L'Aimant – Chapter 61
Summary:
A group outing to the flickers proves to be a revelation—in more than one sense.
Set after "Broken Souls". November 1944 onwards.
Chapter 61: Things take an unexpected turn in the Stewart household. The Victory Day Committee reconvenes.
Disclaimer:
The creative rights to the characters and plotlines in "Foyle's War" belong to Anthony Horowitz. This story is a not-for-profit homage to the television series, to the talented actors who bring its characters to life, and to a fascinating era.
Author's Notes:
Blackletter (or Gothic) script was used for printed German texts, and, largely, handwriting, well into the 20th century. Frustratingly, fanfiction dot net doesn't offer a suitable font for the short passage that I quote in this chapter. To have sight of this weird character set, google 'Gothic script'.
...
I've moved the action a day forward from canon, because stuff needed to happen on the runup to the eve of Shabbat.
...
Wipers = Great War Tommy-speak for Ypres.
...
dancesabove has been very patient while I scrabbled to complete this chapter. Thank you luvvie.
And to anyone still reading this, my thanks as well, I'm sorry it has been so long.
Previously, in "L'Aimant"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Eunice bustled irritably past him and unhooked her coat. "I am going to find a kind neighbour who will let me use her telephone. There's too much to organise before the celebrations. We both need the phone. Would you please get the contraption repaired?"
Griffiths glanced dispassionately after her. "It will have to be next week... resources..."
"Next week?" His mother rounded on him. "My son manages the Hastings Exchange, and can't muster an engineer? Really, Mark. You're making a mountain out of a molehill. Bring another telephone and connect the wires yourself. Unless," she glared at him, "you're expecting a thunderstorm? Not," she added darkly, "that a shot of energy down the wire wouldn't do you a world of good these days."
Her son fought his corner like a sulky child. "Replacements aren't easy to come by."
"Don't be absurd, Mark. Of course they'll find you another one. You have to be contactable."
When his mother had left, Griffiths lowered himself onto the staircase, planted his elbows on his knees and dragged both hands down his face. He sat staring blankly at the closed front door for several minutes. Eventually he rose, reached into his inside pocket, and produced a screwdriver. He stooped, silently detached the heavy Bakelite instrument at the wall, and dropped it into the canvas messenger bag—a relic from his Signals days.
Then he walked back into the kitchen, sat down at the table, rested his wrists either side of his breakfast plate, and began to weep.
Chapter 61
Friday, 4th May, 1945
It was the scratchy sensation of morning beard in her ear that wakened Geraldine. Her husband's gentle exhalations whistled softly to remind her that the other body in the bed was not a porcupine.
"Iain—off!" she elbowed away the flannel-pyjama-clad arm slung across her hip. For better, for worse. She'd sworn the vow, but the niggling discomforts of advanced pregnancy made tolerance of other encroachments on her person difficult, at best.
"...tread out... baleful... anger... " muttered Iain in his sleep.
This was Reverend Iain Stewart preaching from the Land of Nod. Geraldine was well accustomed to her husband quoting wisdom from his pillow, and not always in a state of consciousness. This time, she recognised a lyric from the hymn O Brother Man, Fold to Thy Heart Thy Brother—a paean to forgiveness of one's fellows, if ever one could hope for such.
"Dear," she whispered patiently, and nudged Iain so that he lolled onto his back, "wake up." She smirked as a thought occurred. "Arise and shave. Your victory sermon would be better served. And thou shalt practise in the bathroom mirror." More practical by far than recitation in my ear, she added silently.
Reverend Stewart surfaced from his dream of peace on earth, and dragged an eyelid open. A black speck in the corner of the ceiling drew his focus. The speck moved—a lone house-spider, labouring at its meagre web.
"Industry, my love." He sought the soft, familiar hand and wrapped his fingers round it. "Perseverance. Morning, Darling. Bless you."
Geraldine squeezed his fingers in return, then felt him stiffen as he yawned and stretched.
"Hu—mility," articulated Iain through the yawn.
"Mmm?"
"Humility. Essential, now the war is won. Now, gentle industry in peace. Fresh singularity of purpose."
"How right you are." This truth struck an unexpected chord with Geraldine. "My 'singularity of purpose' isn't fresh. As usual, I am desperate to pee."
Casting the covers back, she swung her legs out of bed, rose carefully, and made her way out of the room.
Head down, she almost bumped into a fully dressed and hatted Sara Immerglück, already on the landing ready to descend for breakfast. The girl exuded early-morning energetic cheer of a variety Geraldine could only dream of these days.
"Oh. Already up, young early-bird?"
Sara nodded, radiating her excitement. "Today, I am invited to Miss Thackeray. We shall sing Wolf and Schubert all day long, until Shabbat."
The head of Sara's constant companion, the stuffed bear with blackcurrant eyes, was poking out of her bag.
"And will Johannes turn the pages?"
The question was intended in the friendliest of ways by Geraldine, but Sara's face fell. The bear was babyish, she knew.
She bit her lip. "I have tried, Mrs Stewart. But without him, I am sad."
