Snapshots of War Michael Gouda Part 14
Thursday 14th August 1941
William couldn't quite understand what was going on. Certainly he had never got on all that well with Charlie but the attack had been completely unprovoked. He couldn't think straight. There was something wrong - he felt ill - that was no lie, but through the headache and the flushed feeling that kept coming over him in waves, he could sense an animosity, a wariness between Peter and Charlie which had never been there before. Something was going on between them but he felt too sick to try to solve the perplexity. He had gone upstairs to the bedroom and Peter had promised to bring up a drink. William would welcome that. He felt abnormally thirsty and his throat hurt though he was unsure whether this was because of Charlie's attack or his illness - whatever that was. When Peter came up with the drink, though, he would ask him and Peter would look after him. But then Charlie had called him down and, groaning, William had hoisted himself off the bed and gone downstairs. "I've got a job for you," said Charlie. "No questions now. I need a wig or some hair dye." "A wig?" William said stupidly. He felt and looked confused. "There is a theatrical costumiers off the Tottenham Court Road," said Peter. "In that little road just opposite the Dominion Cinema." Charlie gave him a £5 note. It seemed unnecessarily expensive but he folded the piece of white paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Perhaps wigs were costly things. "Size 7 and three eighths, black," said Charlie. "If you can't get me one, buy some hair dye. Understand?" William nodded and his head thumped. Peter seemed to want to say something. He kept gesturing at him in a strange way behind Charlie's back. "I'll come to the door with you," said Peter. "That won't be necessary," said Charlie. "He won't be away long. There is much to be done here." Outside William felt even worse. The sun was hot and it certainly didn't help his headache. The air felt close and constricting so that he almost had difficulty in breathing. Was he really ill, he wandered. Flu, perhaps - and you died from that. He had to concentrate on his footsteps; his legs seemed to want to wander in all directions. Looking down at the cobblestones, he failed to notice the fluttering piece of paper which came out of the upstairs window behind him and landed in the tub of scarlet zonal geraniums outside the front door. Thank goodness Tottenham Court Road wasn't far. Out of the Mews, turn right, then right again and he was in the main thoroughfare from Leicester Square to Hampstead and the north. What had Peter said? The little road opposite the Dominion Cinema. That was where they were showing 'Rebecca'. The coloured notices were outside and the flight of steps leading up to the entrance under that huge semicircular overhang. They hadn't seen that film yet. "Sorry." He had bumped into a passer-by, a fat man who gave him an angry look before walking on without saying anything. William tried to concentrate. The little road opposite the cinema. A narrow street which consisted mainly of tall brick buildings and only a few small shops, a bookshop, an ironmongers, a grocers with a sign prominently displayed which said 'Registered Customers Only' and one with a window behind whose strip-protected glass, he could see a solitary and rather dusty Regency wig on a stand. The door had a notice which announced 'Closed'. It didn't look as if it would be open again for the duration. William didn't know what to do. He dared not go back to Charlie without the wig. He stood irresolutely on the pavement but couldn't think clearly what to do. Perhaps if he asked. He went into the hardware shop next door. A small man with tiny, red eyes and a thin mouth sat on a stool behind the counter, apparently counting screws into a box. Behind him were shelves piled high with tools and other household implements. The man looked up as the door bell pinged. "Can I help you, sir?" he said. "Excuse me," said William. " Could you tell me when the shop next door is likely to reopen." The man shook his head. "The owner was killed in a raid," he said. "don't think it will ever open again." "Only I wanted a wig." The man looked at him strangely. "It's for my father," said William. "I'm sorry, sir. We don't sell them." A woman came out from some dark place in the back and joined the man. She looked enquiringly at William. "The young gentleman wanted a wig," said the man. "for his father." "We don't sell 'em," said the woman. "I told him that." "Or some hair dye," said William desperately. "Black." "We don't sell that either," said the man. William turned to go out. "We've got some cloth dye," said the woman. "They use it for blackout curtains. I s'pose he could use that. But it's meant to be boiled." "I'll take it," said William. "10 pence ha'penny," said the woman and then looked aghast as William held out the £5 note. "Haven't you anything smaller?" she asked. Finding the £4 19 1½d change seemed to exhaust their energy and the contents of the till but eventually William staggered out with a neat little parcel and made his way home. He had scarcely put the key in the door when it opened and Charlie stood there. He must have been watching from the window, thought William. "The wig?" asked Charlie. "The shop was shut, but I bought you some dye." He handed Charlie the packet and went on into the living room, suddenly feeling the need to sit down. He didn't see Charlie notice a white 'flower' amongst the scarlet geraniums, bend down and pick up a piece of folded paper. Peter came out of the kitchen. "Did you get the message I threw out of the window after you?" he asked urgently. "Did you phone Major Carlisle?" Major Carlisle - the name meant something to William but in his present state he couldn't think what it was. His uncomprehending expression told Peter the answer but there was no further opportunity for explanation as Charlie followed almost immediately. He gave Peter a penetrating stare which Peter found difficult to analyse. It almost seemed to express a bewildered perplexity. However when he spoke, it was about the hair dye. "How do you think I can use this?" he asked. "It says it has to boil the article to be dyed. Must I boil my head?" William restrained with some difficulty the urge to laugh. He felt almost light-headed. "Boil it up," suggested Peter, "then let it cool and dip your head in it. I am sorry, Charlie, but there is no alternative if you must dye your hair." William felt too exhausted to ask why it was so important, sank onto the sofa and closed his eyes. The other two went into the kitchen.
