Chapter Nine
Aftermath
Library, Downton Abbey, early afternoon, 12th July 1940.
In the quiet of the Library, now having dried his eyes, Simon sat quietly on the sofa next to Tom, waiting for his uncle to speak. For his part, aghast at what he had heard his nephew recount, of what had happened to him at the hands of the odious Barrow, for the next few moments Tom, too, remained silent, pondering in his mind the best way to proceed. As if to reinforce what he had just said to Simon, by way of reassurance Tom placed one arm comfortingly about the boy's hunched shoulders and hugged him tightly.
"There now, Simon. Don't worry. It'll be all right. I promise".
"Will it, Uncle Tom? Will it?" Simon sounded rather doubtful.
"For sure, it will! Haven't I said so?"
"But Barrow said I had only until Sunday. That's the day after tomorrow, Uncle Tom! And, if ... if I don't do what he wants, he'll go and tell father, what he saw".
"For sure?"
"Yes!"
"Well then, at least that gives us a breathing space".
"What if he ..."
"Don't you worry, lad. He won't ever hurt you again. That I promise you, for sure".
"And father? What if Barrow tells him ... what he saw?" Simon sniffed.
"What's there to tell?"
"What Barrow said he saw ... through the window ... when Tris and I were ... down there … at the folly".
"You mean what he thought he saw. Simon, you said your chum was very upset?"
Simon nodded his head in affirmation of the fact.
"Yes".
"The anniversary of his Ma's death and all? You both wanted somewhere quiet to sit and talk? So you put your arm around him, just as I've done to you. That's all it was. And whatever else Mr. Barrow might think he saw, is all in his own fevered imagination. That's the truth of it. Now, trust me. Let me talk to your Da about it when he returns from his afternoon tour of inspection, eh?"
At his uncle's words, Simon looked up and smiled. Sensing that there was now perhaps a glimmer of hope and that somehow all might yet be well, the boy nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes Uncle Tom".
"And as for this other business ..."
"You mean about Mr. Barrow and that soldier? When Tris and I saw them coming out of the public house on Stonegate?"
"Yes. You're quite certain ... what you overheard that day, was exactly as you've told me?"
"Yes, Uncle Tom. We were close enough to hear what it was they were both saying".
"And you're sure Mr. Barrow definitely mentioned Uncle Friedrich and Max by name?"
"Yes. He mentioned the ship too. The one they'd been on. The Lancastria. He repeated their surname a couple of times too. The other man, the soldier, he wrote it all down carefully in a notebook. He said to leave it with him and that he would do what needed to be done".
"Did you hear Mr. Barrow make any mention of the police?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think so. Why, does it matter if he did?"
"Probably not. Do you think there's any chance that Mr. Barrow might have seen either of you?"
"No; it's dark there in the Shambles. Anyway, at the time they were both looking the other way, towards the Minster".
"For sure". Tom nodded.
"It was just so odd. I mean, seeing Mr. Barrow there. Uncle Tom, is all of this somehow important?"
"It very well might be. Yes. In fact, I rather think, that finally, Mr. Barrow may have tripped himself up".
"I very much hope so, Uncle Tom".
"Well, like I said, try not to worry. I'll speak to your Da when he returns, for sure. In the meantime, keep out of Mr. Barrow's way. And if he comes anywhere near you, come and find me at once!"
"I will. Thanks, Uncle Tom".
Simon smiled, stood up, and a moment later he was gone.
Instead of resuming reading his book on the history of Ripon, Tom sat quietly, wondering how best to tell Matthew what it was that he had learned. When, over an hour later, Sybil came into the Library to find out how he was faring, Tom was still considering what on earth he should say to Matthew. Not that he told Sybil anything concerning what it was that had made him so pensive. After all, Simon had spoken to him in confidence and, sometimes, it was, he reflected, for the best if, on occasions, some things were left unsaid.
Upstairs, alone in his bedroom, Simon stood looking silently out of the window, across the park, over towards the woods and the Temple of the Four Winds.
While he had been truthful, in what he had told his uncle, as to what it was that had happened between him and Tristan at the folly, for all that, Simon had been rather disingenuous. He harboured very fond feelings indeed towards his chum. Not that he could bring himself to tell Uncle Tom that. But Simon knew equally well how it was he felt when he was with Tristan; then it was as if nobody and nothing else mattered. Nor did he mention to his uncle the images that formed in his mind when thinking of Tris, and the pleasant feelings that coursed through his being, when late at night Simon was lying alone in his bed.
