In Spite of All Terror Read online

  ‘Afternoon, Vicar,’ George called.

  Clement smiled at the boy who continued on his rounds. Afternoon, vicar! How many times had Clement heard that in twenty years? Village life; its familiar routine was like an old and cherished clock; a blessing when all its parts worked in harmony. And it had for the most part been a blessing.

  He turned right into Church Lane.

  He almost ran to his cottage. The last of the flowering shrubs by the fence and the hanging basket of brightly coloured annuals lifted his heart. Opening his front door he went straight to the kitchen. Holding Mary in his arms, he breathed in her scent. He hoped never to forget it.

  ‘Well! Do tell me, Clement? Are you to be Archdeacon Wisdom?’ Mary asked breaking free of his embrace.

  Clement shook his head. ‘It was Home Guard business, Mary. Johnny has been made a regional commander and they want to increase the role of the Home Guard. Nothing very exciting.’

  He saw her face fall.

  ‘Never mind. We are happy here, aren’t we?’

  She smiled and picked up the knife on the kitchen table. ‘Well, we have had some excitement. And I was a bit concerned for you, Clement. The village is buzzing about the German planes seen flying north.’

  ‘German planes?’

  ‘The men on duty last night with the Observer Corps reported hundreds of German planes flying overhead. Did you see them in London?’

  ‘You wouldn’t recognise London, Mary. Sandbags, barricades and windows boarded up everywhere. There is such confusion. Johnny will be coming down on Sunday. He says he would like to meet some of the men from the Home Guard.’

  The bean stringing stopped. She was staring at him but said nothing.

  He saw the slicing recommence. And the tight corners of her mouth.

  ‘I will arrange sandwiches,’ she said, the knife cutting a carrot.

  He knew he had evaded her question about the German planes, and he'd heard the controlled disappointment but he couldn’t talk about them for fear that he would let something slip about the Auxiliary Units. As the seconds ticked by, he couldn’t think of what to say and the need for an answer faded.

  ‘Well, I’ll just go and unpack my bag,’ he said leaving the kitchen.

  He heard the distinctive sound of the tongue in the lock click as he closed his study door. Mary would not disturb him until supper time. He needed to be alone to consider the men and the attributes each would bring to the group. He stared through the window at the evening sky. He’d felt guilty about evading her question. Secrecy. It divided. And he didn’t want any enmity, especially with Mary. He pondered the role of women. Was it solely to care for others? Clement remembered all the women he had seen in London in uniform and wondered if it would be different in the future.

  Swivelling in his chair, he turned to face his desk. He took his notebook from his jacket pocket and read the two names already on his list: Peter Kempton and Reginald Naylor.

  Peter’s calm analytical mind would be an asset to the group, and although his friend was now fifty-five years old, he had kept fit from walking the South Downs Way with Boadicea, his black Labrador. Reginald was a landowner - not gentry, but he had made his money from selling American sewing machines to British housewives. Unlike Peter, Reginald was not a member of the Home Guard. He was married, but other than his wife Geraldine and a grown son who had moved to Australia to run a sheep station, Reginald had no dependants.

  Clement leaned back in the seat and, turning the chair, gazed out the window. The list was proving harder to compile than he had imagined. He decided to make a start on his sermon. He hoped by doing so his subconscious mind would filter names. He reached for his lectionary and turned to Sunday the Eighth of September - the fifteenth Sunday after Trinity - and read the suggested Biblical texts. He decided to focus on divine help in adversity through faith. As he wrote, names flowed in and out of his mind.

  By supper he had twenty names.

  An hour later it was a dozen.

  By bedtime he had a short list of nine men.

  Peter and Reginald, Clive Wade the baker, young George Evans the postman, Ned Cooper - a widower who had a farm on the outskirts of the village - the village doctor, Phillip Haswell, Inspector Russell’s son, Stanley, the local butcher and John Knowles, the bank manager.

