew Joseph had read his file, he was still reluctant to discuss Millie by name.
They passed into the sunshine and Lukas was struck by a tropical heat. It was an Altweibersommer, an old woman’s summer, not real summer at all. A masquerade, like everything else here. The creeper, which had run green and unnoticed along the hedgerow all summer, was blushed with red. The delicate annuals, bolting along the walls, seemed desperate to make seed before the nights became so cold that the sap froze in their veins.
‘I think I can make sure that doesn’t happen,’ Joseph said. ‘I expected you to do no more than what was asked of you but you’ve been helpful and I’m confident that will play in your favour. We’re not a vindictive lot over here. There would be little point in arresting her now, after all this time.’
Lukas felt a wave of relief that Millie would be left alone but as the feeling ebbed, it was replaced by an irritation that the pressure brought on him may have been a sham.
‘I asked you the other evening’, Joseph was saying, ‘where you would go if you could fly anywhere in the world. You didn’t answer me.’
‘No. I didn’t.’
‘I could send you there.’
‘Send me where?’
‘As near as I can to the place you were thinking about.’
Lukas stopped walking. They’d reached the end of the herbaceous border. Many of the plants had browned and tumbled, but a few valiant blooms struggled up through the dying foliage, vulgar dabs of purple among the brown.
He could feel his heart pounding. He hardly dared ask Joseph to define what he meant in case he’d misunderstood. He’d spent hours, days, weeks, months planning this impossible goal. The fact that he was a prisoner seemed the easiest part of the problem to solve. He could escape, others had. They failed to leave the island but he didn’t care – he didn’t want to leave England. All he wanted to do was find Millie but he had no idea where her farm was. Those foreign place names had melted away, his German mind unable to hold onto their strange syntax. He’d watched the movement of the stars at night ever since his capture. When he was up in the north, he knew he was far away from her. Now he was sure he was closer but, if Joseph threw open the gates of the prison and said, ‘Go. She’s waiting for you,’ he wouldn’t know whether to turn left or right.
Joseph waited for him to respond but when he didn’t, he continued, ‘As an officer, you won’t have to work once you’re sent to a regular prisoner of war camp but you can choose to work. Many do.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘That’s up to you. We’re not sending so many of you abroad now. The demand for labour keeps going up and food shortages have got worse since the Russian invasion. Farmers used to only want Italians but they’re a lazy lot.’
‘Farmers?’
‘No. The Italians. The farmers are beginning to have a preference for Germans.’
‘You can get me onto her farm?’
‘No. I couldn’t do that. But I could make sure that when you go back into the system, you go to a camp in that area.’
‘I don’t know where it was.’
‘But I do.’
Lukas stared back at his friend. Of course, why hadn’t he thought of that? Joseph had his file; everything was in there. All this time, Joseph had known as much as Captain Trevelyan and Lukas had never thought to ask him.
‘You could volunteer for farm work,’ Joseph was saying, ‘get onto a harvesting team towards the end of the summer. They travel from farm to farm and I would imagine, at some time during the season, you will find yourself working near by.’
‘Where is it?’
He wanted the name. If he could remember the name of the village and the name of her farm it would make it more real, more tangible.
‘All in good time,’ Joseph said and his face became very serious. ‘If I’m to do this for you, I have something that I need you to do for me.’
‘Anything.’
‘Hear what it is first. It isn’t easy. Come, let’s walk on down to the other end of the esta
te. It’s easier to talk when we’re walking.’
The autumn countryside panted in the heat as if it were summer but without the call of a single songbird. Occasionally a robin trilled a few scales, his song as cold as frost, heralding the winter as the blackbird heralds the spring. The only other birds he could hear were the rooks, squabbling and bustling in the trees beyond the Nissen huts.
‘A young soldier arrived here a few days ago,’ Joseph said. ‘He’s been interrogated, several times. We thought at first he was simply a dyed-in-the-wool Nazi but now I think the war in the east is a different kind of war.’
‘I only know what I’ve read in the English papers.’
‘So you agree that Hitler’s made a dreadful mistake.’
‘I do,’ Lukas said, ‘he’s fighting on too many fronts. Perhaps he thought the Soviets would crumble as swiftly as the French.’
