Tim Binding - Island Madness

Albert glanced down at the Lodge. “She wanted to know what I was doing about supper. That’s all they ever think about, this lot, what they’re going to stuff themselves with next.”

“And that was all?”

“It was enough.”

He stood in the hall, unwilling to say more.

“Long time since I set foot in here,” Ned said.

“Hasn’t changed much,” Albert said. “Cept for the occupants. They don’t like folk snooping round here, no more than she did.”

“We still have to know our place, you mean.”

“It’s what armies are all about, isn’t it. Armies and class.”

“And Mrs Hallivand? What’s her place now?”

“To do as she’s told,” Albert said. “Like we all must do.” He looked back. “You can come in the kitchen, if you like. Have a cup of tea while I wash them cups and saucers. Take some back to your mother.”

“I think Mum’s got enough dirty dishes of her own, thanks all the same.”

Albert refused to see the joke. “You know what I mean. We can spare a few teaspoons. Bit of butter too, if you’ve a fancy.”

“Like the old days.”

Albert walked over and picked up the tray. He looked down at the cups with cigarettes and cigar ends floating in the dregs.

“No, not like them at all, Ned. Those days have passed.”

Seated at the enamel-faced table Ned looked at his uncle fussing in the sink. Before the Occupation Albert would have rather died than wear an apron round his waist.

“The last time I sat here I was wearing shorts and tucking into a jam sandwich,” Ned told him, wishing that just such a treat might lie in front of him now. “Never thought I’d sit here again.”

His uncle bent over the dirty water and stirred the crockery with reckless vigour.

“Why’d you bother with Miss Isobel, then, if it wasn’t to pull yourself up by her drawstrings?”

Ned took a sip of tea. Good and strong, made with not a thought to how many spoonfuls were put in the pot. God, how long was it since he had tasted tea like this? He tipped his cup up and filled his mouth, rolling the liquid round before swallowing it in one gulp. He could feel his body reel with the rush of it, like he was swigging brandy or vodka, his eyes watering, his stomach on fire. “I don’t know,” he said, suddenly garrulous. “I thought I was in love. I didn’t think about other things. She put a spell on me.”

“Yes, well, I can’t blame you there. For all her foolishness she was a spirit, there’s no denying it. Warm-hearted too, considerate. Not like some of them here, treating me no better than a skiwy.”

“Albertl”

A tall woman came bursting through the spring door. When she saw Ned sitting at the table she stopped.

“Oh?”

“This is my nephew, miss. Ned Luscombe? Inspector Luscombe.”

“Oh!”

Ned got to his feet. She walked across the tiles on low heels that clicked. She was wearing a smart grey cape clasped at the top and a little blue hat perched at an angle. She held out a hand; dark red fingernails, the colour of spent blood; a ring with a diamond sparkle; perfume on the wrist. He took it in his grasp. It was a white hand, long and cold and strangely erotic, even at eleven o’clock in the morning.

“Molly Langmead,” she said.

“Miss Molly was here yesterday morning, weren’t you, miss?” Albert said without looking up. “When Miss van Dielen came by to see how we were doing.”

“Mmm.” She looked around. “Matches, Albert, I need some matches. I’ve quite misplaced my lighter, the one the Captain gave me.”

Albert crossed over to the dresser and pulled open a drawer.

“We got a two-legged magpie somewhere in this house,” he grumbled, “the number of things that go missing. Here.”

He handed her the box. Molly took out a packet of cigarettes and tapped one into her hand. “Ah,” she said, lighting it up. “The joys of Graven A.”

“That’s a rare brand these days,” Ned observed.

“One and six each on the black market, so I’m told,” she said insolently, holding the packet out. “Do you smoke?”

“Only what I can afford,” Ned told her. He took out his notebook. “You saw Isobel too, then?”

She looked down, amused at his hands, patting his pockets for his pen.

“Me and Veronica, yes.”

“Veronica Vaudin?”

“Is there another Veronica in St Peter Port?”

“I wouldn’t know. What was she doing here?”

“What we were all doing. Preparing for the party.”

“She was a regular too, was she?”

Molly blew smoke into the air and threw the box back to Albert. Sitting back on one of the chairs she undid the clasp and let the cape fall open. Ned fought to keep his eyes on her face. She watched him closely, to see when he would succumb.

“No, this was her first time. I thought she might enliven the proceedings. It can get a bit stale, the same people day in, day out. There were a couple of men who’d shown interest in her.”

“In Veronica?”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised. Of course Veronica.”

“Who, exactly?”

“I thought you wanted to know about Isobel? All right, all right.” She looked up to the ceiling. “Our own dear Bohde, for a start. Apparently he’d been to her about his feet and came back smitten. God, what a thought. Bohde’s feet!”

Ned was worried about his own. He had to tread carefully here.

“The Major told me that Bohde doesn’t approve of English girls.”

“Not approving of them and wanting to sleep with them are two quite separate marters.”

Albert pulled the plug in the sink violently. Molly turned.

“I’m sorry, Albert, I know how this kind of talk upsets you, but it’s true. Bohde couldn’t take his eyes off her all evening. Isn’t that right?”

“Not for me to say, miss.”

She leant over and flicked ash into the gurgling water. Ned let his eyes fall. When they returned Molly was looking at him with amused satisfaction.

“Your uncle is the very soul of discretion,” she said, holding the cigarette over her shoulder, daring him to take another look. “But it’s my belief every night he scurries up to his room and writes down all our misdemeanours in some horrid little exercise book of his. Where do you keep it Albert, this tittle-tattle which will undo us all? Under the mattress? Up the chimney?”

She turned and looked at him. Albert stood there, fixed. He had been caught out, Ned was sure of it! Molly laughed and leaning across, stubbed the cigarette out in Ned’s saucer. She had heavy, smoker’s breath.

“Teil him not to worry. His secret is safe with me.”

Albert gathered Ned’s cup and saucer from the table and ran them under the cold tap. The crockery rattled in anger.

“You’re a close friend of Captain Zepernick, I believe?” Ned asked her. She smiled sweetly.

“What a very polite young man you are.”

“And he was there all the time, for the party?”

“Inspector, when it comes to parties, the Captain is always the first to arrive and the last to leave. This was his party. He organized it, not Isobel. He invited the men, I brought the girls.”

“Except the nurses from Bremen.”

“Well informed, too. Yes. Without wanting to sound at all snobby, they were there for the lower ranks, the Wedels of this world.”

“For Bohde too, I believe.”

“Isn’t that a hoot! I suppose it’s the only way Bohde can get anyone to oblige—to bare her all for the nation state. That’s the real reason they were there that night. No English girl would submit to that, though he’d asked most of us at one time or another. Apart from the nurses, who the good Doctor Mueller organized, Zep and I were in charge. It’s a talent we have. Making whoopee.”