Somewhere in the Gironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940.
When Edith recovered consciousness but a short while later, it was to bright sunlight, to birdsong, and to a wet nose nuzzling her face. For a moment, memory failed her and then, the dreadfulness of it all came back to her. At the same time, she was aware, too, and painfully so, of a heavy weight pressing down upon her. Now, drifting back into sharp focus she saw the bulk of the man's body lying across her; a dark haired man, in a soiled French army uniform; that much was immediately self evident. From both the look and the smell of him, he had been living rough; a deserter possibly, perhaps hiding out here in the woods south of Bordeaux. The dog nuzzled her face once more. Dimly recalling the part it had played in helping to throw her would-be assailant off balance, absent-mindedly, affectionately, Edith ruffled the dog's fur.
Kurt!
With no thought whatsoever except for the safety of her young son, using her elbows to do so, Edith struggled hard to sit up on the forest floor. As she did so, it was now that she saw the blood staining the front of her torn dress and, as she fought to extricate herself from beneath the weight of the dead soldier, the gaping hole in his chest. A moment later, and she saw, too, the army revolver, lying in the grass where it had fallen, but a few feet away from them. Free at last of the weight of the dead soldier's body, casting in the grass for the shoe she had lost, having found it, she rammed her foot inside the brogue. Not even bothering to tie the lace, with the dog loping beside her, its lead trailing in the grass, none too steadily, Edith herself ran back down the grass grown track to where the black Renault still stood. On reaching it, one look inside told her all she needed to know.
Unharmed, so thankfully unaware of what happened, there on the leather back seat of the motor, young Kurt was still sleeping soundly.
Recalling to mind the time there had been a massive cave-in of a deep trench at the excavations at Ur out in Iraq back in the late 1920s, to which she had been witness, when she had seen Friedrich buried under a mountain of soil and debris, now, by dint of sheer perseverance, Edith forced herself to do as she had done then and to try and breathe normally. This eventually had the desired effect and, with her laboured breathing at last slowly returning to its usual level, the shock of what had happened, if only for the moment, gradually subsiding, and a ragged semblance of what passed for the customary slowly beginning to return, Edith became practical.
Smoothing down her dishevelled hair, kneeling on the ground, she re-tied the lace of her left shoe and, as she did so, glancing back up the track down whence she had come, to where the soldier's fallen body still lay, considered what she ought to do next. Friedrich had said often that she was someone who could be relied upon to keep her head in a crisis. Of course, that was not strictly true. There had been a time, back before the Flood, when Edith would have reacted just as someone of her status and upbringing had been brought up to do. Hidebound by convention she would have done exactly as people would have expected.
However, the incident at the Shelbourne Hotel in Dublin back in the summer of 1919 had changed all of that; had been the start of it. And for which, Edith knew that she had but one person to thank: darling Tom, the only one of her whole family who, even before, in the immediate aftermath of the Great War, she had proceeded to single handed, to carve out a new life for herself as an archaeologist out in the Near East in the 1920s, before she had met and then married Friedrich, had believed in her wholeheartedly and fully appreciated her true worth.
Above the English Channel, 11th July 1940.
Just before his Hurricane began to spiral completely out of control, the oil blackened windscreen and the thick smoke serving to disorientate him still further, with the heat from fire already becoming unbearable, scorching his flying suit, and with tongues of orange flame licking at his boots, Rob's one and only thought was to get out of the burning aircraft before it became a fiery furnace and then his tomb. As he prepared to bail out fast, in quick succession, doing as he had been trained to do, Rob pulled on the locking pin to release his canvas webbed Sutton harness, freed the connections to his flying helmet, slid back what remained of the bullet scarred, shattered canopy and rolled the plane.
A moment later and he was out, tumbling over, falling at speed through the cold, rushing air, plummeting earth bound; all the while forcing himself to count slowly up to ten, 1-2-3-4 …before pulling hard on the D-ring to release his parachute from the bulky pack strapped to his chest, so as to avoid the possibility of the chute becoming entangled in the wreckage of the burning, falling Hurricane. ... 9-10! Praying desperately that he was clear and that his parachute would deploy, Rob now gave the D-ring a good firm tug.
