Against the Tide (28 page)

‘Well, what was all that about? Who's that waiter?' I asked.

‘Emilio. He work there much time. Also, he friend. He think like Fred and me. He work, you know, how you say? For the party.'

‘So you gave him the little camera and asked him to photograph our friends?'

She nodded.

‘What if he's caught?' Rachel sounded anxious.

Malita shrugged her shoulders. ‘Is no matter. He hate job. But no worry. He no make mistake. He bring to me camera later.'

She reached out. ‘You give big camera. I take and Fred make printings. You come at
seis,
six o'clock. I make for you tea.' She looked at Rachel, including her in the invitation.

I didn't know whether I should press her to join us as well as I was still reeling from my encounter with Caroline the previous evening.

I'd replayed the whole scene over and over while I tried to get to sleep but I still couldn't work out what, apart from hate, she felt for me. I even examined the individual words she had used, trying to pick hidden meanings out of them.

I'd finally dozed off replaying a very different scene: Rachel, the sun sparkling off her enticing grin as she dangled a spare swimming costume in front of me and made me beg for it.

Rachel looked at me before she answered Malita. My mind cleared and I realised that I really wanted her to accept the invitation but, before I could speak, she replied.

‘Thank you but that was enough excitement for one day. It was good to get out of the hothouse for a while though. Come on, Malita, we had better get back before they send out a search party.'

‘Rachel, please…' I spoke, but it was to her retreating back.

Malita rolled her eyes at me. ‘I try but…' she shrugged and followed Rachel back to work.

I stood there feeling foolish and helpless until the drips from the tree reminded me I should be in the pool. I hurried off, trying to think of a convincing excuse for Martlew – preferably in Latin.

I'd left
Boadicea
parked in Museum Street so I made my way there, through the town centre. I cut through the market and, to stop my stomach grumbling, I bought an apple.

As I was paying, I had the feeling that I was being watched. In the mirror behind the fruiterer, I spotted the man who had given me the date of Lawrence's accident hovering by one of the butchers' counters. He didn't look as though he was purchasing a joint of beef.

I left via a side entrance and stopped outside Donaldson's music shop to check for reflections in the large window. My eye was drawn to a display of gramophone records, including an HMV Red Label double-sided copy of Jussi Bjoerling singing extracts from “La Bohème”. The sad image of the pieces of broken shellac lying in my uncle's front room reached out from the brightly-coloured record sleeves to taunt me.

I refocused and checked the reflection. My follower was still there, back turned, pretending to study the contents of the newsagent's window on the other side of the street. Had he been trailing me all morning? Was he just curious or did he intend to stop me? My heart was racing as I turned into Museum Street and hurried towards the bike.

I was nearly there when the Jaguar turned off Belmont Road and ghosted to a halt in front of
Boadicea
. I slowed and peeked over my shoulder. He was less than fifty feet from me and closing in.

The street was empty apart from a grey Morris van parked outside one of the terraced houses. The rear doors of the van were gaping and the front door to the house was open. I edged towards it. I didn't know who lived there but I felt the need for company. I was about to cross its threshold, when the tall man, who had spoken to me about Lawrence, blocked my way.

He smiled without humour. His voice was deep, throaty. ‘Good of you to stop. Mind if we have a chat?' He gestured in the direction of his car. I could hear its engine running.

I started to back away but felt the hot breath of the other man on my neck. ‘Keep calm. We just want a quiet word. Won't take long. Be a good lad and co-operate.'

I swivelled to face him. The brim of his black hat shaded his eyes but his expression was menacing. Shorter than me, he was built like a rugby forward. His suit was crumpled. I could smell fried breakfast on his clothes and stale tobacco on his breath. The other man was pressing into me, his hand gripped my elbow. My throat was dry and I couldn't speak. I didn't want to go with them but my escape route was now blocked.

Flight, fight or surrender? What would they expect least? I measured the gap between myself and the doors of the van. If I jumped in, I could get to the driver's seat and pound on the horn. That might frighten them off.