‘The early advances were stunningly fast.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Ah, Lukas. It’s true you can’t believe everything you read in the press, but you must allow yourself to believe some of it. It’s not the sort of propaganda Britain would encourage.’
‘Hitler’s clearly miscalculated. The year is reaching its end. The Russian winter will defeat him.’
‘Yes, very probably, but I think Hitler has made an even more insidious mistake, one that will bring horror and misery on humanity in a way we can’t even imagine. It’ll leave every one of us ashamed to be called a German.’
They’d reached the edge of the formal gardens and in front of them was a deep ditch with a sunken wall, the top, level with the garden. They halted on the edge and Lukas looked at Joseph. His face was deeply troubled.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Hitler believes all Bolsheviks are Jews. The war in the east is a war of annihilation.’ Joseph swung round to face him. ‘The Nazis have corrupted the military code that you were honoured to be part of. I can’t ask any of the refugees to talk with this soldier; I can’t talk to him myself. We wouldn’t be able to keep up our pretence. I’m asking you, Lukas, to talk to him, let him brag, let him believe you’re as black a Nazi as he is and let us listen. There are horrors happening in the east we can’t even imagine but whatever we do, we mustn’t turn away from them.’
Chapter Sixty Four
When Hanratty was severely reprimanded and threatened with transfer, he almost told Sergeant Turner to take a running stuff but instead he went back to his desk and agonised about his options. He had no intention of being transferred to a nick miles away from here. He’d already been invalided out of the army; if he jacked in the police in a fit of pique the only option left to him would be joining the Home Guard and they were a troublesome bunch with more little generals than the police force.
By the time his shift ended, he knew that the best course of action for his dignity as well as his sanity was to knuckle under, toe the line and keep his nose clean until his luck changed.
And it did change.
A few weeks later he’d just arrived for the evening shift when a call came in from the local pub that the landlord needed help chucking out one of his customers. The landlord at the Queen’s Arms was a great bear of man with a ferocious reputation. If he couldn’t handle a customer, Hanratty certainly wouldn’t be able to on his own.
‘Oi! Jenkins,’ he said to the young constable about to go off duty, ‘walk down to the Queen’s Arms with me. I need help sorting out an affray.’
When they opened the doors, the drinkers had their back to them, as if they were watching a fight but the room was oddly quiet. Hanratty pushed through the crowd towards the bar, Jenkins hanging back and when he reached the landlord, to his horror he saw that he was covered in blood.
‘Good God, man,’ he said, rushing forward to take him by the elbow and guide him to a stool. ‘Where are you hurt?’
‘I’m not hurt, mate,’ the landlord said. ‘It’s not my blood. He’s over there. Stupid fucker fell and cut his hand on a glass. Now no one can get near him.’
Wedged between the corner of the bar and the wall sat a lanky soldier. He had a thin, chinless face and his eyes peered up at them through a veil of greased hair. There was blood on his uniform, as well as on the hand he cradled in his lap. He was pressing his thumb on the inside of his wrist as if he were feeling for a pulse.
‘Who is he?’
‘Never seen him before. He’s not from round here. Drunk as a skunk.’
Hanratty took a step forward and the soldier growled,
‘Get back.’
‘Has he got a knife?’ Hanratty said to the landlord.
‘No.’
‘What’s the problem then? Get him to his feet.’
‘You try.’
With a heavy sigh, Hanratty beckoned to Jenkins and the two of them came forward. When they were about a foot away, the soldier released his thumb and blood jetted from his wrist. He directed the stream straight into Jenkins’ face and the lad gave a howl of disgust and flung himself back into the crowd. The soldier clamped his thumb back on the artery and eyed Hanratty, challenging him to advance.
‘Does it every time,’ the landlord said. ‘Can’t get near him.’
‘Come on, son,’ Hanratty said to the soldier. ‘You’ve got a nasty cut there. Looks like you’ve snicked the artery. We need to get you seen by a doctor, get that sewn up.’ He went forward again and received a jet of warm blood straight in the eye. Swearing loudly Hanratty backed off, spluttering and grabbed a towel off the bar, wiping the blood off his face.
‘Right,’ he said to the landlord, ‘I need a tarpaulin.’