Thursday 14th August 1941
Mavis and Adele were having a hard time of it. Sergeant Prentice had been most thorough in his interrogation. The girls' Identity Cards had been scrutinised, details of family and homes examined - even their ration books inspected. But sergeant Pritchard was nothing if not thorough. He wasn't sure exactly what was going on - though obviously someone up there - the vague authorities in the panelled rooms of his imagination had a sort of godlike omniscience for him - knew something but what ever it was, Charles Leverton and by association anyone or anything connected to him was important. He would do everything by the book and when everything that could be found had been, he would dump the whole thing in his inspector's lap. Sort that out, guv, he'd think. Though not of course say. Several times he had the girls on the verge of tears but then brought them round with cups of hot, sweet tea. And eventually he'd got a whole story. He couldn't see it as all that strong, hardly something that would stand up in court against this Peter Kees but the fallout from the Leverton incident had been so severe that obviously any connection must surely be worth investigating fully. He wished the inspector were back from whenever he had gone but no one seemed to know where he was or when he was due back so sergeant Prichard had to continue on his own. "Right, girls," he said, having gone as far as he could with his interrogation and in fact ending up with rather a sore throat from barking out too many questions, "you did absolutely right to bring this to our attention. Leave it with us and we'll take it further." It seemed a dismissal but Adele objected. "I don't think my brother should be there any longer if Mr Kees is a spy," she said. "You leave it with us, Mrs Salter." Pritchard had found out fairly soon that Adele wasn't in fact married but, seeing that she was so obviously pregnant, had compromised by giving her a sort of courtesy title. "Don't you worry. We'll get your brother out if there is anything wrong going on." But Adele wasn't going to be fobbed off so easily. She had been taken seriously by this figure of authority and she found from somewhere a sense of determination. "I'm going to get him away," she said. "No," said Pritchard. "you mustn't do that." "Are you saying that I cannot go to see my own brother?" demanded Adele. "Sounds like the sort of thing the Nazis would do." Pritchard experienced a slight shock of embarrassment. The young people of today, he thought, they hadn't the respect for authority they used to. He wished more than anything that the inspector was available. "If you're sure you must go," he said, compromising, "I'll come along with you." Adele looked across at Mavis and smiled. The sergeant made some arrangements. They heard him talking to the young police constable, something about being sure to tell the Inspector - as soon as he got back - where he had gone. Then they got into a black Wolsley police car - the police of course had access to petrol - and they were driven to the West End and Wentworth Mews. It was already late afternoon and to the girls, this was quite an adventure. Adele couldn't remember when she had last had a ride in a car. The only thing she was slightly disappointed about was that they didn't ring the police bell but she realised there was no point in warning Kees that they were coming. They turned in to the Mews, under the arch and drew up on the cobblestones outside the little house. A woman carrying a brown paper parcel stood on the pavement watching. As the car stopped and they got out, Adele recognised her. "Auntie Jean," she said, surprised. "What are you doing here?" Jean looked equally surprised at seeing the two girls get out of a police car accompanied by a police sergeant. "Is anything wrong, dear?" she asked. Sergeant Pritchard decided he had better take control. "There is no need for anyone to worry," he said. "We have to see a Mr Peter Kees, who, I understand, lives here." "Oh dear," said Jean, "you've just missed him. He went off with William and another man in a taxi just a few minutes ago." She looked at Adele and added, "I'd promised your mother I'd give William a shirt" - she indicated the parcel she carried - "but they didn't seem to want it. In quite a hurry they were." "Did they say where they were going?" asked Pritchard. "Paddington Station, they said. Catching the train to Liverpool." "This other man," asked Adele, "he didn't have red hair, did he?" "Oh no, dear. It was black - a rather odd-looking black, almost artificial." Pritchard suddenly gave a great exclamation. "They're getting away!" He got back into the car and drove away leaving them standing on the pavement staring at each other. "Come on, girls," said Jean, "Now tell me what's going on?"