Somewhere in the Gironde, south western France, 22nd June 1940.
Both Friedrich and Tom would have been inordinately proud of her now, as with a steely reserve and a stolid determination, and as before taking the dog with her, Edith set off briskly back up the track towards where the body of the soldier lay on his back among the tall dark pine trees of the silent forest.
As she reached the body, the silence about her seemed almost palpable; the undergrowth full of quiet, stealthy movement. A moment later the bracken suddenly shivered and then parted as a solitary deer leapt from cover, skitted nervously across the track, and then disappeared just as quickly as it had come, away into the dark stand of crowding pines.
For a brief moment, Edith stood looking down dispassionately at the body of her would-be assailant. He lay before her, flat on his back upon the track, staring sightless towards the lofty canopy of the pine trees and the pale blue handkerchief square of sky that lay beyond. What struck Edith most of all was that the soldier was very young; perhaps but a little older than Max had been. What it was that had prompted the young man to do what he had, Edith couldn't begin to fathom. While she had no regrets over what she herself had done, his was yet another needless death in the bloodshed and chaos that was engulfing the country and which, had circumstances been other than they were, would never have arisen in the first place.
While it looked as though the track through the forest was little used, to leave the dead soldier's body lying where it was in the open would only lead to its discovery rather sooner than later and Edith knew that at all costs she must prevent that from happening. Grabbing hold of the soldier's boots, she now began the slow process of pulling the lifeless body off the track, moving it out of the sight of prying eyes and into cover. As things turned out, Edith's task was aided somewhat by the fact that just to the left of the track, the forest floor fell away sharply, down into a small hollow, choked waist high with bracken. Here the trunk and branches of a fallen birch tree, brought down in the winter storms, formed a natural shelter under which to conceal the body; torn fronds of bracken did the rest. The revolver and ammunition pouches Edith took with her.
Once more back at the car, as she clambered into the Renault, the dog scrambled onto the back seat and in so doing awakened young Kurt. He looked questioningly at his mother, smiled a wan smile, but still said not a word. Reaching over, Edith fondled his fair hair.
Then, having settled herself firmly back into the driver's seat, beneath which now lay concealed both the revolver and its ammunition, Edith started up the engine; then drove as fast as she could, south, towards Biarritz, the Spanish frontier, and, hopefully, a measure of sanity.
Drawing Room, Downton Abbey, early evening, 12th July 1940.
"So, there you have it, Matthew. Granted, it's been a very long time in the coming but I think you'd be the first to agree, for sure, that now you have the opportunity to dispense with Barrow and his services, once and for all".
Matthew ran his fingers through his hair, utterly appalled, as Tom had been earlier, at what he had learned.
"That he should have dared to lay his hands on Simon ... To threaten him like that unless he ... To make a disgusting allegation like that about my own son! Why, if I thought it would do any good, I'd call in the police now and have done with it. But that would mean that, at the very least, Simon would have to be questioned; might even have to appear in court to give evidence. Of course, I had my suspicions, that it was Barrow who tipped off the authorities about Friedrich and Max in the first place. And I've no doubt whatsoever that, if you hadn't found out from Simon what he and his chum overheard there in York, in due course Barrow would have reported back to me that his enquiries into the matter had drawn a complete blank. That he was as mystified as I was how the presence here of Herr Schonborn and his son had come to the attention of the authorities. Even so, I think you have the right of it, old friend. This matter needs dealing with and promptly. But but also discretely. Not of course that Mary will ever countenance the idea of Downton being run without the services of a butler. That would be a step too far. She wasn't at all happy about our resorting to hiring in help from the village. Nor, for that matter, was Barrow".
"Well, it's something she will have to learn to accept. Let Henry assume the role of butler for the time being. Even so, we've discussed this before, you and I. You know, as well as I do, Matthew, perhaps even better, that ever since the last war with Germany, the writing has been on the wall for houses like this. Our late father-in-law realised that, although granted it took him some time to do so. And if, and it's a big if, even if Britain wins this war, here in this neighbourhood, after it's all over, apart from Downton, and then only because of all you've done in the last few years to place and then keep this estate on a secure financial footing, just how many of the others will still be here?"
