Date: Sun, 22 May 2011 18:46:28 +0100
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 13)

Snapshots of War
Michael Gouda
Part 13

14th August 1941 (Early hours of the morning)
Later that night - in fact in the early hours of the morning, the
telephone downstairs in the sitting-room rang and rang and rang.
William stirred restlessly but did not waken. Peter hoped that the
insistent ringing would stop but the caller, whoever it was, obviously
had no intention of allowing Peter to ignore it. He cursed under his
breath and carefully slid himself out of the bed, massaging his arm
which had gone to sleep. The room was in darkness, the blackout
curtains drawn. He felt his way to the door and went out onto the
landing, switching on the light once he was out of the bedroom and the
door closed.
It was 2.56 am according to his watch. Peter couldn't imagine who was
calling at this late hour. Presumably it was a wrong number. Unless it
was Carlisle with instructions for him. He doubted whether Carlisle
would be too concerned about disturbing his night's sleep if he felt
it necessary.
"Hello," he said.
There was a mechanical clang as Button A was pressed in the callbox at
the other end and the tuppence fell into the metal container. "Piet,"
said a voice, "Ich bin in Schwierigkeiten. Irgendwas ist passiert."
For a moment Peter couldn't understand why Carlisle - so certain that
it must be he - was speaking in German. Then he recognised the voice.
"Charles!" he said. "What are you doing?" Surely he should be in
prison. "Speak in English, for God's sake. Someone might be
listening." Scarcely awake, he couldn't for a moment think what to
say. He must be careful. He was not supposed to know anything of the
arrest - which must obviously have been unsuccessful, bungled. That
wouldn't please Carlisle, he thought. "What sort of trouble?" he asked.
"I think they're onto me," said Charlie. "I saw two men watching the
flat but I managed to get out the back way. I wanted to warn you. Have
you seen anything suspicious?"
God, what a mess! "No," said Peter. "Where are you now?"
But Charlie had got his wits about him. "Better not say," he said. "As
you said, someone might be listening. You'll have to get a message to
- you know whom. I'll go into hiding. Be in touch."
"Can't we meet?" asked Peter, but Charlie had rung off.
Peter lit a cigarette. It tasted foul at that time of night, so soon
after he had woken, but it calmed him. He rang Carlisle on that number
that he had been given for emergencies only. He expected there would
be a long wait before the call was answered but the receiver at the
other end was lifted almost immediately.
"Carlisle." The voice was curt.
"It's Peter Kees here, Major," said Peter. "I've just had a call from
Leverton. Something must have gone amiss in his arrest."
"I am only too aware of that." Peter could sense the anger in
Carlisle's voice and the control that was holding it in check. "Did he
say where he was?"
"No. He was afraid someone might be listening. He said he'd get in
touch though."
"When?"
"He didn't say. He just wanted to warn me that I might be under
suspicion, then he rang off before I could get anything further from
him."
There was a muffled expletive from the other end.
"What shall I do?" asked Peter.
"Just stay there. If he rings again, try to find out where he is,
arrange to meet, then let me know."
"What about William?"
"William?" Carlisle's voice suggested that William was an unnecessary
irrelevance. "Best not to complicate matters for the time being. Do
nothing until you hear from me - or Leverton."
"Should I contact the Germans?"
"Do nothing for the time being," Carlisle repeated and rang off. Peter
could imagine him sorting out things methodically and unemotionally at
the other end in that little cheerless room in the prison building. He
sympathised with the men who had failed in their assignment to arrest
Charlie.
Peter went upstairs and opened the door to the bedroom. A rectangle of
light from the little landing outside spread onto the bed and lit up
the sleeping form of William. He had moved and was curled up in the
middle of the bed, the covers thrown back to reveal the top half of
his body, his bare chest, shoulders still unformed. His hands were
clenched though they grasped nothing. The light shone onto his high
cheekbones and left dark shadows beneath.
Peter pulled up the covers over the boy but decided not to disturb him
by getting in. He made himself a cup of tea and sat in a chair in the
kitchen with a spare blanket wrapped around him staring through the
window. Towards dawn it started to rain and fallaciously pathetic
teardrops traced their way down the the panes. Eventually the pale
grey streaks of dawn announced themselves over the roofs of the houses
opposite.