Thursday/Friday 14th/15th August 1941
They arrived at Paddington Station as dusk was falling, the yellow wall bricks of the building hard and acid in the light of the setting sun. William saw the scene through a swirling mist of confusion. He could scarcely understand what was going on. Smoke from the locomotive engines caught in the high curved roof overhead and the smell of sulphur in the air savaged his aching throat. Everywhere soldiers in khaki uniforms stood around and smoked or were clambering into train carriages. In a daze William thought he saw one of them, wearing a tin hat and holding a rifle, pointing at him. Confusingly over the man's head there was the legend 'Is your journey really necessary?'. Before William realised it was only an advertisement, a sheet of paper stuck to the wall, he answered silently to himself, 'No, No, No.' He wished he was back home in bed. Under cover of the huge curved roofs, the gas lights came on, popping silently as they burst into blue flame and finally the mantle burnt incandescent white. An engine whistle shrieked. Charlie directed Peter to the booking office. Three tickets to Liverpool, one single, two returns. There were three quarters of an hour to wait before the train left and they went to the station buffet. Peter bought three teas and asked William whether he wanted something to eat. "The Eccles cakes look almost edible," he said. William refused. He was thirsty and the tea was welcome but he couldn't face anything to eat. Peter looked at him oddly. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked. "I have never known you turn down something to eat before." "I'm all right," William said and sipped the tea which was hot but which left a sour taste in his mouth. Charlie, clutching his small suitcase on his lap, sat opposite them. He smoked a Craven A with short, frequent puffs, expelling the smoke almost immediately, not taking it into his lungs. "I should make a telephone call," said Peter. "I was supposed to be meeting someone this evening." Charlie shook his head. "We'll stay together," he said, almost as if it was a threat, and Peter did not argue. William tried to understand what was going on but the pain in his head throbbed away and stopped him from thinking. They didn't talk for a while. "Finish your tea, Wim," said Peter at last, "and lets get on the train." William drained his cup which had gone cold and tasted, if anything, worse. As he got up he felt a sudden dizziness and staggered slightly. Peter put his arm round his waist. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked. He put his hand on William's forehead. "You're burning. You have a temperature. You need to see a doctor." But he was looking at Charlie - almost it seemed for permission. Charlie thought for a moment, then shook his head. "When we get to Liverpool," he said. They went to the platform, showing their tickets at the barrier. The train was in and already almost full - mainly of servicemen. Some of the carriages were reserved for officers. They climbed aboard and walked along the corridor looking for empty seats. Toward the front they found a carriage which only had two people in it. The window blinds were already down and fastened securely. Two dim, blue-painted bulbs were the only illumination from the centre of the coach roof. They made them all look pale and ill. Peter and William sat side by side facing the engine and Charlie sat opposite them, his suitcase still on his lap. It was almost as if it contained something valuable that he wouldn't let out of his grasp. Three more people. all servicemen, came in and the carriage was full. Charlie looked at his watch. "The train should be off," he said testily. Almost immediately there was a whistle from the guard and the train lurched forward. Slowly it gathered momentum and cleared the platform. Soon it reached its speed and the wheels started their familiar rhythmic noise as they clattered over the gaps in the rails. William lifted a corner of the window blind but it was already dark outside and there were of course no lights. It was like travelling into nowhere. It wasn't the first railway journey he had gone on. Before the war the family had often gone down to Southend and the rhythm of the wheels was comforting, reminding him of earlier, happier times. Thinking of this stirred a memory of his father and he wondered what was happening in that remote country of dry deserts. Perhaps the tea had been useful, his headache felt a little better. Opposite him he could see Charlie's eyelids beginning to droop. He must be tired. He had had no sleep at all the previous night according to Peter. "How are you feeling, Wim?" asked Peter quietly, sitting close, their thighs touching so that William felt the warmth of his body. "What's happening?" said William, not answering the question. "What's going on?" "They're on to him," said Peter. "He's trying to make for Ireland