Geraldine reached out and squeezed Sara's shoulder. "No one judges, my dear. Johannes does no harm." Her voice was quiet, soft, filled with understanding. "We all do what we must."
A shrill ring on the doorbell broke their tête-à-tête.
"Who on earth at this hour...?" hissed Geraldine, gathering her dressing gown around her. She squinted down the stairs. A shadowy figure was planted on the doorstep, and though obscured by the still heavily-taped stained glass above the front door, an official cap was visible.
"Surely not the post, this early!" Geraldine fidgeted. She dared not trust herself to make a full descent and back again before using the lavatory. "Sara... could you...?"
"I will get it, Mrs Stewart."
Sara bounded down the stairs as Geraldine slipped into the bathroom. The muted sound of voices reached her as she hurried to complete her business and rejoin the girl.
When she emerged, Sara was leaning against the closed front door, seemingly transfixed, a thin, oblong sheet of printed matter clutched in both hands. The girl looked up as Geraldine descended. Her face was unreadable, but Geraldine sensed tension in her stance.
"Dear, may I see?"
Mutely, the girl tendered the piece of paper. Geraldine caught her breath—it was a telegram. She held the paper at arm's length, cursing the ravages of middle age on eyesight.
The momentary alarm was not on her own account. The missive hadn't been addressed to her or Iain—otherwise the very proper Sara Immerglück would not have opened it—but Sara's fears for her family had come more to the fore in recent weeks, with news beginning to trickle back from Europe. And for the many thousands of children who had taken refuge in Great Britain, those tidings were generally bad.
Eventually, the message settled into focus.
IN PARIS STOP
She blinked and pressed on, sensing Sara holding her breath next to her.
RECORDS SAY EZRA HERE LATE MARCH STOP
ENQUIRING INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS STOP
BEHAVE YOURSELF TILL I GET BACK STOP
ANSELM
When she looked up, her young companion's lip was trembling.
"Oh, my dear..." She drew the girl into her arms as tightly as the growing child between them would allow. "I'm so, so happy for you! This means for sure your brother is alive!"
She released her young charge from their hug, and lifted Sara's chin, hoping that her encouraging smile would elicit one in return. Nothing in Sara Immerglück's demeanour betrayed the joy that Geraldine would have expected.
"Dear, this is marvellous news," persisted Geraldine. "You must allow yourself some time to take it in, that's all."
There was a moment's silence. When the girl replied, her face was ashen.
"It is more than I have dared to hope." Wistfully, her eyes fell to her bear. On normal days, she found his aspect calming; but today, the small, blackcurrant eyes appeared to mock her.
With sudden animus, she pulled herself from Geraldine's embrace and crammed Johannes roughly down into her bag. The time-worn, fragile stitching on his neck gave way, leaving the bear's head lolling, half-detached over the rim.
Sara's cheeks flushed red. She pasted a hand over her mouth, appalled at her handiwork.
Sadly, Geraldine regarded Sara, and the remnants of a cruelly fractured childhood. But there's something more at work here, she thought.
Sara swallowed to compose herself.
"Why," demanded the young woman, eyes brimming with distress and injured pride, "does John Anselm admonish me as though I were a child?"
...
The museum in Bohemia Road, unlike the rest of Hastings, had enjoyed a quiet war. All local appetite for relics had been cruelly sated by the rendering to ruins of much of the town's 'modern' architecture. Copper vessels, reconstructed earthenware, and weaponry of various vintage languished unadmired in the glass-fronted cabinets along its galleries and corridors. Indeed, no one had even bothered to remove the artefacts to safety. If people wanted broken, dented, bent and burnt, they only had to cast their eyes across the Hastings bombsites that had once been schools and offices and homes.
The Victory Day Committee members filed past these sad, neglected bits of Hastings' history, and made their way into the panelled meeting room, set out to host the business of the day: the preparation of this battered, war-worn coastal town for an official celebration of the end of war in Europe.
While people took their seats, their chairman spent some moments laying out his documents before him in a fan shape—a pedantic ritual conceived to manufacture calm to Griffiths' fractured nerves. Unfortunately, it only served to draw attention to his shaking hands.
Mark Griffiths was, in fact, the object of attention from two sides: diagonally to his left sat Foyle, whose eyebrow rose the merest twitch, and mid-way down the table to his right, Kiefer sucked his teeth and sent an uncongenial stare across the gap.
Miss Hylton made her way around behind the seated men, and silently slipped copies of the typed agenda on the table, casting glances over at her boss. The glances puzzled Foyle; they seemed to him apologetic.
Ziegler's buoyant tone cut through the murmured thank-yous. "Mr Foyle... I wonder... p'raps a moment of your time... at your convenience, later on today?"
This private request to the policeman drew eagle-like interest from Longmate.
Foyle cocked his head. "My office, this afternoon?"
He awaited Ziegler's nod of thanks before returning to perusal of his typewritten agenda.
...
"Sara... do please come inside the kitchen, and sit down."
