A House Divided: An Easterleigh Hall Novel (31 page)

‘You will remember Lady Veronica, Mother?'

‘Of course, Tim, don't be silly.'

His mother had crossed her arms, and was staring at him. He continued, ‘Well, James, her son, is in a Spanish prisoner of war camp, and they want him home. He, of course, was on the side of the Republicans, so they're welcome to him, daft beggar. But for the sake of peace, I thought Heine could pull some strings. I won't release the original, which proves you took the silver, Mother, and in which Heine is implicated, but I will keep it tucked away nice and safe.'

He saw even more admiration in Heine's face. Nazi bastard, he thought, and strolled to the sofa and sat down before his legs gave way. He waited as Heine scanned the letter. He spoke to Millie in German, ‘He's right, I am implicated.'

Heine said to Tim, ‘I am expected at a club this evening. We will go, you and me. I am meeting a
friend, and others will come. You will meet them, and then I will see what I can do.' He almost marched from the room.

Millie came to join him, and Tim forced himself to unclench his hands and look relaxed. ‘Do you really want to marry him, Mother?'

Millie nodded. ‘Oh yes, Tim, he is my passport to security. Germany is soon going to be much more important than it is now.'

‘But does he want to marry
you
?'

She smiled. ‘He needs me. I bring him contacts to enhance his stature with his department.'

Contacts like me, Tim thought. He poured them each another coffee. It was cold. She ignored hers but he drank his, unable to leave the thought of her here, with Heine, alone. ‘But he is ruthless, so are you safe?'

She laughed, and relaxed back against the cushions stacked behind her on the leather sofa. ‘Like you, I've learned. Shall we just say that I have proof, locked away, that his father is not his father, but,' she leaned towards him, ‘someone, shall we say, not of the Aryan race, and you, as a fascist, will understand the importance of that.'

The cup shook in Tim's hand. God in heaven, what a pair. Linked to one another by a perverted admiration, and hate. Or was it love? Who the hell knew, or cared? He just wanted to be home, away from this. But he forced himself to smile.

She said, ‘Tim, I'm proud of you, you are strong
and clever, but it would be better to produce the original letter, because he might change from admiration to dislike.'

‘Well, I'm getting used to that. They don't like me at home, either, especially Jack. And I am one of two who knows where the original is, so why should I care what Heine thinks of me?'

This was what he and his da had decided he should say. It would be what she wanted to hear. She smiled, and pointed to the door. ‘Off you go and change, and promise me, Tim, you'll let your poor old mother have the original of the letter, on the quiet, as soon as you can.'

He pretended he hadn't heard.

Later, at the end of the evening, Heine put Tim in a taxi and thrust money at the driver. ‘Get him back, and don't leave until you've made sure that he's gone through the doors.'

Tim forced himself to stay awake as the taxi drove off, thinking of Bauer, who had been there in the club, sitting with Otto, Hans, Bruno, Walter and the other SS friends. So, it was Bauer, not Sir Anthony, who Potty thought he might meet. The relief was enormous, and he had listened, like a good boy, to all that was flying around the table, in English, out of courtesy towards Heine's guest. It was boastful rubbish, on the whole, until Bauer replied to a question in German, from Hans.

Bauer had smiled, and began to talk of the
bombing of Guernica, though Otto jerked his head towards Tim, frowning.

Heine said, in German, ‘He knows no German, for all his fascist talk.'

Bauer continued, telling them of his days observing the bombing of Guernica from nearby hills. Tim had been able to follow most of it, learning of the relentless waves of bombers, the devastation of the Basque town, the deaths. The SS friends smoked cigars and banged the table. They toasted a Luftwaffe pilot who sat at the next table. Quietly Bauer had added, ‘After all that, the bridge they had wanted to be destroyed was still intact.' He had said it in German, almost to himself, but Tim had understood.

He stared at Bauer, who met his eyes, as though coming back to the present, and said, immediately, ‘Such a waste of armaments, don't you all think? It shows we must improve upon the rehearsal.'

Walter, the SS officer sitting next to Tim, had nodded, and said, ‘Indeed, Herr Bauer.'

Tim had said nothing, because, of course, as far as they all knew he had not understood a word.