and then to Germany." "I don't understand. I thought you told me they always knew he was a spy." "Sh!" William took a quick look opposite but Charlie's eyes were closed and he couldn't have heard. "It's complicated," said Peter. "Carlisle wants him arrested now. I tried to let you know this so that you could telephone him. You never got the message I threw out of the window." "Why is he taking us to Liverpool?" "I think he's suspicious - not certain, but he doesn't want us out of his view until he's safely away." "We could overpower him," said William. "He has a gun. I saw it when he was packing. It's in his suitcase." William glanced over again and was alarmed to see Charlie's eyes were open. He looked very strange, his hair, so black with the dye as to seem almost artificial, his yellow eyes, in the dim blue light just appeared blanched - white like blind people's eyes - and they stared at William as if he knew what the two of them had been saying, even though they had talked very quietly. William felt his whole body tense and knew that Peter would feel it too. "He can't have heard," said Peter in a tight whisper, so quietly that even William could scarcely hear. But as he spoke, Charlie's eyelids drooped and his eyes closed, head lolling back against the side rest. William relaxed. "So what can we do?" Peter didn't answer. Surrounded by British soldiers as they were, William couldn't see how they could just sit back and allow a German spy to escape. He suddenly realised that Peter, his Peter, the man he looked up to - and loved, whom he considered a strength and champion, had no idea what to do. His head started to pound again and suddenly his whole body felt on fire. Perspiration started out on his forehead. He gasped for air but the carriage was full of cigarette smoke so that he felt himself choking. "Is t'lad lad all right?" asked the soldier sitting next to Charlie. He had a North country accent. "It is only a fever," said Peter and was surprised when the soldier looked very concerned. Through his discomfort William realised that Peter had made a mistake. Scarlet fever was a disease which many people were afraid of, and from which, in fact there were fatalities. "Just a temperature," he explained. "Probably a cold. I'd like a drink." His throat was raging. Peter got to his feet to make the journey along the corridor to the water closet but was stopped by the sympathetic soldier. "I've got summat as'll do him more good. Have a drink o' this," he said, producing a flask from inside his army greatcoat and offering it to William. William took a gulp - and choked. Whatever it was, it wasn't water and it burnt his raw throat. The soldier laughed. "Nay, lad, brandy must be sipped not swigged." He had thick black eyebrows and a kind expression so that William trusted him. He took a little onto his tongue and allowed the liquid to trickle down his throat, warming, soothing. After a little while it had an almost anaesthetising effect which was pleasant though he didn't exactly like the taste. "Don't drink too much," warned Peter. William handed the flask back to the soldier. "Strictly against regulations," he said, "but for medicinal purposes only." The vowels were flattened and the accent sounded strange to William. Peter smiled his thanks. "Are you off to the war?" he asked. "Sh," said the man, tapping the side of his nose with an outstretched finger. "Careless talk, tha knows." "Of course," said Peter. "Where do you come from originally?" William idly listened to their conversation which somehow seemed to being carried on almost on another plain, somewhere remote and separate. His throat didn't hurt and the blue smoky air seemed almost comforting, almost tangible. The rhythm of the wheels rocked him. He slept. He is very high up. It seems on a walk way, scaffolding perhaps, just the width of two narrow planks under his feet. He can sense a wall on his right side. It feels safe whereas there is just a thin metal bar to his left and on the other side of that, a vertiginous drop into the darkness. Peter is in front of him, seemingly impervious to the danger. He dances along, his feet barely touching the surface of the bare boards. William feels them bouncing under his steps and himself tries to edge closer to the wall, the permanence that was security. Then, just as a vibrating string reaches and then exceeds that pitch that is its own special velocity, the boards underfoot take on a wild, uncontrollable movement, throwing both of them about, first to one side then the other. His stomach wrenches as he is tossed towards that restraining bar, so thin, so insecure and he sees apparently the lights of the ground, impossibly far below. He feels the strip of metal hard against his stomach, his body weight almost losing balance before he is thrown back against the wall, the rough surface grazing his face, hard against his shoulder. But Peter is being tossed in the