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Authors: Laura Wilson

Stratton's War (63 page)

BOOK: Stratton's War
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‘The thing is,’ Jenny continued, ‘that Johnny’s in trouble, and we must all rally round to help. All pull together - just like Mr Churchill says.’ Invoking the prime minister, Stratton thought, was inspired, and, sure enough, Reg sat up a little straighter at the mention of his name.
‘It’s a difficult age,’ said Donald. ‘When I think back to what I was like . . .’ He shook his head remorsefully. ‘I know my old Dad used to despair of me.’
Stratton, though fairly certain that this wasn’t true, or, at least, wasn’t
that
true, nevertheless nodded in agreement, and allowed himself to emit what he hoped was a rueful chuckle. ‘With guidance from you and Lilian, he’ll turn out just fine,’ continued Donald. This, Stratton felt, was verging dangerously into the territory of outright lies, but Reg seemed to be swallowing it pretty well.
‘These things happen in families,’ Jenny said, with a firm wisdom that suggested years of experience. ‘Even the best ones.’
Reg gave her a grateful look. ‘So you don’t think . . .’
‘Of course not,’ said Stratton, heartily. He was about to add something along the lines of seeing it all the time at work, but thought better of it. The last thing they needed was for Reg to be reminded that his son was a common criminal like the rest of the rabble Stratton dealt with on a daily basis. Instead, he said, ‘No need to worry. Now, why don’t you get off home and get some rest. It sounds like it’s stopped raining, and I’m sure Lilian will be wondering where you are.’
Donald finished his tea and stood up. ‘I’ll walk round with you. I could use a bit of fresh air.’
Reg, limp and exhausted, allowed himself to be helped to the door. He didn’t enquire into the whereabouts of his camel sword, and no-one suggested fetching it. Stratton drew Donald aside. ‘I shouldn’t say too much to Lilian.’
His brother-in-law nodded. ‘Good job it’s pretty quiet out there.’
‘Better hope it stays that way. Last thing we need’s an air-raid on top of all this.’
Donald acknowledged this with a brief lift of the chin and, pulling his torch from his coat pocket, escorted Reg out of the door and down the path.
‘Thank God for that.’ Stratton returned to the kitchen to find Jenny using the laundry tongs to pick up the sodden tea towel on which Reg had blown his nose. Dropping it into the copper, she said reproachfully, ‘You might have fetched him a handkerchief.’
Stratton, recognising that this wasn’t a genuine rebuke, said, ‘Sorry, love. It all happened rather fast.’
‘I suppose so,’ she conceded.
Stratton hugged her. ‘You were brilliant, talking about Churchill like that. It was just the right thing to say.’
‘I was so relieved to see you still in one piece. Oh, Ted . . .’
‘Don’t be upset, love. It’s all right.’
Jenny stroked his lapel for a moment in silence, then broke away and started clearing up the tea things. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Stratton. ‘You go on up. I’ll tidy away.’
‘Will you? Properly?’
‘Yes, properly.’
‘I need to do the hot water bottles.’
‘I’ll do them. Go on.’
Jenny took off her apron and patted her wet hair. ‘I must look a real sight. I’ll have to put curlers in. And don’t you stay down here too long - you need to get out of that damp suit before you catch your death.’
‘All right, Bossyboots.’
When she’d gone, Stratton sat down, lit a cigarette, and spent some considerable time gazing into space in a sort of trance. He’d managed to heave himself to his feet and was just drying up the last of the cups when there was a quiet knock on the front door. Donald was standing on the step. Stratton opened the door wide to let him in, but he stayed where he was.
‘Thought you might still be up.’
‘I was just going to bed. Jenny’s gone up already. How’s Reg?’
‘Not too bad. We managed to get him to bed all right. Gave him some of the stuff that Lilian had for her nerves when the raids started. Doris is going to stay the night.’
‘What about Lilian?’
‘Oh, you know . . . Christ, though.’
‘Yeah . . .’
‘Poor bastard. Crying like that. I know we . . . you know . . . about Reg, but all the same . . . Felt like when I was a kid at school. Only kid I ever hit - don’t mean the usual sort of scrap, but he said something or other, and I punched him. He was a bit of a sissy, we used to laugh at him. When I did it, he sat down on the floor and started crying. I felt terrible about it. Still do, when I think of it.’