Thursday 14th August 1941
A telegraph boy on a bicycle rode up Granby Street looking for number
14. There weren't too many houses still standing but he located number
12. Next door was a rubble-filled space, and the one after it too. The
early morning rain had cleared and an elderly man smoking a pipe and
enjoying the late summer sunshine, stood and watched the lad from the
other side of the road.
"Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for number 14," said the boy politely.
His voice was a high-pitched treble. He couldn't have been long out of
school.
The old man took the pipe out of his mouth and pointed the thin end at
the space opposite. It looked as if it had only recently been bombed.
There weren't many weeds growing, unlike the debris of number 16 which
was almost hidden beneath a riot of yellow ragwort and purple willow
herb.
"Name of Salter," said the boy looking at the telegram in his hand.
The man nodded. "I heard," he said slowly, "that she was dug out."
"Dead?" asked the boy. "Any survivors? I have to report back if I
can't deliver."
The man shrugged. "Don't think so," he said. "They don't tell me
anything."
The boy took out his pencil. 'Premises Bombed' he wrote in rather
awkward capital letters, balancing the telegram envelope unsteadily on
his handlebars. 'No survivors.' He got on his bicycle and pedalled
off, back towards the Post Office.
Jean came out of the front door of number 12 and watched him cycling
into the distance. "Morning, Mr Clarke," she said. "The telegram boy.
What did he want?"
The man shrugged again. "They don't tell me anything," he said and
stumped back into his house.
"I'm not surprised, grumpy old sod," said Jean to herself and went to
catch the bus which would take her across the Thames to visit Theresa
in North London's Muswell Hill.
"I don't want to stay here too long," said Theresa. She looked
comfortable enough in the armchair, sipping a cuppa and smoking a
cigarette. Her sister had a factory job and had gone off to work.
"Don't you get on with your sister?" asked Jean.
"Not too bad. But I don't like the family split up. I'd like to keep
an eye on young William. He's really only a boy when all's said and
done."
"He's nearly eighteen," said Jean.
Theresa sighed. "He'll always be a boy to me," she said. "Anyway
living with your sister isn't the same as having your own place."
Jean nodded sympathetically. She would have liked Theresa to have
moved in with her but she only had a small ground floor flat in number
12 and really there wouldn't have been room for the four of them.
"Accommodation's getting very scarce," she said, "what with all the
bombing and everything. But I'll keep my ears open."
Theresa sipped her tea. Her pregnancy was obvious now. She was dressed
in a frock which looked a couple of sizes too big for her - probably
one of her sister's. Jean thought privately that her friend might be
better off staying here with her sister rather than looking after two
children and a house - in her condition.
"Have you heard from Bert recently?" Jean asked. For a moment her mind
slipped back to the telegraph boy this morning but she said nothing
about it. There was no point in worrying Theresa unnecessarily.
"No news is good news," said Theresa cheerfully. "What about you and
Mr Kees?"
Jean shook her head, laughing. "I don't think there was ever
anything..."
"You could call round on him," said Theresa.
"Oh I couldn't," said Jean shocked. "What reason could I give?"
"There's a couple of things I want to send on to William, some shirts
and underwear. He can't have all that much seeing as how we lost it
all in the bombing," said Theresa. "I was going to post them but it
would be an excuse for you. Find out what Mr Kees says when he sees
you. He might even be pleased."
Jean looked doubtful but Theresa persisted as if she could see that
Jean protests were only as a matter of form and that eventually she
would be persuaded.

Thursday 14th August 1941
It had been a long, miserable day for Peter, as it presumably also had
for William. They had had an almost silent breakfast at which neither
had eaten very much. Peter had wanted to take him in his arms, assure
him everything would be all right but he knew he could not. Though
Carlisle had told him not to do anything until he heard from him, he
knew his controller would not change his mind - unless there were
special circumstances, unless William's staying would prove in some
way to be an advantage to the Ministry, the War Effort. With Charlie's
escape, things were on hold but they would never go back to how they
had been.
William had left for work and Peter had tried to occupy himself in the
house. After making the bed and washing the breakfast things, though,
there was little more to be done. He did do some dusting and sweeping
but just to occupy the time. All morning he waited for a telephone
call but none came and the 'cheery' music on the wireless, Sandy
MacPherson at the organ, seemed a mockery so he only switched it on at
news times. On the 1 o'clock, there was an announcement on the BBC
General Forces program that President Roosevelt and Mr Churchill had
signed what was called 'The Atlantic Charter'. Peter sighed. Though it
talked in terms of the wish for peace and the condemnation of German
aggression, it didn't appear to bring America's entry into the war any
nearer. It would seem that something infinitely more sensational would
be needed to bring that about.