  Clement turned off the lights in his study and opened the curtains, staring through his study windows at the slice of moon which shone above them. The moonlight would increase each day from now on. He reached for his calendar and checked the moon’s cycle. The full moon would be the sixteenth of September. That night and the nights either side of it, London would be lit up by the heavens. He stared up at the omnipresent moon, frowning. He had not heard the low drone of the bombers this evening and he began to wonder if the previous night had been a rehearsal for something far more catastrophic.

  Chapter 5

  Saturday 7th September

  Reginald and Geraldine Naylor were not exactly reclusive, but Clement had only occasionally been to their home. It was a large, two storey red-brick house, covered in Virginia creeper and the epitome of its owners; conservative, ordered, with evident Protestant frugality.

  Clement and Reginald sat in the drawing room while Geraldine brought a tray of tea and fish paste sandwiches.

  ‘Is that all we have?’ Reginald looked up at his wife.

  ‘And lucky to have anything, what with the convoys being targeted the way they are. Remember Mister Wade’s boy?’

  ‘Damn Germans!’ Reginald Naylor added.

  Clive Wade, the village baker, was on Clement’s list for the very reason that Clive had lost both his sons during the year. The baker had, understandably, an entrenched and vocal dislike for the Germans. He also drove a van for home deliveries and knew his way better than most around the un-signposted country lanes.

  ‘Well, Vicar? I am guessing your visit is not entirely social?’ Reginald said.

  Clement placed his cup and saucer on the low table before him and shot a glance at Geraldine then cleared his throat.

  Reginald’s teacup hit the edge of the saucer, spilling tea onto the rug.

  ‘Reg!’ Geraldine chided and ran from the room.

  ‘Quickly, Vicar, you have about a minute.’

  ‘I have been asked to form a sub group to the Home Guard which I would like you to be involved in. Can you come to a meeting in the vestry tomorrow after church?’

  ‘I’ll be there. Probably not the service. What time?’

  ‘Midday.’

  Reginald Naylor nodded as his wife returned with a towel and a fresh pot of the palest tea Clement had yet seen.

  They talked mostly about the bird life of the Downs. Geraldine raised the German planes sighted the night before last but Clement said he knew nothing other than the rumours that everyone appeared to know. He drank his tea. Half an hour later, he left.

  It surprised Clement to see the black car parked outside the vicarage. Standing in his opened doorway, he listened. He could hear Mary’s voice. She was laughing. It was like a sudden burst of sunshine to his ears. He followed the sound of voices to the kitchen.

  ‘Hello, Clement. Mary has asked me to stay. I do hope that is convenient with you also?’

  ‘Johnny! We expected you tomorrow. Is everything alright?’ Clement asked.

  ‘Yes. I had some business in Brighton which concluded sooner than I had expected. I hope you don’t mind me showing up earlier than anticipated?’

  ‘Of course not. But I do have two commitments today. A wedding later this morning and a baptism at half-past three. If you wouldn't mind waiting?'

  'Not at all, Clement. We can continue our chat about old times when you're free,’ Johnny said smiling. ‘Besides, it gives me the opportunity to chat with your better half.’

  Mary laughed. Sandwiches were being churned out. Fish paste. Clement made a mental note that if England won the war, he would never eat fish paste again.

  ‘Now, you two go into Cl
ement’s study. I’ll bring the tea as soon as it is ready,’ Mary said.

  ‘Every vicar should have a wife. In fact, I do not know how I have managed without one all these years!’ Johnny told them.

  Mary laughed. Clement and Johnny left the kitchen and walked along the corridor to Clement’s study. Johnny’s ability to charm had not changed in twenty years. It was a skill Clement had never acquired. Pity, he told himself; charming people got church roofs fixed and organs repaired. He closed the door to his study, the familiar click of the lock soothing his ear.

  ‘Has anything happened, Johnny?’

  Johnny smiled. ‘Do you have your team, Clement?’

  Johnny hadn’t answered his question, but Clement ignored it. ‘Nine. I’ve made a list. And my assistant with the church?’