Wordlessly they left the hall together to the clack of Sara's heels, Geraldine leading her by the hand, and soon they faced each other across the scrubbed pine table.
"Don't you understand he's teasing you?"
Sara's eyebrows knit.
"I do not think so, Mrs Stewart. He is cruel."
"No, dear. That isn't how things work. He likes you."
The girl frowned. "When I write to him, I do not 'tease'. I tell him all what I have done, and wish him good health. I do not bid him to behave, although I think he is more needful of reminding than am I."
Geraldine held in a smile. The German idioms still emerged whenever Sara grew upset, and she was upset now. Lately the steady stream of correspondence falling on their front mat for 'Miss Immerglück' had been the cause of some surprise to Geraldine and Iain—surprise then compounded by the bounce in Sara's step each time a letter came addressed in that familiar hand. Gentle enquiries had elicited a name from Sara, and they'd decided they must let it pass. The man came with impeccable credentials. After all, a man who'd rescued Sam from death-or-worse could be no threat to any girl. And age? They'd learned how little things like age could matter.
"John Anselm likes you very much. Why else would he go to such lengths to help you?"
"Because we made a bargain." Sara straightened her back, and the curls not covered by her hat bounced irritably. "We shook hands."
"Nothing too—er—binding, I trust... ?" fished Geraldine, aware she had an inexperienced young woman in her charge.
"It is very binding, Mrs Stewart. We both have family who must be found and cared for. 'Family ties', I think you say? And we are agreed, the each to help the other."
Geraldine fought back a smile, hoping her eyes did not betray her. Such gravity, in one so young. "Ah. I see. A bond of honour?"
"Yes. And we are equals in the bargain. John Anselm must not tease me. If he likes me, he must treat me with respect."
"Gigi, have you seen my glasses?" A dishevelled Iain Stewart ambled in, hands sunk in the pockets of his heavy wool-cloth dressing gown. Geraldine glanced up, then down. His feet were bare. As usual, he'd forgotten to put on his house shoes.
"Slippers, Dear," she pointed at his feet. "Your spectacles are on the low chest by the front door where you left them," she added pointedly.
Iain thus dismissed, Geraldine turned back to her young companion.
"You know, I do believe that you're the very girl to teach him better."
A curious Reverend Stewart lingered in the doorway. "Teach whom, my love?"
"Sara and I were discussing how partners should behave about a business arrangement. Isn't that right, Sara?"
Sara's cheeks coloured. Indeed, this was the way she had described her bargain with John Anselm. And yet... to hear it characterised as business felt somehow unsatisfactory.
"I should not be happy if John Anselm did not like me," she conceded.
"Iain. Slippers," encouraged Geraldine, waving aside the troublesome intruder. "And then we'll have a bite of breakfast and start the day. Victory sermons don't write themselves."
"Quite so, my love." Iain retreated gratefully. He had little to contribute to the type of 'business' under discussion here.
...
As far as Kiefer was concerned, the series of items on the page could just as well have been a shopping list. His interest lay solely with the chairman's nervous gestures. However, as the meeting wore on, he was plagued by a persistent feeling that he'd overdone it on the Limey beverage this morning. No coffee in the damn hotel, which meant his caffeine kick had had to come from tea—and there was no comparison. You had to drink a bucket of the swill to get the same effect. There was a plus side, though: the tea had slaked his thirst—the dehydration brought on by a heavy night with Jack Daniels; but as the meeting laboured on, the nagging need to take a leak before close of business became a pressing one. Eventually he had to quit the room, and when he came back from the john, Griffiths was conspicuous by his absence.
Kiefer swivelled on his toe and aimed through the door a telling look of having been outwitted.
"Griffiths—did he leave?"
Foyle eyed him coolly, disinclined to help. Ziegler, though (obliging fellow that he was), soon set the record straight: Griffiths had simply stepped outside for air.
"Our chairman seems is a bit unwell," supplied the doctor, with a bright concern that bordered on the jovial. "I'm sure that he'll be back before too long."
Kiefer cast a dark glance towards the doorway as he lowered himself into his seat. He then sat in an active pose of waiting, with a pencil gripped between two hands so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Foyle watched him, fingers poised musingly over his lips, and wondered whether it would break in two.
The chairman re-appeared, a damp sheen on his brow.
"My word, old chap—something you ate?" A beaming Ziegler rose and pulled out Griffiths' chair.
"I fear so." Griffiths' spectacles appeared to struggle with the atmosphere inside the room, for he removed them now for urgent polishing.
"Yeah. Happens all the time," drawled Kiefer in mock sympathy. "All sortsa stuff can getcha on the rebound. Maybe you should take more water with it, Griffiths."
A snort of mirth from Longmate preceded an obedient giggle from Miss Hylton. Ziegler's proffered tumbler of water was accepted with a tight smile.
"Good advice for all of us," observed Foyle. Kiefer returned his pointed look with a level, uninflected gaze.
...
Both women started violently in their seats at the piercing yelp from the hallway. Before Geraldine had even levered herself from her chair, Sara Immerglück was up and through the kitchen door.
