Marlford (9 page)

Ten

T
heir pace was dictated by Luden's shuffle: a slow, stately progress, filing along the side of the Victorian extension, briefly passing a blocked door and two windows in the Georgian style, turning the corner under a round, pinnacled tower, working their way inexorably towards the low roofs of the medieval buildings. They might simply have been taking a walk back in time.

Luden stopped on several occasions to catch his breath; as the expedition continued, he reached for Hindy's arm, leaning heavily. Once they paused to examine a crack in one of the flagstones, shaking their heads at it sadly and poking round about to determine the cause, but they negotiated the turbulent contours of the pitted courtyard with steady determination and went directly to a wooden door, its grey paint peeling. They stood in front of it, in a line, crenellated, their differing heights a makeshift comedy.

Ata took a small, square tin of 3-in-1 from his pocket and put the nozzle into the keyhole, squirting until oil spilled down the door like hair tumbling from a clasp,
then he fitted the key and turned it smoothly. The door gave inwards with a creak.

They were immaculately prepared: Hindy had two torches, one in each of his jacket pockets, their batteries new, their beams bright; Ata had a further selection of keys, each on its own length of string, tied together at the top in a heavy, impenetrable knot. He hung them over his wrist and arm; they jingled as the men went on into the house. Luden sniffed noisily. It did not seem impossible that he could smell out their route.

They could see Dan with his back to them, boiling a kettle on the hob in the cavernous kitchen. The scuff of their steps was inaudible over the breathy almost-whistle of the rising steam and they watched for a while, Luden stabbing an angry finger at the pile of broken glass kicked into the corner behind the door.

They took in the signs of haphazard habitation: empty tins, dirty plates at one end of the long deal table, a carrier bag spilling groceries onto the floor by one of the dressers, stubbed-out cigarette ends in a blue saucer.

‘Young man?'

Hindy spoke up, but Dan only cocked his head, not sure what he had heard.

‘Young man – you, at the range.'

Dan gasped and spun round. ‘Blimey, man… what? I thought I heard something. You crept up on me, man.'

‘Might we ask what you are doing here?'

Dan found that his hands were trembling. He stuffed them into his pockets. ‘Who are you, anyway?'

Hindy repeated his question, not varying his intonation. ‘Might we ask what you are doing here?'

‘What are we doing?' Dan began to gather himself. He moved from the range, placing himself squarely in front of them so that they could fully appreciate his defiance. ‘We're squatting.' He pushed at his spectacles slowly, taking time to settle them on his nose, folding his arms across his chest.

‘Squatting?' Ata squeezed the question, rattling keys.

Dan caught the lilt of his accent and noticed the bronze lustre in Ata's thin face, the almond curve of his eyes.

‘Yes – do you understand?' He spoke slowly for the benefit of the gangly foreigner. ‘Squatting. It's a word meaning… meaning… well, you see we—'

Hindy interrupted, in his perfectly honed English. ‘Young man, of course we understand the notion of squatting. We just don't understand why you're squatting here, amongst us. In this house. At Marlford. Perhaps you would care to explain?'

Dan raised his eyebrows at a patch on Hindy's tweeds, then turned back to the range.

‘Miserable vermin.' Luden was still breathless.

Dan lifted the kettle and set it aside. He watched the steam rise for a moment before turning back.

‘It's an official squat.' He took in Luden's expression of withered disgust, the thrust of his sharp chin. ‘By installing it here amongst the waning influence of the privileged few, we're proposing a reversal of ingrained social and financial hierarchies. We're proposing a new social order. A revolution, man.'

The men kept their eyes steadily on his face.

‘You'll have to leave,' Hindy said.

‘Oh, no, you can't force us to leave. That's the thing about a squat, an official squat. And there're more of us on the way. It'll grow, man. It'll draw together a community of like-minded people. It'll become a genuine movement for change.'

Luden stepped forward with a slight, compact movement. ‘What you are doing is illegal. If you do not leave the property immediately, we will call the police.'

‘That won't do any good.' Dan smiled. ‘Squatting's a civil offence, not a criminal one.' He was certain of this, smug.

‘A matter of splitting hairs,' spat Luden. ‘You are trespassing.'