opposite direction, first against the stonework then in a low arc, his feet actually leaving the planks, over the bar, clutching at it as he loses his balance, teeters on the brink, turning an agonised face towards William, mouth open in a silent shriek for help. Forcing himself against the momentum, William reaches towards him, snatches at a flailing arm, catches, holds as the rest of Peter's body see-saws over the fulcrum of the bar and slides into the void. Peter's hand clutches at his and he grasps him, palm to palm, fingers desperately entwined. Peter's face stares at him, mute, pleading. "Hold on," William shrieks, but the weight of the body, pulled into the bottomless depths, is insupportable. Slowly he feels the fingers slip. "Hold on! Hold ON!" And then Peter drops, away into oblivion, his body swallowed by the blackness from which it can never return. "HOLD ON!" The echo of the sound was still in the air as William awoke feeling cramped and slightly sick. Whether he had been shouting the words or just making a noise, he didn't know, but he found himself panting, the terror of the nightmare, the awful feeling of loss of being alone, still with him. But Peter was still sitting beside him, the rest of the carriage as it was when he had fallen asleep - only the seat opposite him was empty. Charlie had gone. The train slowed, the brakes screeching a little on the rails. Perhaps it was this sound that had awakened him. "Peter," he said, nudging him. Peter awoke with a start and stared blearily around him. "Where are we?" There was grey light coming in from the window, around the edges of the blind and William undid the securing stud allowing the shade to roll up. They were coming into a station. The platform was already unrolling like a grey carpet beside them and the interlaced latticework of roof metal was over their heads. "Liverpool," said the soldier who had given William the brandy. "We're here." He got to his feet and started to get down his rucksack from the luggage rack. "Where's Charlie?" asked Peter. William shrugged. "Come on," said Peter. "We can't let him get away." Not having any luggage, they were able to push their way through the protesting servicemen, who were all trying to get their kit together, and get out into the corridor. The train was slowing as they reached the door at the end of the carriage. Peter lowered the window and peered out. "Is he there?" asked William. "Can't see him." He unlocked the door and allowed it to swing back. Then he jumped out while the train was still moving, running as his feet hit the platform. Others further down the train were doing the same thing. William, still on the carriage steps, could see over the heads of the people. "There he is," he called, spotting the distinctive black head bobbing along some twenty yards further down the platform. He jumped out and ran, weaving his way through the crowd. More people got out as the train drew to a halt and it was difficult to make headway through the throng. At the barrier they were being halted and piled up at the bottleneck, but Peter and William were no nearer to Charlie who had now disappeared. "Excuse me," said Peter, pushing his way through to various calls of protest. "Watch it, mate," said someone. "What the fuck?" At the barrier two policemen were there as well as the ticket collector. The policemen seemed to be inspecting Identity Cards. William caught sight of Charlie. He was showing his card and passing through. "Stop that man," shouted Peter, while people around him turned and stared in amazement. They parted a little and Peter was able to push his way through. "That man, the one with the black hair. Stop him." Charlie was on the other side and heading for a sign which said 'FERRY'. One of the policemen put out his hand and stopped Peter. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "can I see your ID card." "That man," said Peter, pointing along the station, though Charlie was no longer in sight. "You must have seen his ID. Charles Leverton. He's wanted by MI5." "And you are . . .?" "Kees. My name is Kees." He showed the card and tried to push through. "Oh yes. We were asked to look out for you," said the policeman, a tall man with a gingery moustache. "No, no. You don't understand." "Let's just go somewhere quiet where we can sort the whole matter out," said the policeman. "Aren't you travelling with a Mr William Salter?" William, now alongside Peter, handed over his Identity Card. The running had exhausted him; his headache had returned and now a furious itching seemed to have attacked his whole body as if swarms of insects were biting him. Charlie had escaped. The whole journey had been a failure and the spy had gone. The platform seemed to give a lurch under his feet. The people around him got very distant and there was a sudden roaring in his ears. He heard someone say, "Catch him..." and then there was nothing. End of Part 14