Afterwards he decided he would have to eat something even though he
didn't feel the slightest bit hungry, so he made himself a sandwich
and a cup of coffee. As he had the previous night, he thought about
life without William. If only he could have taken him back home to
Holland. If only Carlisle wasn't so completely in control. If only...
But as the saying went: If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
He stared, unseeing out of the window and then jumped as the telephone
rang and startled him. Charlie? He lifted the receiver.
But it was the dry voice of Carlisle, clipped and precise that said,
"Kees."
"Yes," said Peter.
"Has he called?"
"Not yet."
"I think perhaps you should get a message through to the Germans. We
don't want them to think that anything is going wrong. Just send a
message to say there's no fresh news at the present. And as far as
Leverton is concerned..."
Peter interrupted crossly, "I know, I will phone you as soon as he
gets in touch. Now perhaps you should get off the line in case he is
trying to make contact."
He heard the connection being broken at the other end and looked up to
see Charlie standing in the doorway, a hostile, distrustful expression
on his face. He was unshaven and looked tired, his eyes, hooded. He
was carrying a small suitcase and wearing a trilby hat pulled down
over his forehead which hid his red hair and made him look like a
raffish film gangster.
"Who were you talking to?" he demanded.
Peter felt a flicker of alarm and desperately tried to think what
words he had actually used. "William's mother," he said. "She wanted
to speak to him but of course he is not at home."
"It didn't sound as if you were talking to anyone's mother," said
Charlie suspiciously. "And surely she'd know the boy wouldn't be at
home in the middle of the day."
"She has been ringing up all morning. I just got a bit fed up. Perhaps
it's the baby; she's been behaving oddly recently."
Charlie gave him a wary look but did not comment further.
"But what are you doing here?" asked Peter. "Are you sure they're not
after you?"
"Of course they're after me," said Charlie irritably, "but if you
haven't been arrested, then they can't know there's a connection
between us and I am safe here - at least for the time being. Anyway
I've been watching the house all morning and seen no one. I must use
the radio to contact Germany. I have to get away and I need their
help." He took of his hat and flung it onto the table. His hair was
unbrushed.
"There's no way you will be able to get across the Channel," said
Peter. The beaches are watched all the time and most are mined and
cordoned off with barbed wire."
"You think I don't know this? I must get to Northern Ireland and then
across to the Republic. It'll be easy from there, being neutral."
Peter nodded. It was the obvious way. Now he would have to get Charlie
out of the room somehow so that he could telephone Carlisle. "Have you
eaten?" he asked. Charlie shook his head as if this was unimportant.
"Nor slept, I expect," continued Peter. "Look, Charlie. You go
upstairs and have a sleep. I'll get you some food and we can think
what to do. It will be better to wait until dark before you go out
again, whatever we decide."
Charlie appeared to consider this. "First I'll get on to Germany," he
said.
"It's the wrong time," said Peter. "No one will be on watch at the
other end."
"There's always someone on duty." Clearly Charlie was not going to be
put off. "Please make me some food. You are right. I'm tired and
hungry." He yawned and stretched, then switched on the radio, waiting
for it to warm up.
Peter, from the kitchen, heard him tapping out some Morse code. Well,
at least MI5, and therefore Carlisle, would intercept this as well and
presumably work out what was happening - if someone was on duty. He
scraped margarine on a slice of bread and spread some meat paste on
top to make a sandwich. In books, he thought and smiled to himself as
he did so, I would have been provided with some 'knockout drops' to
put in the tea. He filled the kettle with innocuous water and lit the
gas.
Suddenly there was a disturbance from the next room. Peter heard
Charlie give a startled exclamation and someone shouted. He ran in.
Charlie was holding a man in an arm lock, his arm round the other
person's neck, squeezing it tightly.
"What are you doing?" shouted Peter. "It's William. Let him alone."
Charlie released him, seemingly a little reluctantly, and William sat
down on the sofa gasping for air.
"He crept up behind me," said Charlie, speaking about William as if he
wasn't there. "I thought it was.... " He paused, then demanded, "How
did he get in?"
"William's got a key," said Peter. "He lives here."
"So, what's he doing back at this time of day?"