‘No, we're not. We're in the unoccupied part of the house. You see, that's why we're squatting. We'd only be trespassing if we were in Mr Barton's part of the house.'

‘It all belongs to him, though. It's all his house, isn't it?' Ata asked. ‘Couldn't he be said to be occupying it, but simply not using it all at any given time?'

The question seemed reasonable.

Dan glared at him. ‘No, man, only a section of the house is inhabited. The remainder is abandoned – derelict – a common resource.' He took a deep breath, clearing his head after the confusion of Ata's sophistry. ‘The question of ownership is irrelevant.'

Hindy sighed. ‘Young man, take our advice and leave. This is not your house; you have no rights here. When Mr Barton discovers your presence, he will be sure to take action.'

‘He can't evict us by force, man. He has to get a possession order.' Dan was on confident ground again,
delivering the rubric with authority. ‘There are protocols, you see.'

‘Not if he has a gun,' Ata pointed out, amiably.

Luden chuckled at the idea, but Dan had recovered himself and was scathing.

‘Flushing pheasants? Hunting to hounds? Oh, come on, man. He's not going to shoot us,' he snapped at them irritably. ‘I don't see what you've got to do with it, anyway. You've not told me who you are, or anything. What's it to you if we're squatting?'

Hindy raised his eyebrows at his colleagues. ‘It has a great deal to do with us, young man. A great deal.'

‘You want to join us, man, is that it? You want to be part of the new generation?'

‘We simply cannot allow this kind of intrusion,' Hindy replied, steadily.

‘They've changed the cupboard,' Ata said. He held quite still, the keys quiet. ‘There.' He stared at a point on the old unit next to the stove.

Dan started to laugh. ‘Home improvements, you see – part of the bargain.' But he felt the men stiffen. ‘Oh, come on – all we did was make a handle, man, so we could store our stuff in there. We just twisted a bit of string.'

Hindy glanced at Luden. ‘It appears rather a singular situation, requiring careful consideration.'

‘Get rid of them.' Luden shrugged.

‘Yes, indeed. But an affair of this nature… if we're not careful… Perhaps – young man, could you summon your colleague?'

Dan shook his head. ‘I'm not “summoning” anyone. It doesn't work like that, man. There's no one in charge here;
it's a democracy.' He waited for them to respond, but they went on looking at him in silence. He shifted his weight and pushed at the bridge of his spectacles again. ‘What about a compromise? I could take you up if you like, to the squat.'

‘Stairs.' Luden thrust his head sharply towards the ceiling. ‘I'm not climbing stairs.'

‘I know, old chap, I know.' Hindy put an arm on Luden's shoulder. ‘But it might be for the best you know.'

Ata added encouragement. ‘We'll be rid of them all the quicker.'

Something about the performance was suddenly intimidating. Dan broke from them and went to the door. ‘Do what you like,' he said. ‘I'm going up anyway.'

Hindy coughed loudly. ‘Haven't you forgotten something?'

Dan paused. ‘What? No. What on earth—'

‘Your kettle, young man.'

‘I don't want that, man. Not now.'

‘But it's fully boiled,' Ata pointed out. ‘You can't waste it.'

Dan looked across to the kettle as though it might be the most remarkable of objects. ‘Look, leave the flipping kettle, man. If you want to come up, then come up. Otherwise…' He rolled his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. ‘It's no big deal.'

He did not meet their gaze. Instead, he flung a final glance at the kettle and left the kitchen, his steps slapping on the tiles.

After a moment, the men followed, Luden's breath coming in short, loud puffs. They did not keep pace with
Dan but pushed slowly through the echoes he left behind, climbing the stairs with difficulty, finally squeezing three abreast into the confines of the bedroom corridor. The bunch of keys jangled on Ata's arm like the rusting chains of tortured phantoms.

Dan and Gadiel sat on the bed; the three men brought in chairs and positioned them at intervals around the room.

‘You've made some changes,' Hindy began. ‘Aside from the obvious removal of furniture and the matter of general detritus, there's a cracked floorboard, I believe, and an improvised repair to the windowframe.'

‘One of the doorknobs in the corridor has been reattached,' Ata added, sharply.