She was treated to the sight of Reverend Stewart hopping barefoot to the refuge of the staircase.
Wincing, Iain lowered himself onto the stairs, and, cradling one upturned foot in his hand, he shot the young woman a pained, bewildered look.
"The floor"—he gestured at the Victorian mosaic tiles. "I fear the tiles are strewn with... grit. Quite sharp! Or broken glass. Do... do be careful, Sara." He hauled the ailing foot across his knee and, peering at the underside, began to pluck what looked like bits of clear glass from the sole. Iain's eyesight being rather worse than Geraldine's, he had to squint and feel his way. Each offending piece that he extracted, he placed carefully on the polished wood next to the stair runner. He already had a small collection when Geraldine joined Sara in the hall.
"Iain, what on earth?"
"I can't explain it... grit. Or glass."
"I'll get a dustpan. Serves you right for wandering around the house barefoot."
"I couldn't find my slippers."
"...because you always wander round the house barefoot or in your socks, and you never remember where you had them last. If you would only stick to a routine, you might..."
A sharp gasp made them both look up from their tiff, to find Sara on her knees and gawping—seemingly at Iain's toes.
Geraldine tapped her husband's knee. "Iain, put your foot away. It isn't nice in front of Sara."
But Sara Immerglück's attention wasn't aimed at Reverend Stewart's foot. Her focus was the narrow strip of wood next to the stair carpet, where he'd placed the tiny objects that had caused him such discomfort. They caught the sunlight that broke through the stained glass light above the front door and sparkled rainbows up at her, for all the world like...
"Diamanten!"
"Sara?"
Sara swept a palm over the hard floor at her side. There was a scraping sound of tiny stones across the tilework, and as she raised her hand, a small cascade of fragments which had sunk into her flesh plinked back onto the tiles. Some of the tinier ones, however, clung in place, and sparkled.
"O du meine Güte, das sind Diamanten! Schaut!" Eyes like saucers, Sara tumbled back into her native tongue.
Geraldine and Iain exchanged glances. "Shout what, Dear?"
Mute with trepidation, Sara stretched her palm out. "Kann es sein," she breathed, "can it be that these are real?"
...
Foyle leant back in his chair, chewed on his lip, and wondered behind steepled fingers where he was supposed to find the manpower. The expectation at this meeting seemed to be that Hastings Police were going to control festivities in a good old truncheon-round-the-earhole fashion. To Foyle, this idea not only went against the spirit of the day, but also stretched collective credibility. His staff stood at a dozen constables (one wet behind the ears); four sergeants, two of whom were too old to be keeping order; one half-soaked German—er, Alsatian Shepherd; and, well, (ha-ha!) Hugh.
Hugh Reid had barely battled down his mirth when Foyle's name cropped up on the Victory Day Committee. "Bit of a cockup there, old man. Should be a job for uniform, but," he smacked Christopher heartily on the shoulder, "you'll be a paragon, as usual."
The paragon mentally chalked up a debt for Hugh to pay as soon as they were next propped up at the nineteenth hole.
The problem was going to be one of numbers. Britons had been starved of their beach holidays for far too long, and had begun again to stake their claim upon the English coastline. Foyle reasoned that the forecast influx to this one small coastal town alone, let alone the others in his jurisdiction, would likely make a joke of all attempts to marshal crowds. If people's inclination was to overturn the apple-cart, then overturned the apple-cart would be. His preference in the matter (and he'd made his views clear here today) leant towards engaging publicans in organising friendly volunteers to keep the customers in order, which would then leave police resources free to ensure any accidental injuries were dealt with expeditiously. Beyond that, he did not see any role for the police, except perhaps to hold a helmet under dripping beer kegs to ensure none went to waste.
"So, I have to tell you now," he added in conclusion, having voiced his views, "that public order can be shepherded by the police, but not enforced. We'll put the word out to the Hastings hostelries over the weekend, but if you're thinking bobbies on the beat can do much with the kind of crowds that we're anticipating... well..."
His bottom lip jutted as he considered what to add. Georgie's encounter with the urchins on his doorstep came to mind.
"But on a different note... there's been some talk of fireworks around town. And bonfires to, um, reinforce the celebrations."
Griffiths grasped the arms of his chair. "Are we to expect a civil conflagration?"
"What? You British don't trust your citizens with a box of matches?" scoffed Kiefer.
Ziegler smoothed the waters. "We don't want enthusiastic youngsters lighting fires that then get out of hand."
"Certainly we don't," continued Foyle, "and the prudent way to deal with this, is to organise a handful of bonfires, under supervision. My men have briefed the AFS and ARP, and they're ready to assist."
Glances were exchanged, followed by sober nods around the table. Longmate was unable to let pass a chance to show off his largesse.
"Allow me to fund the printing of the notices, and see that they're distributed round Hastings. Miss Hylton would be pleased to help, I'm sure."
Janice Hylton's acquiescent smile didn't even falter.