Peter went over to William. He was wondering that too. There were red
marks on William's neck. They looked sore. "Are you all right?" he
asked him.
William breathed deeply. He rubbed at the marks on his neck. "I said I
didn't feel well at work and they sent me home. I didn't realise
anyone was here." Certainly he didn't look all that well. His eyes
were puffy and red and the skin over his cheekbones was stretched
white. "Could I have something to drink."
As if in response there came the sound of the kettle whistle from the
kitchen. Peter looked warily at Charlie but he had sat down again. "Go
upstairs," said Peter to William. "Lie down. I'll bring you a cup of
tea in a minute."
"Your mother rang," said Charlie suddenly, turning to William and
speaking to him for the first time. "She wants you to phone her back."
William looked at him oddly. "She knows I can't do that," he said. "My
aunt hasn't got a telephone." He walked towards the door, rubbing his
neck.
Charlie gave a sharp glance at Peter. It expressed deep wariness. All
of a sudden the room seemed very small, the light from outside the
window illuminating them like actors in a play, frozen into immobility
at the producer's behest (by the producer's direction). There was a
pause while the kettle whistle in the kitchen rose to a banshee shriek.
"And turn that fucking row off," snapped Charlie.
Peter had never been accustomed to taking orders from Charlie but on
this occasion his tone didn't seem one to ignore. As he moved to go
into the kitchen he saw William turn. The boy's expression was one of
amazement tinged with anxiety. The kettle whistle subsided as he
turned off the gas. The half-made sandwich still waited on the plate.
Almost automatically Peter finished preparing it and made a pot of
tea. He tried to banish the feelings of worry. Charlie was obviously
upset by what had happened, his narrow escape from the men Carlisle
had sent to arrest him. Naturally he would feel suspicious of anything
even slightly out of the ordinary but they had been working together
for months now and Charlie would hardly suspect the true nature of the
organisation merely on the strength of that casually overheard  remark
on the telephone. Yet there was something about Charlie's appearance
when he had arrived which worried Peter. He couldn't think what it was
but something was not quite right.
He put the plate of sandwiches and the tea things on a tray and went
back into the living room. Charlie was sitting down at the radio,
preparing to continue with the interrupted message. Of William there
was no sign. Presumably he had gone upstairs.
Charlie grabbed hold of a sandwich and stuffed it greedily into his
mouth. Peter poured the tea.
"I'll need some help," said Charlie.
Peter nodded.
"The hat's no good. It makes me look suspicious." He pointed to the
trilby he had worn when he had first arrived. It did indeed make him
look like a film villain in a second-rate B picture. "But the colour
of my hair is so distinctive. They'll have broadcasted my description.
The police will be on the lookout for a red-haired man."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Peter.
"Can we get a wig? Or some hair dye?"
"I could try at a shop," said Peter. If he could only get out of the
house, he could phone Carlisle and let him know what had happened.
"William will go."
"But he isn't well," said Peter.
"William will go," repeated Charlie. "I want you here with me."
Peter nodded. To protest further would only make Charlie more
suspicious. He could perhaps pass a message to William, give him
Carlisle's telephone number. He poured another cup of tea and,
carrying it, started for the door, but was interrupted by a short,
"Get him down here."
"Let him drink his tea first," said Peter.
"He can rest when he gets back." Charlie pushed past him to the door
and called up the stairs. "William! Come down here will you. There's
something we want you to do." He came back into the room and took
another bite of the sandwich, washing it down with a gulp of tea.
There was a pause. Then they heard William's footsteps on the stairs.
He appeared at the door opening, looking pale.
"Job for you," said Charlie.


Thursday 14th August 1941
Mavis and Adele hesitated outside the Police Station. They had debated
whether to use the same tactics as before and phone anonymously but
Adele had argued that they were not sure how successful that had been.
Certainly Charlie was missing from work but did that mean that he had
been arrested? Could they be sure that their warning had been heeded?
Mavis was wary of seeing Sergeant Prentice but Adele had reasoned that
he would hardly be looking out for a girl of eleven so many years
after that indiscretion at the sweet shop.
"It wasn't the only time," said Mavis.
"Oh come on," said Adele. "You're a grown-up woman now. He's not
likely to even connect you with that little girl. He won't recognise
you," Adele tried to reassure her but all the same Mavis insisted on
applying, almost as a disguise, a thick layer of make-up, bright red
lipstick and putting her hair into a fashionable snood.
