Читать книгу The Schneider Papers - David M Thomas - Страница 9

Chapter 5: Wednesday, 9th September 1936

Chancellor Hitler spoke of the need for authority and rebuilding Germany through his Four-Year-Plan.

The letters arrived first post. He heard the bicycle wheels on the gravel, then the footsteps and the squeak and slam of the letterbox. Two letters lay on the off-cut carpet doormat. One was from the local builder, Mr. A Staples & Son; he recognised the copperplate handwriting, and at the same time decided to keep it pending. The letter would inform him of the estimated cost and start date of builders chaos. The other was a small brown coloured envelope with an embossed Air Ministry, Adastral House, Kingsway WCI at the top left corner, and addressed to him using his Squadron Leader rank. Official and unwelcome. He placed both letters on the hall table and, as an afterthought, deliberately put the beige coloured letter underneath the roof repair estimate from Mr. Staples, Master Builder. Carpentry and Roofs a Speciality. He shuffled into the kitchen and filled the kettle. The day was going to be another September blue-sky ‘scorcher,’ as the front page of the ‘Daily Express’ would scream the obvious, thus subliminally reassuring readers of its news and editorial accuracy.

With both hands he slowly grabbed the rim of the sink, hunched his shoulders and bowed his head. ‘What now?’ he said out loud with a degree of resignation, followed by a touch of electrical excitement which pulsed, just the once, through his upper arms and up into the back of his head. ‘Here we go again,’ thinking of his last little escapade where he only just managed to escape by the skin of his teeth. Pure luck! Lucky Harry.

He was bare-footed and still in his pyjamas, no need for a dressing gown. Who would see him anyway? The cottage was christened ‘Ashurst’ when it was built for Wilf Catt, a tenant farmer, and his family in the late seventeenth century. Actually, it was not technically a cottage, architecturally speaking, more of a half-timber framed yeoman’s house, but it was described by Mary to her friends as a heavenly petite country cottage. It was down a long, sinuous, sunken track bordered by thick hedges and trees; described, again by Mary, as ‘so reminiscent of Normandy bocages.’ She had spent long teenage summers there with a distant great-aunt of claimed early Norman and Viking lineage. The move to East Sussex was her idea for a ‘need to change the air,’ as she called the tense marital situation that had quickly developed after his return from his overseas venture. When he described the location of ‘Ashurst’ he always called the cart track that veered off from the main Crowhurst road Sackgrasse Ashurst, German for a dead-end or cul-de-sac, which bemused friends and confused tradesmen.

Thoughts of Mary returned. The place was silent and empty. He could sense her presence in every room. The lingering ‘cancan’ floral perfume in the bedroom, still faint, but definitely there; the scattered newspapers and open journals in the sitting room, which reminded him of how it used to be; tidy stacked newspapers, a spic and span house but with a cold heart. What was that poem, ‘the smile on your mouth was the deadest thing.’ He couldn’t remember where it came from, but apt, he thought.

The batch loaf was hastily and roughly sawed into portions and strawberry jam quickly and messily daubed on the bread pieces lying in a row. Fresh air was called for; a need to get out of the house. The letter from the Air Ministry had indeed unsettled him. He had a routine, a three or four mile run before breakfast, but not today. The new walking itinerary would take him up the track’s slight incline, around Macey’s barley field, through Ghottswoods, once part of an ancient forest which covered most of the county, and down to Combe Haven levels and possibly a beer at one of his watering-holes by the sea.

Not a lot had happened since he left the Service, or rather, resigned (or did he?), then was re-instated to the auxiliary list, but still on call to do His Majesty’s bidding. They had understood his operational decisions, so they said. He was angry and disappointed by the way they had handled the case. It was a cock-up from start to finish. Insufficient intelligence or useless and wrong, intelligence based on informants with vested interests in saying the wrong things, or downright lies – at the right time. He was lucky to get out of there with his life, and no one was held to account, and that was what really angered him. He now understood the tricks of the establishment trade: start backwards, required conclusion first, then construct the inquiry’s precise terms of reference. Once that is decided upon, then inevitably so is the result. That is what had made him angry. The cover-up.