Foyle gave her boss a steady look. "Wull, thank you. No need to tell you or, uh,"—he added a polite nod to the young woman—"your kind assistant where to post the notices. Your campaign posters seem already to be occupying the pole positions."
Kiefer looked down, grinning in spite of himself.
"Quite so." Longmate aimed a smarmy smile at Ziegler. "People whom I've never met have begun to recognise me."
...
The business of the Victory Day Committee wound down to its conclusion. While people gathered up their documents, Ziegler steered Griffiths into a corner with a "Quiet word, old chap?"
Longmate's eyes trailed after them with sullen curiosity. Were they discussing him? Things had not been arranged as he would like them, lately: stitched up, under his control. Instead, all manner of small people were presenting difficulties. Even Janice. Janice, whom he'd oh-so-skilfully kept onside, despite their little mishap in her husband's absence… now behaving like a frightened squirrel since the happy chappie had returned. He turned his gaze to Foyle, and thence to Ziegler. Grinning idiot. No doubt his foreign parentage had left him with an extra dose of conscience, by way of compensation. What business did he have with Foyle? Was Ziegler feeling a compulsion to unload himself? To do his duty as a citizen? Did Ziegler feel a nagging need to serve his adopted country, to the detriment of men of vision like himself?
At least the policeman still seemed occupied in making notes. Longmate watched, till he was satisfied that Ziegler and the DCS were not about to pre-empt their afternoon meeting, then rose from his seat.
"Martin... can we..."
Miss Hylton's plaintive tone pierced through his train of thought. It was an old refrain. The echo of an old, uncomfortable responsibility, which he had no desire to air nor acknowledge here.
"Not now, for God's sake, Janice." His voice was harsh. It crushed her, as he knew it would, and by the time he'd oozed around the table to engage the Yankee major, she had melted back into the fixtures. Good girl, Janice.
"Major Kiefer. Shall we see you at the celebrations at the Majestic?"
Kiefer recognised a glad-hand when he saw one. "Gonna be just about impossible to dodge 'em."
"In which case, you must join me for dinner."
Foyle's ears pricked up in interest.
"Nah. Dinner doesn't sit well with my stomach these days. Makes me lay awake at night."
"An early supper, then?"
"Don't sweat it. Older I get, the less company I like when I chow down."
Longmate wasn't giving up. "I'd be delighted, though, to see American officers and NCOs at the Majestic for the dancing."
"If you're gonna include noncoms in that," observed Kiefer drily, "better kiss goodbye to your fancy lawn. No way they'll fit onto your dance floor, and can't see the guys keeping to your gravel paths on a bottle o' gin."
The jibe turned out to be a big mistake, for Longmate heard it as an expression of interest, and duly started on a detailed exposé of plans for a marquee and adjacent boarded temporary dance space.
Thus the American found himself monopolised for several minutes, and his back was still turned when Griffiths gathered up his documents and canvas bag and beetled quietly from the room.
Soon after this, Ziegler announced he was about to take his leave. At that point the hotelier broke off his self-advertisement campaign and made his excuses.
When Kiefer finally turned round, only Foyle and Miss Hylton were left in the room.
He set his cap hurriedly on his head.
"See you around, Christopher," he offered with a finality that meant the opposite. With a quick nod of farewell to the young woman, the major strode from the room and down the museum staircase.
Brown was no longer in guard-dog mode when Kiefer reached the foyer. This was his lunch hour, he was studying his newspaper, and he liked to do the crossword. Undisturbed.
His absorption grew more pointed when Kiefer wanted his attention.
"Pardon me. Did Mr Griffiths leave?"
The older man dragged his concentration from the Hastings Chronicle. "Eh?"
"Griffiths. Where'd he go? Didja see?"
The older man compressed his lips. It got his goat, the easy manner, and the burred accent that went with it. Some Victory Day committee: Jerry doctors... Yanks... sauntering in halfway through the match, and acting like the Second Coming. All meant to be on the same side... hah! Make me laugh!
"Turned left out of here," he supplied grudgingly. "'Bout half a minute since. Where he went after that, I wouldn't like to guess."
He bent over his paper once again, but two hands planted themselves firmly on the desk, on each side of the open newsprint.
"You wanna give it your best shot?"
Brown, who had survived the Hunnish Hordes at Wipers, was not about to be intimidated by a single Yank. A regular soldier in his day, Corporal Brown had come out of the Great War with a healthy disrespect for pristine uniforms—apt to be the ones that sat in comfortable HQ bunkers, out of the line of fire. Apt to be the ones to send you over the top while a-swiggin' of their G&Ts. You wouldn't think, to look at this one's duds, that he'd seen action.
He stretched—allowed himself a moment to relish his position of power, and met the G.I.'s gaze. The eyes. There was a weary sort of emptiness behind the glowering determination. This was the aspect of a man who'd put some hours in—not behind a desk. Could be this one did merit being cut some slack...
Brown inflated his cheeks and flicked a hand towards the door.
"The alley, bottom of the hill. It takes you round the back of the exchange."
Receiving a blank look, he saw he was communicating with a moron. "Behind. The. Telephone. Exchange," he mouthed, elaborately. "He works there. Griffiths."