"One or two".
"Ever the optimist, Matthew! I'd wager none at all".
Matthew grimaced.
"Maybe. Now, as to Barrow, you said you had something in mind?"
Tom nodded.
"Yes. In the circumstances, I think you'll agree that we can't afford to dissemble. So, this is what I suggest we do…"
Small Dining Room, Downton Abbey, late evening 12th July 1940.
Everyone seated around the dining table was horrified beyond measure by the terrible news concerning what had happened to Robert; their stunned incredulity registered in a sea of disbelieving faces, followed by a moment of complete and utter silence which, eventually, of all people, it fell to Mary to break. Ashen faced, yet somehow still managing to retain her composure, in a show of incredible self control, the countess of Grantham now rose slowly to her feet. The men around the table swiftly followed suit.
"If you will all please excuse me," Mary said; her tone was measured, betraying none of the inner emotion she must obviously have been feeling. A moment later, followed closely by Sybil, she had left the room.
Matthew sat back down heavily in his chair; the telegram fluttered from his grasp onto the polished floor from where Tom reached down and retrieved it.
"It doesn't say for definite that Rob's been killed," said Tom gently, now reading the words of the telegram for himself.
Silently, Matthew shook his head.
"In my experience, Tom, these things are very rarely wrong. Even so, until we have confirmation, unless you disagree, I think it's best we don't tell Saiorse or say anything to the other children; at least for now. While I go up and see Mary, would you keep an eye on Simon? The business of Barrow will have to wait".
Tom nodded.
"Yes, for sure. His eyes full of compassion, Tom laid his hand gently on Matthew's shoulder. "And, if there's anything else I can do ..."
"Thank you".
Tom walked over to where Simon was sitting and laid his hand comfortingly on the boy's shoulder while, stifling a sob, Danny exchanged glances with a visibly shaken Max who, now turning to his own father, shook his head in disbelief. That it should have come down to this; after all the three of them had shared, a friendship which had been forged almost eight years ago, when they had still been boys, on a never-to-be-forgotten night in the Alps.
It was only when she was upstairs and in the privacy of her bedroom that Mary finally gave way to her emotions but even then not to tears. At least, not yet. Instead, as Sybil closed the bedroom door firmly behind them, she saw her sister crumple to her knees in silence, rocking backwards and forwards on the floor, clutching her arms about her, much as Sybil recalled a woman from Coombe having done years before when suffering a miscarriage.
Out in the darkened hall, feeling world weary, and every one of his years, at the foot of the main staircase, Matthew paused. With his fist, he choked back a sob that threatened to escape from his throat. No, he had to stay strong. If he started blubbing now, he knew he would never stop.
What on earth could he possibly say that would help ease Mary's pain? While he knew the bond between her and their children had never been the same as it was between Tom and Sybil and all their brood, of their own four children, Robert had been Mary's favourite. Now that in all likelihood, barring some kind of miracle, he was gone, just what was the point of fighting to preserve Downton for future generations of Crawleys to come? There no longer seemed any reason to go on with it. It was like all hobbies, in the end, singularly pointless.
Biarritz, south west France, 23rd June 1940.
Standing not far from the splendid Hôtel du Palais once the property of the late Empress Eugénie of France, the comparatively modest white walled villa belonging to the Zhdanovs, on the north side of Biarritz, faced the Atlantic Ocean. It was rather a far cry from the vanished splendours of their magnificent palace in St. Petersburg fronting the Neva river, now apparently turned into a school for Soviet Army cadets. As for their estate on the outskirts of Yalta down in the Crimea, that had been looted and burned to the ground, lost to the family, like the palace in St. Petersburg, along with several other properties, in the aftermath of the Russian Revolution.
Having met first in happier times, in Baghdad, at the Tigris Palace Hotel, in the summer of 1928, the Schönborns and the Zhdanovs had been friends for many years. Pyotr Nicolaevitch was a philatelist of international renown and an enthusiastic amateur archaeologist while his wife Olga was an accomplished pianist who had played in the Conservatoire in St. Petersburg. Despite the loss of much of their wealth in the Revolution, while living in reduced circumstances, the Zhdanovs were yet possessed of sufficient means which enabled them to live comfortably enough while in exile here in France; sending their only son, Dimitri, to the Sorbonne to study law, as well as providing for Petya's abiding interest in both stamps and archaeology and for Olga to continue with her music.