The more he thought of the inquiry, the faster he walked. The memory of the desert, the thirst, the blinding sun, the disingenuous sworn statements and notarised depositions joined by reliving arguments with Mary jumbled and grew in his mind to metamorphose into a giant four engine Avro bomber taxing behind him, getting closer and closer. Louder and louder. Watch out for the propellers! He walked faster but it was still behind him. He hurriedly skirted the edge of the barley field, through the ancient oak and ash trees of Monkham Wood over the rickety old stye, careful with the loose hand-help, he jumped onto the hard clay ground and deliberately went off piste into the tall reeds growing in the Combe Haven marshes. The floodplain is no more, tidal influence and drainage now controlled by sluice gates, and modern urban earthworks separate the Haven from the sea.

The imaginary black Avro bi-plane disappeared as the natural sound and physical sensation of marsh reeds brushing against his legs and chest and the loud complaining noise of a disturbed bird community gave him, as it had always had, contentment. Peace of mind.

He wrote his resignation letter that very afternoon, just after the no fault verdict. It was done in anger. An after-shock event. Mason was prepared to concede that. But he had written the letter. What’s done is done. Woodbridge was not the recipient of the hastily hand written note, but had obviously read it; had him summoned to his presence and with actorial flourish opened the already torn envelope and read it again out loud in his presence – for effect. Woodbridge firstly conceded, and he said this staring over Mason’s head, that it was certainly his prerogative to resign, but then looking directly into Mason’s eyes, and with an opening sympathetic look on his face which then hardened to inform Mason that the Service felt otherwise. The two men stared at each other. Mason stared at Woodbridge, not knowing where this was going, and Air Commodore Woodbridge stared back. Keeping the initiative, Woodridge broke the impasse; he rose from his chair and walked around his desk and took Mason kindly by his forearm and led him to the nearest office window overlooking the Kingsway thoroughfare. They both looked down onto the street scene. It was busy with people and traffic, but noiseless action like a silent movie. They stood and watched. Nothing was said between them. They were at first disinterested observers, watching pedestrians walking, strolling, hurrying; buses and trams and taxis moving Londoners around the greatest city on earth; teams of brewery dray horses and carts going about their business replenishing public houses and delivery lorries replenishing offices and stores. Initial impartial interest soon turned to connection and feelings of engagement, summed up by Woodbridge who said quietly, ‘This is what you and I are here for.’

The proposal discussed and agreed that Thursday afternoon was his future; a transfer for Squadron Leader Harald Mason from the active list to the volunteer auxiliary or reserve list. Not active in the sense of him stationed at an Royal Air Force station or in administration somewhere behind a desk pushing paper, but, and Woodbridge waved a pencil at him in emphasis, subject to immediate call-to-arms on demand, a slightly reduced salary, and an unbroken pension, however with a very generous per diem payment whilst on active service. The definition of ‘active service’ was not fully defined. It had been ambiguously described by Woodbridge, who had taken off his gold rimmed glasses and folded his arms across his chest, as would an advocate explain a legal term or phrase to a client: ‘invaluable service rendition to the country to include miscellaneous intelligence gathering activities which may or may not involve flying.’ Mason knew it was something different, or had an alternate definition, because the carrot of full return to active service as a military pilot was mentioned and left to float in Mason’s aggrieved consciousness. Someone from the medical branch had written in the ‘additional notes’ section; and to reduce the one page psychological assessment to its basic conclusion: ‘Mason has a need to prove himself worthy, to himself and to the Service.’ One could substitute ‘Service’ for ‘Country.’

Someone else had written in the margin: ‘Recent overseas operational details illustrate a clear and pragmatic reaction to events. His solutions to operational difficulties do not sit well within the confines of rules, regulations and obligations pertaining to a commissioned officer on the active list. Especially when this country is not at war!’ The last sentence had been underlined.

So, it was decided. Mason would be on active service whilst, as it were, working, but not on the Royal Air Force active list. Even the Foreign Office legal beagles appreciated the distinction and approved.

‘Take some time off. Go on a holiday, why don’t you? See more of that wife of yours.’ With that, the interview with Air Commodore Woodbridge, Air Intelligence Directorate (Plans) was over. Settled.