Kiefer's single-mindedness made him immune to poor manners. "OK. Much obliged."
Chore over, Brown rolled his shoulders and turned back to solving nine across:
"Easy ration for a flyboy. Lyon's share. (5,2,4)"
The old man sucked his teeth and tapped his pen against the newsprint. When he looked up, Kiefer was already exiting the building, out into the sunlight. Then, the answer struck him.
"Piece of cake!"
"Hey, hope you're right, Bud," Kiefer shot back, without breaking stride. He doubted that this errand would be halfway between a pleasure and a cinch.
...
"Of course, you realise how this changes things for Sara."
Miss Thackeray was arranging the young woman's future before a stunned and largely silent audience around the Stewarts' kitchen table.
On the tabletop in front of them sat Sara's partially-beheaded teddy bear, the stuffing spewing from his neck, and next to him, a small mound of gemstones. Geraldine was slowly adding to the pile, delving with a small Apostle spoon (Saint Peter bearing an outsize key, appropriately enough) into the fluffy aperture.
"Don't worry, dear," she reassured Sara quietly. "We'll sew him up. I know you want him back."
"There is no question," persisted Miss Thackeray, "she must seek a place in London at a music school. Her voice has great potential."
Miss Thackeray had planned for Sara Immerglück from the moment she had heard her sing. A life of teaching music to the plodding talents of the girls of Arundel had left Jane Thackeray bereft. In retirement, within a week of meeting Sara, Jane had forged plans to furnish her with opportunities she herself had been denied. In this girl's voice, Miss Thackeray heard a talent not to be allowed to languish in the provinces unheard, untrained and unappreciated. These stones would fund Sara's living while she studied, and much more. She reached for the girl's hand excitedly.
"So much, much more in store for you, my dear. Can you imagine? Independence to pursue your heart's desire! A musical career! Perhaps the opera!"
Sara, who recognised a diamond as a thing of beauty and great rarity, looked shyly at the sparkling heap of stones, and tried to understand how rich she had become. The grasp of it eluded her. But on her heart's desire, she had a firmer grasp, and today's news had reminded her that there were things more pressing than her love of music.
She shook her head. "Tut mir Leid... will nirgendwo hin, bis ich weiß..."
"My dear... in English" prompted Geraldine.
"...was aus meinem Bruder geworden ist... and until I have seen my brother, and fulfilled my bargain with John Anselm, I cannot think of such things."
"Bargain? What bargain? Reverend Stewart, please explain to Sara..." Miss Thackeray voiced her dismay over wringing hands.
Iain took the measure of the situation. Three strong-minded women, gathered round a table... and himself. Barefooted still, and in his dressing gown—Miss Thackeray had been summoned by telephone—he rose, and placed a hand under his charge's elbow.
"My dear, let's have a little private talk."
Sara Immerglück allowed herself to be led from the kitchen to his study.
"Sara..." Iain fiddled with the inkwell on his desk, "do you realise how this will change your circumstances?"
"Am I then wealthy?"
"Yes, indeed. Indeed you are."
"Miss Thackeray thinks..."
"What do you think, my dear?"
Sara frowned. "Reverend Stewart, I think that I must do things that feel right to me, and..." her eyes brightened suddenly, and she reached into her bag. "Look—read this..."
She withdrew a small, crimson cloth-bound volume. Embossed upon its cover was an illustration of two figures in period, country garb. Above them, and in gilded, Gothic script, a title:
Romeo und Julia auf dem Dorfe
Gottfried Keller
Reverend Stewart recognised one of the short novels in Sara's native tongue that Geraldine had begged from Sam's old high school. Sam's linguistic skills had floundered in the French class, and she'd never learned a word of German, but her former French mistress, who had also had a finger in the German pie, had been pleased to help with Mrs Stewart's request for surplus texts for her young refugee.
Sara opened the small volume at a marked page and presented it, text open to the reverend. She pointed to a section of the page:
»denn unser Herz ist jetzt unser Haus, darin wir wohnen, und wir tragen so unsere Wohnung mit uns, wie die Schnecken! Andere haben wir nicht!«
Even if Iain had been familiar with the language, the peculiar script would have cowed him, but his companion didn't let him puzzle long.
"It says," she traced the line with her finger, "'our hearts are the only houses we have left to live in—and these we carry round with us, like snails. We have no other home.' "
Reverend Stewart felt an immense warmth rise in his chest and spread along his limbs. He closed the book, but kept his finger in the place.
"Is that what you are going to do, my dear? Carry your home inside you?"
"It is the only way," she fixed him with a look of pained sincerity. "John Anselm says that Europe is a mess. So many, wandering and homeless. What else are they—are we to do, with homes and families destroyed, but live inside our hearts? And give, in order to repair the world?"
Iain found himself looking down with rapidly blinking eyelashes as he handed her her book. "We'd all do well to learn from your experience and attitude."
Sara stuffed the volume back into her bag. Her tone grew businesslike. "Also, I would wish to help my foster family, who lost their home. When all these things are done... these things my heart is anxious for... then I can think of music."