‘Yeah.’ Stratton avoided Donald’s eyes, aware that the other man was doing the same. A thought struck him, and he said, hastily, ‘I didn’t hit him.’
‘I know you didn’t, Ted. I didn’t mean that, but . . .’
‘Yeah. It’s all right, I know what you meant.’
‘I just wanted to say, you know . . . I know you can’t tell me about what happened with Johnny, but . . . Look, I’d better go. It was just . . . Well, just that, really.’
‘Yeah.’
Donald looked relieved. ‘Better not stand out here all night, or the warden’ll be round. ’Night, then.’
‘’Night.’
Stratton undressed upstairs and put on his pyjamas and dressing gown. Then he boiled the kettle for the hot water bottles, wrapped them in towels, and took them out to the Anderson. He couldn’t tell from Jenny’s breathing whether she was really asleep, or just pretending. She gave a little grunt as he slid her hot water bottle under her covers, and, after looking down at her for a moment, he knelt down on the ground beside her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Jenny?’ he whispered.
After a moment, she said, drowsily, ‘Yes, love?’
‘You all right?’
‘Mmm. Tired.’
‘Can I have a kiss?’
Jenny turned her face, framed in curlers, towards him, and pecked him sleepily on the cheek.
‘You’re all spiky.’
‘Sorry.’ Jenny blinked at him, then sat up, looking horrified. ‘Ted! Get up off that damp floor. You’ll get piles.’
‘I’m not sitting on it.’
‘Well, rheumatism, then.’
‘All right, I’ll get up. As long as you’re OK.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Jenny leant over and hugged him. ‘I’m OK. You did so well tonight, love . . . I’m proud of you.’
‘I’m proud of you, too. Let me up, then.’ Stratton kissed her again, on the nose, and struggled to his feet. He got into his own bunk and settled himself as best he could. ‘’Night, Jenny.’
‘’Night, love. Sleep tight.’
SEVENTY-THREE
The door of Apse’s flat creaked slightly as Diana pushed it open, and she stopped, holding her breath. It was silent, and, but for the triangle of light from the corridor, very dark, the air heavy and still. Hoping that Apse had done the blackouts before leaving, Diana switched on her torch. She tiptoed into the office and shone the beam onto the desk. It was bare of papers.
Diana willed herself not to panic. Rosemary had said the documents would be on the desk, but Apse might have forgotten . . . She turned the beam onto the coffee table - nothing there - and then, moving slowly, advanced around the room, checking the bookshelves and mantelpiece. Diana made herself stand still and count to ten. Something was odd . . . The place was too neat. Where was all the paperwork? Apse was nearly as untidy about it as F-J, and yet the desk, coffee table, sofa and armchairs were entirely free of files and documents. Unless he’d cleared up himself, which didn’t seem likely, someone had been there already and taken everything away. As quietly as she could, she began opening the desk drawers, checking the contents. Stationery, pens . . . nothing of any importance.
She closed the last drawer and retreated to the hall, where she stood, trembling, her back to the front door. She listened intently, but could hear nothing but the beating of her heart and the blood in her ears, magnified in the dull, thick silence.
Did F-J know someone had already been there? If he did, what was it that she was meant to find? If it was a confession - something of a personal nature - it might be in the bedroom. Was this, she wondered, some sort of test? If it is, she thought, it’s my only chance to prove my loyalty. I mustn’t fail it, or . . . Fear of what might happen if she did fail drove her forward once more. She’d look in the bedroom - perhaps whoever had been there before had searched only the office. It seemed a forlorn hope, but she must do something . . .
She stood at the end of the corridor pointing the torch beam at the floor, willing herself forward. It’s a document, she told herself. Rosemary had said so, hadn’t she. A piece of paper, nothing more. She took a few cautious steps, then stopped dead. There was a draft of cold air from her right. Shining her torch through the kitchen doorway, she saw, with a hastily stifled gasp, that the door to the fire escape was ajar. She stood still, letting the beam play over the cupboards, the sink and the oven before advancing, very slowly, into the small room. She nudged the outer door open a few more inches, and shone her torch onto the fire escape, keeping it angled downwards for fear of attracting the notice of one of the ARP wardens. She looked along the railings, and was about to retreat back inside when, at the very edge of the pool of light, she caught sight of an elongated shape, dangling in midair a few feet from her.