  Johnny reached into his coat and handed a slip of paper to Clement. ‘Reverend Herbert Battersby, retired but lives in Lewes. A good man- knows how to be discreet but will only come when you call him. All he knows is that you have Home Guard duties which could call you away at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Clement said, reading the name and telephone number. Placing the note on his desk, he opened his diary and took a small piece of paper from between the pages and handed it to Johnny. ‘Everyone on that list has either a knowledge or skill which, I believe, will be useful.’

  Johnny listened while Clement told him about the men. First was his friend Peter Kempton, the village solicitor, who had a way with leading people and carried authority in the village. ‘I also play chess with Peter, so I know the way he thinks. Good man - thorough, plans ahead. Then there is Clive Wade. He lost both his sons earlier in the year. It has made him not so much bitter as determined to see our enemy defeated. For this reason I believe Clive would be an asset to the unit. I spoke with a local landowner, Reginald Naylor, earlier this morning. Of course, he can fire a rifle and, from what I’ve heard, is an excellent marksman. He will attend the meeting tomorrow after church. I have also selected our local postman, George Evans, a lad from Wales who is an accomplished Morse Code telegrapher. That and because he delivers the post, means George knows most of the goings-on in the village. However, George does have a heart condition so the army wouldn’t take him, but I know he has a personal reason for doing his bit.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I did say I wouldn’t tell anyone, Johnny.’

  ‘Sorry, Clement, no confessional privileges. Not for this. I must know everything about them. All our lives are in their hands.’

  ‘He received a white feather. Don’t know who sent it, but it was a beastly thing to do to the lad. He used to be so carefree but now, it’s almost like he has something to prove.’

  ‘And the heart condition?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘Irregular rhythm, apparently. Considered minor but enough for the services to refuse him.’

  Johnny nodded, his gaze returning to the list. ‘Ned Cooper?’

  ‘Ned is a farmer. He has been a widower for many years and his father, who assisted him with the farm, died last year. Then recently, Ned’s only son, an awkward boy, was killed when a Stuka fell from the sky over their fields. Some of the shrapnel hit him. Cut the lad in two.’

  ‘Who will be running the farm in his absence?’

  ‘He has three Land Army girls who do wonderful work. I have included Ned for several reasons: he can use a gun, he is physically strong and a decent man, but there is a profound sadness about him. Due to his son’s death, there is no one now to inherit the farm and, in my opinion, Ned is without purpose in life. I believe the Auxiliary Units could give him that, even if only for a short time.’

  Clement went on. ‘The sixth is Stanley Russell our butcher. He is single, and of course, can use a knife,’ Clement stopped. Beans and carrots. Perhaps he should have asked every married woman of twenty years or more to join. ‘Then there is Doctor Phillip Haswell. Phillip lost his wife in childbirth around three years ago. The child also died. He has not remarried and has no dependants. And finally John Knowles, our bank manager. A good man,’ he paused. ‘But I cannot decide if he should be included.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His wife, Margaret, is expecting a child. This alone should be a reason to exclude him. However, John is what Mary would describe as “highly strung”.

  Johnny raised his eyebrow. ‘Why do you wish to include him?’

  ‘He speaks German.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘You said that Mrs Knowles’s pregnancy alone should be reason to exclude the husband. Do you have other reservations?’

  ‘Our police chief, David Russell, to whom I must give the list of names, is very charming. Too charming. David, apparently, enjoys spending time with other men’s wives. Margaret Knowles appears to be a favourite. It is probably innocent, but this is a small village and people talk.’

  Clement watched Johnny process the information.

  ‘And lastly, me.’

  There was a light tap on the door.

  ‘That will be our tea,’ Clement said, opening the door.

  Mary stood in the hallway but there was no tray. ‘John Knowles was just at the door, Clement,’ Mary told him in a low voice. ‘He is very agitated and wanted to speak to you but I said you were with someone and that you would call him later. I’ll get the tea.’

  He watched her walk back along the corridor before closing his door again. He heard the click.