As his grip tightened, I jerked my arm forward and twisted backwards towards the van. His hand slipped free and I threw myself into the back and scrambled for the steering wheel. The van smelled of gas and there were tools scattered on the floor. I yelped as my knee scraped over something sharp and my hat flew off. The steering wheel was almost in reach.

I stretched out for the horn but strong hands grabbed my leg and I was hauled backwards and dumped in the road. I'd never felt so frightened. I curled up, waiting for the blows. Instead, there was a raucous laugh.

‘What the hell are you doing, Jack?'

I peeped out from under my arms. Cookie was standing over me. ‘You trying to steal the gas company's van?'

I exhaled in relief. I couldn't disguise my trembling as I scrambled up and fell against him. ‘Joe, thank God it's you.'

‘What's going on? Who were those two?' He pointed down the street as the Jaguar turned right and slid around the corner.

‘I don't know. They grabbed me so I jumped in the back. I was going to bang the horn to get help.'

‘Just as well I came out when I did, the bloody thing doesn't work. I've just delivered a cooker for my aunt.'

He turned back, closed the front door and locked it. ‘She's not in. Come on, let's go to the market and have a cup of tea. I'm due a break. You can tell me all about it.'

I looked up and down the street. There was no sign of the men or their car and
Boadicea
was sitting there waiting. I remembered Cookie's desperation to become a Bluebottle. I was sure those two were connected to the police so I mustn't let him get involved. ‘Thanks, Joe, but I've got to get back to school.'

‘Hang on. You can't ignore this. We should report it to the town hall. We can't have people being grabbed like that off the streets.'

‘It's okay. I'll report it later but I must get back.'

‘You make sure you do, now.' His broad face wrinkled with concern. ‘You're not involved in any criminal activity, are you?'

I had to laugh. ‘Of course not. They must have mistaken me for someone else. Don't worry, I'll report it.'

He didn't look convinced. ‘You'd tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn't you?'

I wanted to hug him. I knew I could trust him but getting involved with my uncle could ruin his chances of escaping from a job he hated. ‘I'm fine. Just a bit surprised, that's all.'

He reached into the back then slammed the doors closed. ‘This your hat?'

I nodded and he handed me the battered panama. ‘Nice.' He strode towards the front of the van. ‘Take care, now.'

I watched him leave in a cloud of blue exhaust then hurried towards the bike.

27

‘No thank you, Malita, I have had sufficient,
Gracias, no más.
' What Malita had described as a
tortilla de huevo
, or Spanish Omelette, had been rather more than my stomach could handle. The pooled olive oil on its surface had almost defeated my ability to pretend I was enjoying the meal. Fred had literally lapped it up and I supposed that he had long ago decided to smile or starve. The pungent smell of the cooking hung in the air of the small kitchen.

‘Good, Jack, you're learning.' Fred grinned at me while Malita turned back to the range then shovelled the remains of my omelette onto his own plate.

She returned to the table and picked up my plate with a satisfied smile as Fred splashed more of the
vino tinto
into my tumbler.

‘I'm pleased to see you've joined the ranks of the afflicted at last, young Jack.'

The way my head still ached from the Calvados, I guessed I was more than a recruit. But the alcohol hadn't loosened my tongue and I'd kept the secret of the diamonds to myself for the moment.

‘Uncle, when are you going to tell me what you've discovered?'

Fred reached back to the carved dresser and retrieved the photographs he had printed in his makeshift darkroom. His own equipment had been smashed by the intruders so he'd borrowed some from another comrade, whose name he declined to reveal. The quality wasn't good but the faces were clear enough.

‘My dear Watson, what we have here is a small mystery but nevertheless we have the tools to solve it.'

‘Okay, Uncle Sherlock, spill the beans.'

‘Lita, stop crashing about and come and sit with us. Emilio has done well. You must thank him.'

‘He is clever man, waste time in this place. He need money, hate these people. I give him your thanks.'

‘Now, Jack, you recognise Hurel as well as your friend Kohler's uncle and your possible father in law Hayden-Brown.'