Diana jumped and the torch fell out of her hand and clattered on the floor, rolling across the metal slats, throwing its feeble light into the gloom of the alleyway beyond. Lunging after it, bent over, Diana’s face smacked into something hard, which swung away and then back, thudding against her temple. Clutching the torch, she shuffled backwards on her knees until she felt the side of the door frame. Then she pointed the torch at the object. In the thin, jiggling beam, she saw a pair of shoes. Men’s shoes with feet in them, rotating gently, left to right and back again. Clapping one hand across her mouth to stop herself from screaming, she angled the beam upwards. Apse was hanging from the upper banisters of the fire-escape, suspended from the neck by what appeared to be a pair of braces. His long body was hanging, sack-like, his face barely recognisable with bulging eyes, mottled blue cheeks, and a swollen tongue bursting obscenely from the mouth like the end of a blood pudding.
‘Oh, my God!’ Diana dropped the torch again as she crawled back into the kitchen on her hands and knees. ‘No, please, no . . .’ She tried to stand, but her legs refused to obey her, and she was forced to grab a drawer handle and haul herself upright. She staggered back to the hall, out of the front door and down the main corridor, crashing against the walls as she went, then fled down the stairs and out into the garden, wide-eyed and shaking.
It was pitch dark. She stumbled on the side of the path, felt soft earth beneath her feet and something scratching at her legs as she lurched and fell, sideways, onto the grass, her breath coming in loud gasps. A sudden light shone down from above, blinding her, and someone slapped her hard across the face, knocking her backwards. ‘Shut up!’ A man’s voice, loud and hard.
Diana put her hands up to shield herself. ‘Please—’
‘Shut up!’ It was Dr Pyke. She shut her eyes, unable to bear the light, as he grabbed her by the upper arms and hauled her upright, then shook her hard, so that her teeth rattled. ‘You’re coming with me.’
She was as floppy as a rag-doll, with no choice but to obey him, as, with a heavy arm bearing down on her shoulders, he steered her across Dolphin Square towards F-J’s flat.
F-J opened the door, tie loosened, brandy glass in hand, frowning. ‘Get her through here.’ Dr Pyke pushed Diana in front of him, and F-J took her elbow and pushed her into a chair. After the darkness outside, the room seemed bright and too highly coloured.
‘Some brandy, I think,’ said F-J. His voice was calm, almost avuncular.
Dr Pyke handed her a glass. ‘Good for shock.’
Both men were standing over her. Diana looked from one to the other. Dr Pyke’s face was flushed, but F-J looked quite composed. ‘Go on, drink it.’ He nodded encouragement. Diana tried to comply, but the glass banged against her teeth and she couldn’t swallow. She coughed, then started to choke.
‘Lean forward.’ Dr Pyke gave her a sharp slap on the back and Diana spat some of the liquid onto her coat, noting through watering eyes that her stockings were laddered and her shoes muddy. ‘That should do the trick. Have you got a handkerchief?’
Glancing down again, Diana realised that her handbag was missing. ‘I left my bag,’ she said, ‘when I—’ She stopped, abruptly, realising that neither man had asked why she was in such a state. ‘It’s Apse,’ she said. ‘I found him. He’s . . .’
‘Take this.’ F-J proffered a neatly folded square of white linen.
Diana dabbed at her mouth and began again. ‘Apse—’
‘Not now,’ said F-J. ‘Finish your drink.’
The two men withdrew to the hall, and Diana sat clutching her glass, straining to hear what was being said. She heard the words, ‘in the garden, screaming her head off.’
Had she been screaming? She couldn’t remember. Perhaps she had. Dr Pyke had told her to shut up . . . This was the second time that he had come - or had seemed to come - to her rescue. Maybe he’d heard her in the garden and gone out to see what the matter was. But no-one else had, and if she’d been making that much noise . . . What was it Claude had said about him?
I believe F-J finds him very useful on certain occasions
. Was this one of them? Had he been waiting for her to leave Apse’s flat?
BOOK: Stratton's War
7.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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