  ‘Anything you need to look after urgently, Clement?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘It can wait,’ he replied. But something troubled him about John Knowles’s visit. Clement hadn’t heard the doorbell. He glanced at the window. It was ajar. Had John overheard their conversation? Clement chastised himself for being so suspicious. Why would anyone stand under a window amongst the flower beds eavesdropping anyway?

  ‘We will leave out the bank manager. Language skills aside, the man may not have the mental stamina. Imagine if he was interrogated by the Germans.’

  Clement nodded. He could almost visualize Knowles telling the Germans anything they wanted to know.

  ‘And the doctor,’ Johnny continued, ‘we will exclude also, because his skills would be required in the village. Are they both Home Guard?’

  ‘John Knowles isn’t. Phillip Haswell is, although due to his vocation, not in a position of authority - but he is a Church Warden. Whilst he is a quiet, unassuming man, I know he would be disappointed not to be included, if he knew about the Auxiliary Units.’

  ‘That can’t be helped,’ Johnny said. ‘This butcher, Stanley, he is a stable character?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Although his father treats him rather badly.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Stanley is Inspector Russell’s son. But he is a decent young man.’ Unlike his father, Clement thought. ‘I’m sure Stanley will be an asset to us. It could be the making of him.’

  ‘And you don’t foresee any problems when the time comes to eliminate the Inspector?’

  ‘I know this will sound odd, Johnny, but I do not believe Stanley will be too upset at his father’s passing.’

  Johnny nodded. ‘You have chosen some interesting people, Clement. So what is your sermon for tomorrow about?’

  They talked for an hour about everything and nothing; the old days at Oakhill, rationing, London. But the German planes, everyone’s favourite subject, were not mentioned. Toward eleven o’clock Clement reached for his cassock and stole and dressed before leaving the vicarage to greet the bridal party at the church.

  Johnny stood and walked with him to the doorway. ‘Don’t worry about me, Clement. I can amuse myself. Perhaps I can assist Mary with the sandwiches.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s such a busy day.’ Clement said. ‘In addition, I have a baptism at half past three. But I should be back well before supper time.’ Gathering the wedding and birth registers, he left Johnny sitting in his study, reading theological tomes. Closing the garden gate, Clement walked up the hill towards the church.

  It was just after
four o’clock when Clement returned. Johnny was exactly where Clement had left him reading. He hung his clerical robes on the hook and placed the marriage and baptismal registers on his desk.

  ‘All went well?’

  Clement nodded.

  ‘Mary says dinner will be at seven.’

  ‘Can I interest you, Johnny, in a stroll on the Downs before dinner?’

  As they walked down Church Lane, Clement told Johnny about his lunar observations.

  ‘An interesting theory.’

  Within the hour they stood on a ridge and surveyed the expansive valley before them transform from verdant green dotted with the rustic colours of autumn, to deep purple in the dwindling evening light. The sky turned a translucent blue and the occasional star twinkled above them. A crescent of golden moon was low in the sky. It was a breathtaking sight. But it made Clement think about the full moon and the nine days before the sixteenth. He glanced at Johnny who had followed his gaze to the heavenly realm.

  ‘If your theory about the full moon and the rehearsal run is correct, Clement, then we have nine days before the sixteenth to ponder it. And it is true that last night there was no bombing in London. But...’

  Clement reached out to grab Johnny’s arm. ‘Listen, Johnny.’

  Silence.

  ‘Listen,’ he said again. Clement stared into the evening sky. Although the light was fading, it was not yet dark. He squinted, scanning the darkening sky. He couldn’t yet see them but he knew they were there. ‘Aeroplanes, Johnny. More than one and not fighters. I know the sound of fighters. We have heard little else for over a month.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘No. But I’m certain the drone is different. It’s lower.’

  ‘There!’ he pointed at the black specks in the sky which grew with every passing second. The low drone increased. Within minutes it was noise, too loud to ignore. As they passed overhead the sound was like thunder.

  ‘I must get back to the vicarage,’ Johnny said, running back along the path.

  Clement was out of breath as he opened his front door. Johnny, who had run ahead was standing in the hallway, the telephone receiver in his hand.