He hung his uniform on the back of the door and walked across to the window and the dark rolling lawn beyond. He was about to draw the curtains when he saw lights sweeping up the headland. Not just one car but two, and a motorcycle as well. They bobbed and bounced in the night air then disappeared from view as the road bent inwards to the drive and the front of the house. Then he heard a car door slam shut and voices and Zep fumbling with his key. Lights came on, footsteps down the corridor. He expected them to march into the drawing room, where Molly was waiting, but they did not. They took the stairs two at a time with the Captain calling out his name.
Ned was woken by the sound of heavy pounding. For a moment he thought he was back in the section house with his Sergeant rattling his stick on their cast-iron beds and then he woke and saw his mother standing over him, shielding the candle flame with her bony hand. He could see the shape of her, lost underneath her flannel nightgown, and for the first time he realized how thin she had become. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“They’re at the door,” she said, and as if on cue the noise started up again, a hammering on one side of the front door and a barking on the other. Ned sat up and looked to the blacked-out window. Her shadow danced on the curtain to the rhythm of fluttering flame.
“Who could it be?” she asked, and trying to wish the answer into the world, added hopefully, “Russians?”
Ned shook his head. “Douse the flame,” he told her, “and let’s have a look at them.”
He slid out of bed and lifted up the black fabric and looked down. There were two of them. The Major’s car stood in the road behind them. It didn’t look good. He dropped the curtain.
“Germans,” he said. “Is the radio safe?”
“Up on the chimney ledge where it always is. Oh, Ned.” She clutched at him and began to shake. Ned stroked her hair.
“Don’t worry. They wouldn’t send Lentsch’s car just to arrest me,” he lied. The banging on the door continued, louder this time, and then, above the noise, came the calclass="underline" his title and his name. A torch shone up at the window. He pushed his mother away gently.
“Go back to bed. It’s best if you keep out of it.”
He slipped into his trousers and pulled on a shirt. Downstairs was damp and cold, and the empty fireplace in the front room looked bare and vulnerable. Jimbo stood by the door, growling.
“Basket,” he ordered and the dog slunk off. Checking that the curtains were well drawn, he went to the table and lit the oil lamp. The electricity wouldn’t be on for another hour. A thick plume of acrid smoke rose to the black patch on the low ceiling. He adjusted the wiek. Light flickered on the walls. The banging resumed.
“Moment!” he called out. “Moment!”
He walked over to the fireplace and ducking his head down reached up. If someone had denounced them they would have told them where to look as well. Before he had been dragooned into the force his mother used to hold BBC parties once a week. Everyone would bring something, a plate of biscuits, a pot of jam, a rhubarb cake, and they would drink blackberry-leaf tea listening to their guest of honour, brought out from its hiding place and set down in the centre of the table on a folded linen napkin. He’d put a stop to them as soon as he’d been appointed.
He eased the radio out of its hiding place, careful not to disturb the soot, and hurried into the kitchen. Underneath Jimbo’s basket, beneath the flagstone, was a hollow he had dug a month after the Occupation. It was where he kept Dad’s pistol, a relic of the old war. The Alsatian looked up and licked his hand.
“Good boy,” he told him. “Stay there.”
He dragged the basket across the floor and lifted up the stone. The gun lay at the bottom, wrapped in an oilcloth. Taking it out he lowered the radio face down, replacing the weapon carefully in amongst the precious valves at the back. Once the flagstone was back in position he pulled the dog’s basket back in place. Jimbo, hoping this was part of some new game, began to thump his tail in anticipation. Ned patted his head.
“Later, boy. Later.”
He turned on the tap and ran the cold water across his face and hands. The banging was continuous now and the front room seemed to shake with every blow. Drying his hands on the back of his trousers he ran across and opened the door. Light shone in his face. The night air stung his skin.
“Yes,” he said, “who is it? What do you want?”
“Inspector Luscombe?”
“Yes?”
“You are to come with us. Major Lentsch requests.”
Lentsch requests. Well, that was a new one. Squinting in the light he looked at the bearer of this unwanted invitation. He recognized him, Helmut Wedel, Lentsch’s adjutant.
“Wedel, is that you?” The man nodded. “What’s happened?”
“Major Lentsch requests,” he repeated. He motioned to the car. “Please?”
Ned pointed to his bare feet and held up three fingers. Wedel nodded and walked back up the path to the waiting car. Ned ran back upstairs. His mother was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, shivering. Behind her, Ned could see the double bed and the grease spot on the wall where Dad used to lean his head for his last smoke of the day. A mark on the wall, a plot of land out at the back, and six chickens. Not much after thirty years.
“I thought I told you to get back into bed,” he said.
“What do they want?” she demanded. “It’s not yet six thirty.”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing you’ve done.” He put his hands on her shoulders. She was cold and bony and afraid. He remembered how she used to be, warm and soft and content. “I’ll be back for breakfast, you’ll see.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now get on with you. The radio’s under the floor. Just in case.”
She nodded.
Outside Helmut stood by the car smoking a cigarette. As Ned walked up, not knowing quite what was expected of him, Helmut moved to the back door, wiping the handle with his sleeve. He opened the door, inviting Ned in.
“Nice auto,” Helmut observed.
It was a nice auto. It had been Bernie’s pride and joy, his Wolseley, there for weddings, funerals and other days of hire, but he had lost it to them almost immediately, a month after their arrival. It had had three ‘owners’ up to now, Knackfuss, Kratzen and now Lentsch. Ned climbed in and looked around. They were taking good care of it. He must tell Bernie. Most cars were marked by now, dents and crumpled bumpers, or some other indication of the Occupation. It was all very well for them to insist they changed the habits of a lifetime but once on the road, cycling down the narrow lanes, it was all too easy to revert to the old ways. The proper ways. The trouble was you’d round a corner and find yourself on course for a collision with a senior member of the Wehrmacht and a hefty fine from the magistrate the following morning.
“So what’s all the fuss?” Ned said. “My mother thought you were Russians.”
Helmut laughed.
“For sure. We knock on your door politely and request to steal your food,” he joked, failing to see the piquancy of his remark, adding, equally incongruously, “We are having bad business with the Russians.”
Not according to Lord Haw-Haw you’re not, Ned thought. “You are?” he asked innocently.
“Ja. Two nights they broke into the Villa. Bread, sugar, and a pie from apples. For the Major’s tea.”