The men looked at each other. They did not smile; Ata closed his eyes, resting his head against the thick flock of the wallpaper and tucking his legs tightly together, trapping the keys between his knees.

‘You live here, don't you?' Gadiel was pleasant. ‘On the estate. I've seen you coming to the house. I've seen… Ellie, she…' It sounded too much as though he might have been spying. ‘It's nice to meet you.'

‘Yes, we live here,' Hindy replied. ‘We're prisoners of war.'

Dan laughed and rolled into the slump of the bed.

‘I don't understand,' Gadiel said.

Hindy began wearily, as though the old story was worthless. ‘We were incarcerated here at Marlford in 1914. We arrived within weeks of each other and, being considered a threat to British interests, we were placed here securely as aliens. I am German, of Russian decent;
my friend here, Luden, is Austrian; and Ata is a Turk. At the beginning, during the war, there were many more of us and we were kept quite separate from the house but, after Armistice, everyone went away, quite suddenly, and those of us who remained made a home here. When Mr Barton returned, he chose a few of us as companions. We continue to live in the hutments of the old prisoner-of-war camp, on the southern flank of the estate towards the main road; we consider ourselves residents of Marlford.'

Luden and Ata appeared content with the summary.

For a moment, no one spoke; it seemed too fantastic a thing to begin on.

Dan broke the quiet first. ‘I don't understand, man. Do you mean – really… do you mean prisoners?' He seemed to be accusing them of something.

Hindy was unperturbed. ‘Yes. I believe I've given a full explanation.'

‘But you just stayed?' Gadiel added, more gently. ‘Why on earth didn't you go home? Why did you stay at Marlford?'

‘We became fond of the place,' Hindy replied. ‘We had established ourselves here and had very little reason to leave. And Mr Barton took an interest in us.'

‘We took an interest in him,' Luden said.

Hindy smiled. ‘Indeed.'

‘On Mr Barton's recommendation, we adopted new names.' Hindy made the introduction, indicating each of them in turn. ‘I became Hindenburg, my friend here became Ludendorff, and that gentleman became Atatürk.' He looked at Dan, taking in his blank expression. ‘You're
probably too young to understand the significance of the names, but in 1918, during the war, these were the names of important men, military strategists. Powerful men.'

‘I've heard of Hindenburg – wasn't there a line or something?' Gadiel asked. ‘Or a wall?'

The men were silent.

‘Yeah, well, I know the names,' Dan said, his confidence unconvincing. ‘It's just I don't see the point.'

‘It helped him remember us, I think,' Ata explained.

Luden sniffed a dry laugh. ‘He believed he had the enemy under his nose, where he could keep an eye on it.'

‘But you don't still use those names… after all this time?' Gadiel asked.

‘Of course we do. It's part of being here, for us. Marlford has made us who we are,' Hindy replied. ‘I'm not sure I can remember what I was called before.'

‘I am the same,' Ata agreed.

‘That's impossible.' Dan knelt up on the bed, shoving a curl of hair angrily from his forehead. ‘Everyone remembers their own name. I don't believe you.'

The men's gaze was steady.

‘It's not impossible, young man.' Hindy sat up straighter, a challenge. ‘It's as we've told you it is.'

‘No way, man. Listen—'

Gadiel intervened. ‘And there's just you three; there's no one else… no other prisoners?'

Hindy kept his eyes on Dan, but answered pleasantly enough. ‘There are three of us remaining. The majority of prisoners were rehoused or deported, or just went away. There were four of us originally who stayed: one of our number died eleven years ago, from an aggressive form of cancer.'

‘I think you're lying,' Dan said. ‘I think you're having us on, man. It can't be right. It doesn't make sense. No one would stay so long.'

‘Indeed. It is a long time. A lifetime,' Hindy agreed. ‘We're old men now.'

‘You do mean the First World War?' Gadiel asked.

‘I do. During the Second World War, they established a small military unit here at Marlford, but that was different, quite different. And by then we were established as Mr Barton's companions. We arrived, as I have outlined, at the beginning of the conflict in 1914. We've been here for fifty-five years.' Hindy sat stiffly, upright and smart, his tweed jacket neat. The shabbiness of the room seemed suddenly significant, the stains and cracks, the tears and blots and chips betraying the illusion of permanence.