Tim stayed for just two days, pleading that a return to work was necessary. He was, after all, on a warning from his employer, he explained, though somehow Mr Andrews had seemed more flexible this time. Heine walked him to his taxi. He said, ‘Your cousin will be located. He will then be returned.
You are aware that you are now under an obligation to me.'

Tim said, ‘I still have the original letter.'

‘Ah, but I have your mother.'

Tim nodded, paused, and then said, ‘Yes, I understand that.'

On his way to the station he knew he needed the name of Heine's father, and the proof his mother spoke of. Then, the obligation would be Heine's again. Where did that put his mother? He didn't really care. He smiled slightly. He was getting as bad as Potty, and his spy novels.

At Dover Potty was waiting at the bottom of the gangplank, his hat pulled down, but his portly body would be identifiable miles away. Tim had half expected him, because, while the ferry lurched and keeled as it drove through the buffeting swell, he'd fixed on the conversations he'd had with Potty as a way of remaining vaguely in control of his seasickness. When they came into harbour, not only did his stomach calm, but his thoughts clarified, much like puzzle pieces slotting into place. Potty, a silly old buffer who spent his time reading spy novels? What nonsense. He was very much more than that, and Tim couldn't understand why he hadn't seen it earlier.

Potty said, ‘Walk with me.' It was eleven in the morning, his train wasn't until one o'clock, into London, and then he'd get another to Newcastle. So Tim walked. Potty ordered, ‘Talk me through the people you met, and all that happened.'

Tim did, but left out Sir Anthony, because that was nothing to do with anything. He also held back the mystery of Heine's parentage, though he wasn't sure why. He mentioned Bauer, though, and that he
had stated that they hadn't destroyed the bridge, and something about it being a rehearsal.

‘Did he indeed?' Potty murmured, as though he was making a note of it.

Again Tim smiled, because that was exactly what the man was doing. He said, ‘I should tell someone what he said. It could be important. What do your books say about who to go to? Have you any ideas?'

They were clear of the dock now. The gulls were screaming, the wind was howling, somewhere a ship's hooter boomed. ‘You're going to the station?' Potty asked, ignoring Tim's question.

‘Well, I'm not walking to Newcastle,' Tim said. ‘I have to tell Da that Heine's bringing James out, in return for the letter.'

‘Let's phone him. The sooner he gets the news the better. Come with me.' Potty led the way along streets which became progressively narrower, reminding Tim of the one in which he'd been caught in Germany. He fingered the mezuzah case. They stopped at a laundry situated on a corner. Steam belched out of vents along the side of the building. Potty opened the door, a bell jangled. They walked into a cloud of damp heat, and the smell of clean washing. Somewhere washing machines were sloshing. There was a woman behind the counter, in an overall, checking off some neatly folded sheets.

Tim said, ‘I thought we were finding a telephone?'

‘Indeed, dear boy.'

Potty tipped his hat at the woman, lifted the
hinged counter, and walked bold as brass into a corridor, and then through to a back room in which were a desk with a telephone, chairs and filing cabinets. Tim followed, playing the game. He made himself sound embarrassed as he asked, ‘Shouldn't we ask?'

‘Take a seat,' Potty said, pointing to a cushioned chair in front of the desk. Potty took the chair behind the desk. Tim sat, as Potty pushed the telephone across. ‘Please, make free.'

Tim did so, assuring Da that he was well, that Heine had rolled over in the face of the presentation of the letter, that he would be home when the train arrived. He'd contact him then, unless it was the early hours. He ended, ‘I love you, Da.'

He heard his da say, ‘You know how much I love you, lad. I'll let Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard know, and that now we wait.'

He replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair, looking around the room, waiting. He felt quite calm. Potty smiled, tamping a pipe he had produced from a rack on the desk. Tim looked around. ‘Good to be home, is it?' Potty said, reaching for his matches.

‘You have no idea.'

‘Ah, perhaps I have.'

Tim thought. Yes, Colonel Potter, you no doubt have, and damned glad I am of it, or who knows what mess I would have got myself into. But he said nothing. He checked his watch. He wanted to catch his train, but there was still an hour, and he guessed
Potty had more to say. He would, however, kill for a coffee, now that the ground had stopped moving, which always took about an hour after disembarking. Perhaps Potty was a mind reader as well as everything else, because he pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Gladys, we have a laddie here who's probably parched.'