Seated in the quiet of the Zhdanovs' Drawing Room, through the open windows, the sound of the waves, breaking on the beach down below the villa, was clearly audible, as Edith explained in a halting voice all that had happened in the days since Friedrich, she, and their two boys had left La Rosière.
The Zhdanovs were sympathy itself, especially after having heard Edith relate what had happened on board the Lancastria to both Friedrich and Max, let alone the attempted assault on her in woods south of Bordeaux, at the hands of a presumed deserter from the French army whom Edith herself had shot dead with the soldier's own revolver. Nonetheless, as for crossing over the border into neutral Spain there now appeared to be an insurmountable problem.
"So there it is my dear Edith. I wish it was otherwise but it can't be helped. Regrettably, since the 22nd, with France having surrendered to Germany, the border with Spain has been closed".
"But there must be a way for us to get through!"
Petya nodded his head sympathetically.
"I've been giving some thought to that, my dear. Yes, of course. These things can always be … arranged, albeit for a price. And, as it happens, I know someone who may just be in a position to help you. Outside of French jurisprudence, do you remember our Dimitri's other abiding interest, the one he shared with your late father?"
Having been alerted to the arrival of both Edith and Kurt by his parents, but a short while ago Dimitri Pyotrovitch had returned hurriedly by car from the port of St. Jean de Luz, some thirteen or so miles south of Biarritz, where he had friends, and from whence, almost at the eleventh hour the very last evacuations of the remaining Allied troops, mainly Polish, from off French soil, were taking place by sea.
"You mean fly fishing?" Edith glanced at Dimitri; saw him ghost a smile.
"Exactly so".
"But I don't see how that …"
"Trust me, my dear, you will. But that, I think, will keep until tomorrow. For now, after what you've both been through, what you and Kurt need is a bath, a meal, and a good night's sleep" Petya smiled.
"Come, let me show you to your room," said Olga gently linking arms with Edith. Then, leaving Petya alone with his thoughts, with Dimitri having hoisted a silent young Kurt onto his shoulders, they set off slowly up the staircase to the first floor of the villa.
Above the English Channel, 11th July 1940.
In the very same instant that Rob realised he had lost both of his flying boots, he could have cheered when he felt the webbing of the parachute pulling taut beneath his armpits and his groin, as, with a reassuring jerk, the silk canopy deployed above him, putting an abrupt brake to his helter-skelter descent towards the sea. Grasping hold of the harness straps of his parachute with both his hands, now, glancing above him, through the drifting cloud of smoke from the Heinkel he had downed earlier, Rob saw the chute continuing to spread out until finally it reached its full extent. Then, like a leaf falling from a tree in autumn, swaying from side to side in the chill air, he began to glide slowly downwards towards the grey surface of the distant sea. As he drifted through the air he had no thought for what was still taking place up there in the skies far above; not for his parents, nor his brother and his sisters. Rob's only thoughts were for Saiorse and their as yet unborn child; recalled brief snatches of a conversation they had shared recently.
"Rob, you have absolutely no idea, what your touch does to me".
He grinned broadly, and reaching up, pulled her down towards him on the rug beside the hearth.
"You know, last night, when we were apart, I couldn't get you out of my head!"
The surface of the sea was much closer now; coming up fast to meet him and, as it did so, Rob's thoughts focused on ridding himself of his parachute once he hit the water as, if he did not do so, he knew the chute would pull him under. What had been instrumental in saving his life could then just as easily snuff it out in an instant by dragging him downwards to the very bottom of the sea.
The English Channel, 11th July 1940.
When Rob hit the water, it was stocking feet first, where he sank quickly below the surface of the sea, although thankfully the spreading fabric of the parachute prevented him going down too far. After what seemed an eternity, but which in fact was no more than a few moments, coughing, spluttering, and kicking hard with his good leg, his clothing waterlogged, Rob broke the surface once more and with the cords and harness of the parachute entangled around him,
Fortunately, there was only a slight swell running and, now fumbling with the buckle around his waist, Rob managed to free himself from the harness of his parachute almost immediately; then promptly began inflating his bottle green Mae West life jacket. With this done, floating there on the surface of the open sea, with the only sound being that of the water lapping gently at his chin, never had Rob felt so alone. Had anyone from his squadron seen him bail out? Had they radioed back to base what had happened? So, should he stay where he was or begin swimming for the shore? His present predicament reminded him briefly of the time, years ago, when, as boys, Danny, he and their grandfather had been thrown into the water when the Skylark had capsized on the lake at Downton. Only there, the shore had been close at hand; now it was invisible.