"My dear girl," Iain slowly raised his eyes and gave her a frank look of admiration, "I have no doubt that your voice will be the better for it. Singing, after all, comes from the heart, and if the heart is elsewhere..."
Sara felt her cheeks flush. Her gaze sank to the floor, where she was instantly reminded of her host's shoeless state.
"I will fetch your slippers, Reverend Stewart. It is important to protect your feet."
"Lest there be diamonds?" Iain wondered. And it crossed his mind that many people walking on a pathway strewn with gems would stoop to gather them, but never share. He smiled. "Yes, bless you, Sara. Thank you."
...
Griffiths, as it happened, hadn't turned into the alley that led down to the telephone exchange. Instead, he'd veered off into town, intending to take refuge in a quiet hostelry where he could eat his lunch in peace and not be bothered by his colleagues or responsibilities.
While Griffiths' detour took him off on a tangential route, a different committee member strode downhill into the rat run. Fittingly, the rat was Martin Longmate—his objective: to ensure a guilty secret vanished to the grave with its presumed keeper. Ziegler must not be allowed to meet with Foyle that afternoon, and share the damning information Longmate feared had surfaced in his memory.
For Martin Longmate had been guilty of a little sleight of hand. When he was called to serve his country, he had employed (he felt 'bribed' was too strong a word) another man—one with a heart condition—to stand in at his military medical. A medical with Dr Henry Ziegler.
There were all sorts of men, reflected Longmate. Those who made their petty little livings based on falsehood, and those with more exalted things to do in service of their country than to waste their lives in fighting for it.
And those with inconvenient powers of recall. Like Ziegler, whose memory for a name that didn't tally with a face had set Longmate on his current course of homicidal action. Pillpushers, after all, were ten a penny. Public servants were a different breed, and Longmate could not let the inconvenient truth derail his parliamentary ambitions.
Ziegler's practice was in Dorset Place, off Cambridge Road—not that Longmate had ever graced it with his presence. But he knew the area, and the likeliest route to take between museum and surgery led along this quiet alley. He therefore installed himself inside a deeply recessed entry, lit a cigarette, and waited.
...
Griffiths stood before the Priory Café, lips pursed. Closed, declared its sign. No explanation; highly inconsiderate of its custom. He re-shouldered his bag. The heavy lump of Bakelite inside swung round and landed hard against his kidneys—sharp reminder of the phone call that had made his blood run cold, and of the necessary errand he was running for his mother. A bead of perspiration formed upon his brow, dislodged, and rolled into the corner of his eye. Blinking to dissolve the sweat and calm his upset, Griffiths turned and set off down the little-used and weed-sown passage leading between Harmer's coal-yard and The Angel pub. The passage joined up with his usual shortcut through the alley halfway down.
...
Kiefer slowed his stride, then halted. He could see no openings in the line of buildings that continued to the bottom of the hill. Somehow he'd missed the alley entrance. He turned to check the way he'd come. A butcher's van was parked up on the path some fifty yards behind him. He'd passed around it on the way down.
Now, he retraced his steps uphill. The tall rear doors of the high-sided vehicle stood open, and a white-coated man in a flat cap was climbing out, a dead pig slung over his shoulder.
"Fresh in from Berlin," grinned the butcher, mistaking the American's attention for an interest in meat. "The've give us 'Itler's Nazi carcass to make roast pork sandwiches!"
Kiefer watched him bear his burden through the open shop door, the pig's head lolling as he walked. A wave of nausea washed through him. He had appetite for neither pork nor levity. There was grim business to complete. He flexed his knuckles in a symbol of the blunt, no-nonsense interview he meant to have with Griffiths, and walked round to the vehicle's front to peer along the narrow gap between the van's side and the building.
There was the alleyway, its entrance obscured by the vehicle, still parked too close against the shop-front for Kiefer to slide past. He was about to enter the shop and ask how long before unloading would be finished, when the butcher reappeared, and, raising a plump index finger in an affable attempt at a salute, climbed up into the cab. A second or two later, the van pulled off the path, and access to the alley was restored.
...
"You perisher! Come 'ere!" Brooke tore across the churchyard, veering to avoid a startled funeral procession. With all the people on the path, the bloody spiv had managed to give him the slip.
The sergeant skidded to a halt, then leant, hands braced on thighs, and caught his breath. He filled his lungs, casting around him. Then the cheeky little shit broke cover and took off again.
Still panting slightly, Brooke threw himself back into the chase with gusto. This time... this time he'd have the bugger, and be ready for the dirty tricks. This was the second time he'd given chase in Hastings. The first occasion, that fat conchie bloke had caught him unawares, and fetched him one right in the face. Who would've thought that slab o' lard would land a lucky punch? The memory still smarted—worse still than the bloody nose, and the indignity of losing his helmet. This time he was in civvies, and a good deal wiser.
Brookie upped his pace and raced around the corner, then through the lych-gate off towards the narrow high-walled alleyway in hot pursuit.