Later that evening, Clarence Woodbridge, now in civilian attire, dined with a Alastair Cartwright at the Travellers Club on Pall Mall.

Since he had officially resigned, but not quite, he had worked on his marriage to Mary, including the move to the country and to this part of southern England, then Mary left, just walked out. Simple, and quite succinct message left on the hall table: Gone home to Mummy and Daddy. Need some time, Mary. So she was now back in the Welsh Marches, in a place west of Hereford.

Daily life for Mason consisted of his morning exercises, walks, bird watching and reading, punctuated by the occasional day up in town at the flat. A part of him decided that life was leaving him behind, and he should be doing something useful, something exciting. He liked to frighten himself. Another part of him disagreed, and thought the life of an amateur bird watcher, walker, and general reader was a most pleasant lifestyle. These incompatible life choices oscillated back and forth in his mind, one staying for hours, even days on end, then the other would invariably take pole position. Mary had said he was indecisive; his Lady Macbeth. She had even used the quote ‘infirm of purpose’ – more than once.

By now the sea was near, he could see it, he could smell it; the shore and the heavy timber groynes built to tame the ever shifting sea shore cobbles … Good luck with that, he thought. The inevitability of some outcomes is obvious, but the local council had to do something to appease taxpayers who want action. Build more groynes!

‘Keep walking and turn left at the main road,’ he ordered out loud; that meant ‘The Capstan’. Interesting place, interesting history. The ribbon strip urban development, circa. late nineteenth century, along the main road was discounted, not seen, not recognised in the mind of Squadron Leader Mason BSc. (Auxiliary Reserve). ‘The Capstan Inn’ was licenced for the sale of alcoholic beverages in the early eighteenth century, and according to plaques and framed testimonials in the bar had been patronised by a sprinkling of the London intelligentsia and art crowd, once upon a time. Taking in the sea air at the English seaside was considered de rigueur once upon a time. This part of St. Patrick-on-Sea was smugglers territory also, once upon a time. It was the first place in England to have coastguards in the seventeenth century, to protect the beaches from locals looting and murdering survivors of shipwrecks.

He thought about that as he pulled open the front door of the public house. The regulars were friendly enough, but then he hadn’t been washed up on the cobbled beach opposite. It was important to Mason to live in a place with history. The appreciation of history, just like living by the sea, adds another dimension to life. This was his fervent opinion. The rest of the morning was passed in the blissful company of a pint of best bitter, his pipe, and pleasant repartee with the landlord and a few locals, who listened in to conversations and threw in a contentious comment like a hand grenade for devilment or, if controversial enough, but interestingly controversial, they would be included in the bar-side debate. Hitler, the French, the Italians, Spain and even the Olympics were discussed, albeit in a very general sort of way; some would say in a shallow, opinionated and even prejudicial sort of way. Everyone knew each other, and it was all good banter. Views expressed, views agreed and attacked, concessions given and vociferous destruction of a particular controversial or contrary opinion. The jury was not always composed of twelve good men and true at the ‘Capstan’. Mason found it cathartic: he had inadvertently joined a debating society, a therapy class, and membership is cheap, just the price of a drink. Every late morning at the ‘Capstan’. No need to reserve a place, just walk in.

He ran back, even though he was not wearing his plimsolls. He got back to the house, and stood arms on hips panting for a few seconds. He unlaced and then kicked each shoe in turn against the wall next to the front door, to jettison any clay stuck to the soles. He entered and took off his heavy brogue walking shoes in standing and hopping movements in the hall, and with a sigh he picked up the beige coloured letter and padded into the sitting room in his socks. He fell heavily into his favourite armchair facing the window. Now where was his pipe? He needed his pipe. Like a child’s comfort dummy. He held the letter at arm’s length, up towards the window, hoping to see the contents without opening it, and stared at his typed name and address. Just a one pager, he concluded from its thickness. A summons. He tore open the envelope, and indeed it was. It was an invitation to a meeting on Monday, 14th September 1936, 11.45hrs. Room 251, Adrastal House. No other information. End of message. Scrawl signature of a faceless administration officer. He stared at it. A few words with possible deadly consequences; like his call to arms nearly a year ago.