Mavis still looked doubtful and, as they got closer to the Police
Station, she got more and more apprehensive until, arriving in front
of the square, brick-built building with the heavily sandbagged
windows and the flight of stone steps leading up to thick, wooden
double doors, she looked as if she wanted to turn tail and run.
"National Security," said Adele firmly, taking her friend's arm by the
elbow. "Just think, we're doing it for the country."
"Couldn't we do it tomorrow?"
"If Peter Kees is really a German spy," said Adele, "I don't want
William staying with him a moment longer than necessary."
Sergeant Prentice was a portly man with a red face and a small
moustache which was so similar to the one which Adolf Hitler wore that
Adele wondered why the policeman either didn't shave it off completely
or allow it to grow into into a more bushy shape. Perhaps his
underlings were too afraid of him to mention it. Certainly when he
fixed the two girls with a grim stare, his eyebrows almost meeting
under a corrugated frown, they felt very intimidated.
"Mavis Pritchard, as I live and breathe," he said in mock surprise as
they approached the counter behind which he was enthroned. "Still
shoplifting?"
Mavis blushed and flashed an 'I told you so' look at Adele.
The girls looked at him, not quite sure how to begin. Prentice put
down the pencil with which he had been exploring his ear and said,
"Well, ladies, what can I do for you?" He smiled and the smile made
him not quite so forbidding.
"Spies," said Adele.
Prentice looked at her sharply. Only two days before his Inspector had
given him a right dressing down about a call he had received, a call
suggesting that a certain Charles Leverton was a German spy. At the
time Prentice had treated the original call with some wariness. Spy
fever was abroad, fanned by the considerable Government propaganda,
and calls like this were not infrequent. Often they came from little
old ladies who, peering from behind their lace curtains, had observed
what they thought of as suspicious goings on in the neighbourhood.
More often than not, these had turned out to be nothing more momentous
than surreptitious visits by men to lonely women while their husbands
were away. But the Leverton call Prentice had dutifully logged and
this had made its slow, though inexorable, way up the hierarchy until,
Prentice assumed, it had eventually reached the ears of 'those in real
authority'. The result had been immediate and precipitate. All
references to the call had to be discovered and destroyed. No one was
to discuss the incident. The Official Secrets Act was invoked and
everyone trembled - or at least lambasted those under them. Sergeant
Prentice was unpleasant to the PCs under him and they, presumably,
kicked the cat, or their wives and children when they got home.
He looked at the two girls in front of him. Mavis Pritchard of course
he knew, had known since she was a little girl. He'd caught her once
with her hands full of penny gobstoppers stolen from the sweet shop.
Not that that was unusual. Most kids did it for dares. If they were
boys you fetched them a clip round the ear which made their heads
ring, and threatened to tell the fathers. That usually stopped them.
They knew that they'd probably get a thrashing from their dads which
would have made their present dizzy state almost a pleasure. Not that
it always worked. Those three Kray brothers were probably
incorrigible. He could see them turning into right villains before too
long. With girls, a good talking-to and a threat to take them down the
station worked just as well.
Mavis had grown into a nice-looking woman, he thought. Bit too much
make-up for his taste but he was sure she would make someone a good
wife. The other girl he didn't know. Looked well brought up. Pregnant
though.
"I'm Adele Salter, " said Adele and paused.
"Yes, Mrs Salter. You said something about spies?"
She looked for a moment a little taken aback. "Oh I'm not. . ." she
began, "I mean it's about Mr Charles Leverton. We rang about him and
now we think there's another one. You see there was this coded message
and he spoke German and - well they both do . . . . And my brother you
see is living with him, not Charlie - the other one, Peter Kees -" she
broke off. It wasn't coming out right.
To anyone else the rambling incoherence would have been dismissed as
nonsense but Sergeant Prentice had seen the result of the earlier call
and the frenetic response from on high. While ordinarily he would have
got out the file on Leverton of course this no longer existed. He
should have referred to his superior but Inspector Newman was  not in
his office and Sergeant Prentice did not have quite the audacity to go
straight to the Chief Inspector or the Super.
He called to PC Carter and asked him to make a pot of tea. "Time for a
little talk," he said, leading the two girls into an interview room.
"Let's have the whole story."
According to the wall clock it was 2.17 p m.

End of Part 13