I spat out a mouthful of the raw
tinto.
‘For Christ's sake, Uncle, he'd rather she married Saul than me.'

‘You may be right but I think he would find the wedding challenging, having to wear a black cap and dance in circles with a bunch of sweaty Hebrews.'

‘
Bastardo!
' Malita rounded on Fred, whipping him with dozens of abrasive Spanish words.

He reeled back in surprise then apologised for his gaffe.

Malita glowered at him and continued to mutter to herself while he tapped the photos.

‘Kohler's friends are as yet unknown. These two are also a mystery though I have a suspicion that one of them is Sir Edward Fairfield. We'll know more when Eric arrives.' He glanced up at the clock. ‘He should be here soon if the
Saint Julian
is on time.

If these three are German,' I stabbed at Kohler and his two older companions, ‘do we inform the authorities?'

‘No! That's the last thing we do. This isn't about the law, Jack. This is about gathering information and passing it on to those who know how best to use it.'

‘But, if they are breaking the law – using illegal passports, conspiring against Britain – shouldn't we do something?'

‘I thought I'd explained that before. Even though we are not yet officially at war with the Germans, a secret war has been going on for some time. But this isn't about territory or culture or race, it's about the class struggle –'

‘Oh, Uncle, not the Red Fred manifesto.' I wanted to bite my tongue but the words were out.

Malita gasped. ‘Jack, you no understand –'

‘Of course he doesn't, Malita.' Fred was quite calm. ‘It's never been explained to him. It's not something that is taught at Victoria College and it certainly doesn't get broadcast on the BBC or printed in the
Morning News
or the
Evening Post
. He would have to make a special effort to find out about such things. I'm not even sure I am the best one to explain.'

It was a mixture of drink and exasperation but I blurted out, ‘Oh, do try, Uncle. Do try and convert this simple capitalist to your world view.' My rather childish sarcasm prompted another sharp intake of breath from Malita.

Fred waited a couple of beats before responding. ‘Are you religious, Jack?'

‘If you mean do I go to church, the answer is occasionally… but I do believe in Christ, and in goodness.'

‘But do you believe in the Devil?'

I hesitated, my father would kill me if he heard what I was about to say. War had reinforced his Christian beliefs as much as it had destroyed my uncle's. ‘Not in the way the church portrays him. Of course there is evil in the world but I don't believe the Devil is there trying to trip us up all the time and stop us going to Heaven.'

‘Oh, “Heaven”? Where is that, Jack?'

‘I don't think it exists as a place as such. It's perhaps an everlasting peace for those who achieve goodness in their lives.'

‘And the reverse for those who don't is Hell?'

‘I don't know.' I was floundering. These were not issues that were discussed openly. It was accepted that Christianity was the norm but that God forgave those who sinned, if they repented in time. What that meant, I had never attempted to understand – as I had never begun to address the issue of death. ‘I'm only eighteen, Uncle. It's not something I've really thought about.'

‘Only eighteen? Three of your relatives were slaughtered in the trenches in France before they reached your ripe old age, Jack. They looked like men to me and your father.' He was angry now.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that I'm too young to –'

‘To what? Make a contribution to your society? Fight for your king? For your country? Kill other men who are fighting for theirs? But what are they fighting for, Jack?'

‘Well you should know, you went to Spain to fight. What was that for? For your king? For your country?'

Fred looked shaken. ‘In truth, Jack, it was for neither. It was for my beliefs and for my comrades. I could say it was in the mistaken hope that, by fighting the fascists there, we might be able to prevent more bloodshed later. But that isn't true. We answered a call, the call of the working man, if you like, though he was hardly organised enough to make it.'

He paused, thoughtful, and emptied the bottle into his cracked glass. ‘Who do you admire most, Jack? Who is your hero?'

I was tempted to say, ‘You, Uncle', but didn't want to be accused of being facetious, though I did admire him more than anyone else I knew. From history I could choose Henry V, Nelson, Wellington. All those who had fought against the odds. Rather like my uncle. ‘No one. I suppose there are more I despise, more I distrust, than admire.'