‘You’ll find one out the back.’
‘Jenkins!’
As the landlord, aided by several doughty customers, ran forward with the spread tarpaulin, the soldier struggled to his feet, desperately trying to aim a jet of blood at them. It pattered against the fabric and Hanratty yelled, ‘Grab his arm, Jenkins!’
The landlord pushed the tarpaulin over the soldier and held him against the wall. Jenkins finally trapped the arm as it flailed around, spattering the walls and the constables. Finally Hanratty managed to lash a bar towel tightly over the laceration and tied it firmly. When they hauled the soldier out from behind the tarpaulin, he went deathly white and hit the deck with a clatter.
Hanratty knelt down and studied his handiwork.
‘Seems to have done the job,’ he said, giving the knot an extra tightening. The soldier began to moan struggling to sit up.
‘What’s your name, Private?’ Hanratty said, steadying him by the shoulder.
‘Bill Russell,’ he said, subdued now.
‘Come along, then,’ Hanratty said, ‘let’s get that hand sewn up. Then you can sleep off all that booze in a nice comfy cell and we’ll decide what to do with you in the morning.’
‘If he pays for the damage,’ the landlord said, ‘I’ll not take it any further. He’s been having a pretty bad time out in the Middle East by the sounds of it.’
Back at the nick, Russell submitted meekly to the duty doctor who came in to stitch and bandage the hand.
‘Nasty cut,’ he said, ‘but it’s clean. Should heal pretty quickly. Keep an eye on it though, Private. If it starts to hum, go and see your medical officer.’
Hanratty chucked in a couple of blankets and left him in the cell to sleep. At six in the morning, he was making himself a cup of tea when he heard the prisoner call out.
‘What do you want?’ Hanratty said, leaning on the bars of the cell and sipping his tea.
‘Got a spare cup, mate. I feel fuckin’ terrible.’
‘It’s not a hotel,’ but because the man was in uniform he took pity on him and handed his mug through the bars. He snatched at it without a thank you and sat down, the old metal bed creaking underneath the mean mattress.
‘You on leave?’ Hanratty asked. The man nodded. ‘Landlord said you’d seen a lot of action.’
‘Been out in North Africa.’
‘Hot out
there?’
The man nodded.
‘You from round here?’
‘No. London.’
‘Shawstoke’s a long way to come to get drunk.’
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Is that so?’
‘My wife.’
Hanratty left the taciturn bugger to drink his tea and as he stirred sugar into a fresh cuppa, he began to think. He checked the man’s arrest sheet: Pvt William Russell, 6 Vinegar Street, London E1. That name rang a bell.
He flicked through his notebook and there it was. Danny Russell, the boy who found the gun. It couldn’t be, could it?
He went back to the cell. The soldier was lying on the mattress again, his arm across his eyes.
‘This wife of yours,’ Hanratty said. ‘She got a kiddie with her by any chance?’
The man glared at him.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I may be able to help.’
Slowly the soldier swung his legs round and sat up.
‘She’s got my son – Daniel.’
‘Goes by the name of Danny?’
Russell slunk over to the bars and hung on with his good hand, his weaselly eyes peering beadily at Hanratty.
‘I need to find her,’ he said, his voice low and threatening. ‘That fucking bitch ran off with my boy. The Jerries bombed our street. I comes home on leave and they’re nowhere. Gone. Lots of people saw them the night the street got bombed, all cosied up and safe in the shelter with our neighbours so I knows they’re alive. I go down to the rehousing centre and they tells me she was sent somewhere down here. I need to find your local WVS, find out where she’s billeted. She’s done a runner before. Couldn’t care less if she wants to bugger off but she ain’t taking my boy.’
Hanratty felt his face relax into a smile. This was just the type of man he needed to finish the job for him.
‘They were evacuated to a farm not six miles from here,’ he said and, even though they still had the nick to themselves, he leant near enough to Russell to smell the stale alcohol on his breath and continued, ‘Your wife’s hiding up there with a woman called Sanger. Quite a little nest of bitches, I can tell you. This Sanger woman’s a collaborator, a traitor to her own country. While men like you were risking your life fighting the Nazis, that woman up there was fucking one of them.’
A Dangerous Act of Kindness Page 29