A crackly voice replied, ‘Alcohol or coffee?'

Potty raised an eyebrow at Tim. ‘Good God, coffee, please. I'm not good on the sea,' he explained. ‘Takes a while for things to settle.'

‘You heard that, Gladys. Coffee for us both.' Potty clicked off the intercom. He lit his pipe, puffing madly. Finally it took, and Tim did wish it hadn't, as clouds of smoke smelling of cabbage leaves billowed out.

The coffee arrived. Gladys, the woman from behind the counter in the laundry, scowled, and opened the window at the rear. ‘You're disgusting, sir, isn't he, young man?'

‘Enough, Gladys,' Potty said, puffing madly. ‘Now go and tend to your sheets.'

Potty leaned back in his chair, pointing to the coffee. ‘Pour for us, if you would.' Tim obeyed, and pushed a decent-sized cup and saucer across to Potty, then sipped one himself. Potty had his hands behind his head now, and he was staring at the ceiling. Tim looked too, noticing a water stain. Potty said, ‘Have you heard of the night of the long knives, when Röhm, the leader of the SA – the
Sturmabteilung –
and
his cohorts were killed on Hitler's orders, after they become too powerful, and a possible threat?'

Tim had, because Heine and his cronies had laughed about it, and how it had elevated the SS into the position they now held. He nodded.

‘Well, laddie, if Röhm had had intelligence – in other words, agents or spies – he might have been one step ahead and dodged the bullet. That's the way wars are prevented, or if push comes to shove, wars are won. Intelligence, laddie, is the magic word. Intelligence which is gathered by people who have contacts, brave people who put themselves in harm's way, people with a cover, and a belief in a cause. People who might have an “in” with others who feel they are owed a favour in return. People who appear to be what they are not.'

Tim drained his coffee. Potty was looking at him through the fug of his foul tobacco. Ah, now they were getting to it. Yes, Potty's knowledge had kept him safe, but not just for his own sake, it appeared. He, Tim Forbes, had an ‘in', and someone who felt they were owed a favour, but to be one of the ‘brave' was a step too bloody far.

‘If you think I'm one of these people, you must be joking,' he said, pouring himself another coffee.

Potty continued to stare at the ceiling. ‘Is there something you really want? Something that you think I could do for you, to make you at least consider it?'

Tim repeated, ‘You must be bloody joking, man.
I've done what needs to be done, and now I'm going home, with a big thank you for all your help.'

‘Forget the thank you, but do reconsider, old son, at your leisure. You operate well, you keep calm, you carry out the task. We need all the help we can get, Tim. You told me Bauer said the pilots needed more practice, but for what? Why do they need the bombers? They talk of
Lebensraum
. For you, I'll translate.'

Tim interrupted, ‘Living space. I have some German, as you know.'

‘So, they have the Rhineland back – so what, or where, will be next, one wonders, to provide this living space? We need more people capable of listening, of travelling to and fro. We need you.'

Tim said, ‘Goodbye, Potty.' He rose. He had no intention of ever setting foot in Germany again.

Potty stood, smiling slightly. ‘Let's say au revoir, dear boy. Goodbye is so dreadfully final. Now, dear heart, I trust I have your discretion, and don't feel bad. I must just soldier on and perhaps I will find somebody else. Travel home safely, and congratulations on your courage these last few days.'

As Tim left the room, he was aware of Potty slumping back in his chair. He nodded towards Gladys, who smiled, and handed him a card printed with a telephone number. ‘Just in case you change your mind,' she said.

He left the laundry and walked towards the station. Had Gladys had her ear stuck to the door?
Or had she listened on the intercom? Or was he one of many, and she knew the script? He passed people choosing vegetables from a greengrocer's outside shelves, then a flower seller. Were there still shopkeepers in Guernica, and Bilbao? What must it be like to be bombed, to have planes overhead, dropping something you could not escape? He looked up at the sky. The gulls were wheeling. Well, Estrella and Maria knew. James too, no doubt. His gut twisted. Stupid little sod, but at least he should come home.