It was then, that, as he looked about him, Rob saw the upper part of rusting mast breaking the surface of the sea and which, obviously, marked the site of a wreck; suggesting to him that when he had been shot down he must have been close to the Goodwin Sands, the ten mile stretch of sandbanks in the English Channel, lying some six miles off the Kentish coast and which for centuries had been the graveyard of all manner of ships. The distance to the mast from where he was now floating did not look that great and it occurred to Rob that here was something which was far more visible from the air than a lone man floating in the water, with nothing to help distinguish him from the grey waters of the sea. So, with this thought uppermost in mind, despite his injured leg, Rob decided to try and swim for it, at least as far as the mast. What would happen thereafter was anybody's guess.
A short while later, although still somewhat longer than he would have thought possible, Rob swam along side the rusting mast. Then, making use of its metal steps, panting hard, he hauled himself up until he was part way out of the water and then took a long moment to catch his breath. Although his watch had stopped the moment he went into the sea, by a rough estimate, Rob thought he must have been in the water for well over an hour.
Resting, half out of the water, the sea lapping around his knees, Rob suddenly thought of the silver brandy flask, a present from his father on his eighteenth birthday, and which he always kept in the top pocket of his tunic in case of emergencies. Fumbling beneath his Mae West, Rob found his top pocket, unbuttoned it, and pulled out the silver flask from within. Unscrewing the top, Rob put the flask to his lips and drank deeply; the warmth from the brandy coursing through him like a liquid balm.
Time passed, quite how long, Rob himself never knew; hours certainly. Despite the constant pain from his injured leg, he was beginning to feel very tired, his breathing now coming in shallow gasps, and to be truthful, all Rob wanted to do was go to sleep.
Away to his left, across the grey expanse of water, unless his eyes were deceiving him, he now saw a large patch of sand glistening in the sunlight. So the English coast must be closer at hand than he had at first thought! But Rob's elation was short lived. For, in that very same instant, he realised that what he believed could not indeed be the case. Saw too, that the sandbank, for that was what he now realised the patch of sand in fact must be, was fast disappearing. Swallowed up inexorably by both the tide and by a thick blanket of sea mist which, at Scarborough, at Whitby, and at other places along the coast of Yorkshire, Rob recalled his father telling him the locals thereabouts called frets. If he was not found, and quickly too, Rob knew that whatever chance he might have had, of being rescued from the sea, would soon be gone.
The English Channel, 11th July 1940.
In the past half hour or so, Rob had seen the fog thicken still further; a fine skein of mist yet at the same time completely impenetrable, with a salty tang to it, and which swirled eerily about him, shifting like clouds but without ever dispersing. It was almost as if a grey veil had descended, blotting out everything, and distorting what was real and tangible. Then, from somewhere far below him in the water there now came a dull, unearthly thudding; perhaps caused by something aboard the wreck, which had broken loose, and was being moved about by the waters of the incoming tide. Here, marooned on this lonely, fogbound eerie, his clothes sodden, soaked to the skin, Robert began to shiver uncontrollably, while the pain from his injured leg grew steadily worse.
Then, just when he was at his lowest ebb, almost at the limit of his endurance, when he believed all hope of ever being found was gone, Rob heard the slow chugging of an engine and which, as the minutes passed, grew ever louder. Yes! A boat! Thank God! But when no vessel appeared and the noise of the engine, seemed to fade away as if it had never been, if indeed he had ever truly heard it, it was with a sinking heart Rob realised that in his exhausted state not only his eyes but also his ears were capable of being deceived.
So when, a few hundred yards away, he saw, or rather thought he saw, the bows of a fishing trawler breaking through the mist, disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes, thinking he was becoming delirious, must be dreaming, for a moment Rob did nothing. The mist thickened but as it did so, Rob heard English voices; realised that the trawler was indeed real enough but by then it was already too late and she was slipping away from him, disappearing into the fog.
