Tim Binding - Island Madness

“A lot to carry, these pins,” he said. “No warmth to this coat either. Be the death of me, this job.”

“Your problems are soon to be at an end, Tommy,” Ned replied, handing over the Captain’s note. “In a couple of weeks’ time they could run you at Ascot.”

He made Tommy a mug of tea before walking down to the Royal Hotel, now Feldkommandantur Headquarters, to tell Lentsch of the day’s developments. Not that there was much. Her neck had been broken, grabbed and twisted round hard, like a gamekeeper might a bird or rabbit, that’s what the police doctor had pronounced. She was still alive probably when the cement had been pressed into her mouth and up her nose, but limp and helpless, like a rag doll. Death by suffocation or dislocation? Dr Meecham hummed and hawed. He was out of his depth. Seeing as the one the Home Office usually sent was unavailable, perhaps Lentsch could send for a pathologist from France?

Outside the Royal, Wedel was polishing the bonnet of Bernie’s car. Though the ‘Royal’ had been taken down and a German notice hung in its place Ned was pleased to see that the old AA sign still hung below the little wooden balcony. A couple of workmen stood underneath, painting the window frames. Although he recognized them, as he approached they looked to their work, ashamed for all three of them. Wedel lifted his hand in acknowledgement. Ned nodded.

“I thought you were going on leave?” he said.

Wedel winced. “ Kaput ,” he said, looking up to the first floor.

“That’s a uniform for you.”

More men were working inside, ladders and buckets of white-wash blocking the corridor. A guard showed him up to Lentsch’s office on the first floor. Despite the desk and two flags guarding the other trappings of authority, the dagger, the candlesticks and the ornate silver inkstand, the room, with its faded flowered wallpaper and obligatory chipped washstand tucked away in the far corner, still looked like a mid-priced bedroom with a faulty tap and a partial view of the sea. Above the mantelpiece hung the inevitable portrait, garlanded by a profusion of dark ferns woven round the frame as if he was peeking out through the gloom of a Silesian glade. Ned tried to imagine who would spend the morning fashioning such an absurd decoration. That was the difference between their two nations. Both held their leader in awe, depended on his strength and vision to carry them through, but while the British trusted Churchill, even admired him, they didn’t worship him. No one would bedeck a picture of his ugly flab with bits of leaf and twig.

Lentsch appeared in the doorway, his eyes red.

“I see you are admiring Wedel’s handiwork,” he said, fighting to keep his voice under control.

“What?”

“The decoration. It is our leader’s birthday. April 20th. All Germans celebrate.”

Ned smiled. “He’ll be pleased, then, to know you’ve gone to so much trouble. Smartening the place up, too.”

“Yes. The soldiers also.”

“You’re not the only ones.” Ned showed him the Captain’s letter. Lentsch read it quickly.

“I did not know this.”

“Well, he wouldn’t want to bother you I expect, considering.”

“New uniforms!” Lentsch walked to the window again. “I look out here and see the same Guernsey I saw three weeks ago—and yet it is not the same. It is without Isobel. Do you realize this, that she is no longer here? The tides come in and out, the harbour unloads, birds build their nests for the spring, and yet she is not here. How can this be?” He turned back. “It is my fault that she is dead. You believe this too, I think?”

“No, Major, I don’t think that.”

He folded the Captain’s letter back into his pocket, wedging it up against Isobel’s. Of course it’s your fault, he thought, and who knows, maybe more directly than you would have me believe. Why couldn’t Isobel have gone to Lentsch? Because of the Major’s involvement in something?

“There is nothing for me here now,” Lentsch continued flatly. “I hoped that when the war was over I would return here, become one of you, watch the boats and the seasons and be content.”

“It takes a long time to become one of us, Major,” Ned told him. “I’m not sure that I’m one of us yet. My father never thought I was.”

A silence feil.

“I would not have wanted this for the world,” the Major exclaimed, pressing his hands against the glass, “and yet I cannot say that I wish I had not been here. I cannot say that.” He moved across to the desk and turning the picture frame over in his hands, handed it to Ned. “See how happy she looks,” he implored. “See how happy I made her. Teil me I did wrong.”

Ned studied the photograph. It had been taken somewhere along the water lanes, near where he used to meet her. Three perfectly pressed uniformed officers walking along the narrow lane, Zepernick, a shorter man Ned did not recognize and the Major. Captain Zepernick, gloves in his hands, was in the midst of telling a joke, the shorter man was taking a cigarette from his mouth, and on the far side Lentsch was turning to his companions, smiling at what was being said. In between him and the smoker, dressed in a short-sleeved white top and perfectly creased jodhpurs, marched Isobel, riding erop held across her breasts in a rising diagonal from right to the left. She too was turning to Zepernick, she too was smiling, but though it was the Captain’s story that darted in and out between them, it was she who was the centre of their attention. Her hair was brushed back, her body brimming with a confident and irrepressible health. She strode amongst them like a circus trainer surrounded by her favourite lions. How she loved these intelligent and handsome creatures. What tricks they would perform for her! She was not afraid to run with them, to put her head into their mouths, let them prowl and parade in her unprotected company. All she had to do was to crack the whip and they competed for her sport! And in their immense power and beauty they had turned and with one careless swipe had killed her. He felt his stomach wince from a stab of empty pity, though whether for Isobel or himself he could not determine.

“Who took the photograph?” he asked, placing it back on the desk.

“Bohde,” the Major replied. “So. Van Dielen. He made a ruil statement?”

“Mr van Dielen has not yet returned.”

“But it is nearly eighteen hundred already! Six!”

“I know. Still, if wants to be by himself. There’s no law against it.”

He left the Major telephoning Captain Zepernick. The cobbled lanes in the Pollet were cold and empty. If only he had gone to her that night, as soon as he had read the letter! If only the note had been more forthcoming! His feet set a rhythm on the stones. Lentsch, Lentsch, she could not tell Lentsch. If not directly involving Lentsch, then something she dare not tell him? Something to do with an islander, something that would get whoever it was into deep trouble with the Germans. Someone close to her, perhaps. Her father? Her aunt? Molly?

The Britannia was empty save for Albert, sitting in the corner. He beckoned him over.

“Thought you might be in need of some company,” he said.

Ned pulled a chair out. “Trust you to think right, Uncle.”

Albert waved his glass in the air. “We’ll have a couple more here,” he called out, “if you’re not too busy.”

Ned sat down. “Heard from Kitty?” he asked, anxious to keep clear of Isobel.

Albert shook his head.

“Went to the post office yesterday. No joy. I’ll try again Monday. Something might have come in over the weekend.”

Ned tried to reassure him. “It’s just a matter of getting through. She’ll have written, all right.”