...
As he stood and drew upon his cigarette, Longmate's fingers closed inside his pocket round the handle of an object that he'd liberated earlier from a cabinet of weaponry in the Hastings Museum. It was a Persian dagger. He had found the crescent blade attractive; elegant. When all was said and done, apt for the task in hand.
The ringing sound of footfalls on the paving stones roused him from his nicotine-fuelled reverie. Unhurriedly, he dropped the cigarette and ground the butt beneath his heel. The echo of approaching steps bounced from the high brick walls on each side of the narrow alley. Smiling tigerishly through a final plume of smoke, Martin Longmate stepped out of his cubby hole to greet his prey.
...
Kiefer planted himself in the gap between the tall-sided buildings and took a long, deep breath. His eyes lost focus for a vulnerable moment as the vision of his young men rose again—of lifeless eyes in blackened bodies, lit by beacons of bright, flaming fuel. A familiar fatigue overtook him.
Blinking away the stinging memory of the fumes, he set off down the alley, nursing thoughts of Griffiths' scrawny neck, and of the tempting way his Adam's apple jutted out above that white, starched collar. There was a tension in the soldier's jaw.
The passageway bent sharply to the right, hiding the view ahead. On both sides the walls were either windowless, or set with wire-mesh glass well above street level. A recessed doorway ten yards down the alley was the only break in the expanse of wall. As if to prove that nature was no slave to urban planning, a hearty crop of dandelions grew along the edges of the paving.
Kiefer had taken barely a dozen steps when he heard a harsh cry—unmistakeably a cry of fear.
He broke into a run.
...
Dr Ziegler drew in his breath as he felt a sharp sting in his flesh for a split second, before the lunge was knocked aside.
With all his strength, Mark Griffiths had swung his only weapon. Somehow the panicked spontaneity of the swing paid off: his aim hit true. The weight inside the canvas bag, and its momentum, made him stagger, but the impact on the back of the assailant's head gave a satisfying crack!—one that might have been the skull of the aggressor or the heavy Bakelite appliance. Small matter, for the hard blow slackened the attacker's grasp enough to knock the weapon from his hand. Instead of penetrating Ziegler's ribs, the dagger clattered to the pavement and skittered harmlessly along the alley floor, until it came to rest amongst a patch of dandelions.
Ziegler recoiled and stumbled backwards as his would-be murderer toppled towards him. Then there was a sickening thud as Longmate's face made contact with the paving, and he lay, sprawled senseless, across Ziegler's shins. A pool of blood began to form around his shattered nose.
Winded and bewildered, Ziegler stared first at his would-be murderer, slumped across his legs, then up at his unlikely saviour. In less than a half-hour, a civilised municipal committee had re-convened as a macabre gathering that defied comprehension. And while the physician struggled to make sense of things, another short, squat, figure in a cheap brown suit tore around the corner at top speed. The runner, Ziegler noticed, cast a nervous glance over his shoulder, as though all hell were on his tail.
Griffiths reeled out of control. Dragged in an extended arc by the momentum of the swing, he dealt a second, unintended thwack across the stranger's temple. Dazed, the victim staggered, tripped over his feet, and took a flying tumble over the two men already on the ground.
Kiefer's pace ground to a halt. He stood now at the alley's bend and gaped. The British had finally lost their minds. First Griffiths flooring Longmate—Jeez! was that a knife? It skimmed so fast across the alley floor, he couldn't say for sure, but it had come from Longmate? What the hell? The guy might be a first-class jerk, but honestly, knives? And Ziegler? How did Ziegler snap the guy's cap so bad that he'd want to knock him off?
This was the bizarre tableau that greeted Brooke.
"Ber-loody Nora!"
He took in the scene: a small heap of humanity blocked his path, and over it, a tall, bald, weedy bloke in rimless spectacles looking dazed, the long strap of an army-issue canvas satchel dangling from his fingers.
Shocked as he was, Brooke noted with some satisfaction that his fugitive was top of the heap. This turned the weedy fellow instantly into an ally.
"What's—in—the bag, Mate?" inquired Brooke between greedy breaths. "Couple'a—bricks? A bloomin'—cannonball?"
"A broken telephone," intoned the tall chap, flatly.
"That so?" " Brooke walked towards him and reached out. "Yeah, well... Best hand it over, now. We don't want no one getting coshed, now do we?"
"No. No indeed." Griffiths blinked down at the mound of men that he'd created, and added doubtfully, "Is there anyone else?"
Kiefer, several yards away, cleared his throat.
"Yeah, Griffiths. There's one over here you've missed."
Griffiths turned. The bag dropped from his fingers.
"M-major Kiefer?"
"Hey, Mr Chairman." Kiefer gave a flip salute. "Does this come under 'Any Other Business'?"
****** TBC ******
More Author's Notes:
"And give, in order to repair the world?"
On Sabbath eve, I understand that it is customary to put aside some additional money for the purpose of tikkun olam, or the "repair of the world."
...
More when the wind hits my sails. Somebody send me a stiff breeze.
GiuC