In desperation, fumbling beneath his flying jacket for the side pocket of his tunic, he found what he was looking for; his Webley pistol fastened to the lanyard around his neck. Pulling out the pistol, Rob now fired a quick succession of rapid shots into the grey air. For a few heart stopping moments he thought they had not been heard. Then, once more, as before, he heard voices and the sound of the trawler re-approaching. Several long minutes passed before the trawler, its mast lamps aglow, finally broke through the wall of mist and then proceeded slowly to circle him, moving in a little closer, albeit all the while keeping a safe distance from the site of the wreck.
From somewhere on the deck of the cautiously circling vessel, a disembodied voice now hailed him.
"You English, mate?"
The question sounded faintly ridiculous but in the circumstances, Rob supposed it had to be asked all the same.
"D..do I l...look or s...sound l...like a b...bleedin' J...Jerry?" Rob shouted across, his teeth chattering with the cold.
"We daren't come in any closer, mate. Can you swim over here?"
"I d..d...don't th...th...ink so. B...been s...shot in t...the l...leg!"
"Then stay where you are. We'll come over for you in the lighter".
Even in his woebegone state, with rescue now at hand, Rob permitted himself the briefest of smiles; quite where it was the crew of the trawler imagined he might be going, he couldn't possibly begin to imagine.
"A...all r...right!"
A short while later, Rob heard the sound of oars sculling in the water, then the lighter came along side and a man in a thick Guernsey sweater thrust out a wooden boat hook towards him.
Aboard the tug, having been stripped of all his wet clothes, made as comfortable as possible, his wounded leg covered by a rudimentary bandage, wrapped warmly in blankets, and given a mug of tea laced with rum, suffering from the effects of exposure, Rob was taken back to Margate Harbour. With the trawler having docked, transferred to an ambulance waiting on the quayside, which took him to the former Royal Sea Bathing Hospital, now being used by the military, once there he underwent an emergency operation to remove the bullet from his thigh.
Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, near midnight, 14th July 1940.
Despite taking a strong sedative, still unable to sleep, Mary had spent the greater part of the night downstairs in the Library, quietly leafing through a series of leather bound albums containing photographs of all the children when they were younger. She had thought it might help, to try and recall to mind happier times but, of course, she ought to have known better. It hadn't.
Indeed, quite the reverse.
Now, her eyes red from weeping, just as Mary was crossing the darkened hall on her way back upstairs, the telephone began to ring shrilly. She walked over to the table on which the instrument stood and lifted up the receiver. Who on earth would be telephoning here at this unearthly hour, she couldn't possibly imagine.
"Downton Abbey …," Mary began wearily, her mind befogged with grief, but before she could say anything further, the voice on the other end of the line interrupted her.
"Mama, is that you?"
"Who is this?" Mary asked peremptorily.
For a moment, the line crackled repeatedly, making any further conversation impossible. Then, as if it had never been, just as suddenly, the interference on the line cleared.
"Mama?"
"Who is this?" repeated Mary.
"It's Robert".
Mary's piercing cry woke Matthew, who, in his dressing gown and slippers came hurrying out onto the upper landing, followed but a moment or so later by both Sybil and Tom.
"What on earth is it? What's happened?" asked Matthew scurrying down the broad staircase.
As he reached the very last step and hurried across the lamplit, stone flagged hall towards her, Mary turned to him, the flawless, ivory complexion of her beautiful face radiant with obvious relief.
"Matthew! It's Robert! He's alive!"
Author's Note:
Most of the British pilots who bailed out over the English Channel during the Battle of Britain did not survive as, quite incredibly, there was no organised search and rescue force in existence at this time to go and look for them; that came later. Most drowned and their bodies were never recovered. Some, fortunate enough to be rescued by German aircraft looking for their own downed aircrews, were then held as POWs. The lucky few who were saved by trawlers and lifeboats were brought back to England. Equally, many were horribly burned; the conditions in a burning fighter aircraft, where the temperature reached 3,000 degrees in a matter of seconds, do not bear thinking about. While Pilot Officer Robert Crawley is a fictitious character, those young men who did fight in the Battle of Britain were incredibly brave; their sacrifice should never be forgotten.
