Tim Binding - Island Madness

Ned unplugged the wireless and wedged it back up the chimney.

“And we did not find it there?” the Major asked incredulously. Ned shook his head. “Hopeless!” He put his hands behind his head and sighed. “So, tell me, Ned. Do you think we will ever find out who killed our Isobel?”

Ned took a swig from his bottle. “No one cares, Major. The islanders don’t, her father’s vanished into thin air, and those Kanoniers—well, they’re keeping their mouths shut, though I tell you, they’re scared of something.”

“They are scared of the Russian front.”

“Maybe.”

“What about her friends? Have you learnt nothing from them?”

“You know them better than me, what there are of them. They were all at the party. Perhaps it was a bunch of foreigns after all, or a couple of your soldiers.” He felt the letter in his pocket. She could not tell Lentsch, she could not tell Lentsch, she wrote him the letter ‘cause she could not tell Lentsch .

“Do you ever get the feeling, Major,” he said, “that something may be happening that we know nothing about?”

The Major leant forward. “How do you mean?”

“Well, what if Isobel had found out something, seen something?”

“I don’t understand. You mean sabotage?”

“Sabotage. Thieving. I don’t know.”

“There are many things that happen on this island after dark. It is an island of secrets now, don’t you think?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary going on?”

“A sudden rush of foreigns coming in to complete fortification work, that is all. The military are always in a state of anxiety. The only sabotage I know of is Ernst coming round every evening as Bohde’s guest and ruining my dinner. It is one of the reasons I am always here.” He checked himself. “I am sorry. That sounds so rude.”

Ned waved the apology away. “That must put a strain on the kitchen,” he said, remembering the man’s size.

Lentsch nodded. “Your uncle is furious. And do you know, the food has become much worse lately as a result, burnt or not cooked properly.” He laughed. “You should tell him such tactics are useless. Men like Ernst have no palates, no taste, only appetites!” He stopped suddenly. “Listen,” he said. “We are not the only ones playing music tonight.”

From out of the dark came a thin piping sound, played softly, as if no one was meant to hear.

“A curfew-breaker, it seems,” the Major said. “This is a bad neighbourhood you are living in.”

They tiptoed out. In the field at the back Veronica was standing behind a young boy, with her arms around his chest, hugging him close, his head against her breast. The boy held a tin flute to his lips and was pointing it to the ground. The two men watched as Veronica stroked the boy’s head to the sad rhythm. When he was finished the Major applauded softly.

“Bravo,” he called.

Veronica gave a start. The boy slipped out of her grasp and hid behind her skirt.

“He should be in bed,” the Major scolded. “There is school tomorrow. Lessons to learn.”

“We were just going in,” Veronica said.

“Your son?”

“My nephew,” she replied, looking hard at Ned. He said not a word. “He stays overnight sometimes.”

“Good, good. You have sisters and brothers, then?”

“Not exactly.” She put her arms back, holding the boy steady. “It’s a complicated story.”

“Ah.” Lentsch had no intention of intruding further. “What is his name?”

“Peter,” she said quickly.

“That tune was so pretty,” Lentsch offered politely.

“One of our old folk songs.”

“Really? To me it sounds not English at all. Almost like the gypsies.”

“Well, we’re not English here, you know,” Veronica said. “You keep forgetting that.”

“Of course. It was very nice. Here.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out a coin. The boy retreated back further in the shadow.

“He’s very shy,” Veronica told him. “Soldiers give him nightmares.”

“We must not do that. Put it under his pillow later.”

“You’re very kind.”

“It is a small thing,” he said.

Veronica took the coin and shivered.

“We best be getting in, then.”

“Yes, all of us. We must all work tomorrow.”

He turned but she called him back.

“Major.”

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry about Isobel.”

“Thank you.”

“That night. I had a bit to drink. You must have thought me very…pushy.”

“Not at all. I too was drinking, I think. I must give you that record I promised.”

“Oh, that! I’d forgotten all about it.”

“If you learnt that song you would become a great favourite with the soldiers.”

Ned walked the Major to his car, then scurried back through his kitchen and hopped over the fence. Veronica was standing in her open doorway. The boy had gone.

“I thought you’d be back.”

She raised her hands up to the lintel and rested her weight on it. Once they had made love like that, with her legs wrapped round him, her arms holding her trembling weight in mid-air, her body taut with the strain, both of them feverish, trying to keep a desperate balance, both longing to cry out, to bite the silence, her parents but four feet away in the room above. Young, intoxicating times!

“Cousin Peter, eh? A foreign, is he?”

“From Russia, I think. I’m just trying to make sure he doesn’t starve to death. You going to report me?”

“Don’t be silly, V, but you shouldn’t parade him outside like that. No telling who might find out. I can’t weed out all the anonymous letters, you know. And you’d be in big trouble if they caught you.”

“Do you think he suspected?”

“I don’t think he cares either way.”

“What’s he like then, the Major?”

“I thought you knew him.”

“I mean man to man. What’s he like?”

“He’s living in another world, V—where everyone is polite and well meaning. He acts like a guest, but he’s not a guest and he knows it. So there’s an awkwardness to it all. At the end of the day he knows however well he behaves we all wish he wasn’t here. You going to the funeral?”

“Maybe.”

“Half the army’s turning out.”

“Lucky Isobel.”

“Come on, V, that’s not like you!”

Her arms sagged suddenly. “I don’t know what’s like me any more, Ned. Don’t know whether I’m coming or going, who’s friend, who’s foe.” She put her arms around him and started to cry. He closed his eyes and put his lips to her head and let her sobs subside.

“Oh, Veronica. What are we going to do with you?”

Frightened of being overwhelmed, she broke away and wiped the tears with the length of her arm.

“Come to the play, why don’t you,” she said, sniffing.

“I don’t know, V.”

“I’ll blow you a kiss.”

Ned had smiled in the dark. “All right.”

“Ned?”

“Yes.”

“Night-night.”

“Night-night, V.”

“Ned?”

“What?”

“Dream of me sometimes.”

Bernie and Ned arrived at the church at twelve, though it took ten minutes to reach the little gate and the slight uphill path to the church entrance. Outside the hearse and the crowd waited, the horses in their harness stamping their feet, impatient, like the townsfolk pressed against the stone walls, for the slow three-quarters of a mile march up to the sloping cemetery and the eternal view of the sea. Funerals were one of the few occasions when the civilian population was allowed to congregate in any number. Half the town had turned out, umbrellas at the ready. Though it looked fine, the weather would not hold for long. They were islanders. They knew the signs. Up ahead, all branches of the Occupation stood at the ready, the artillery, the Luftwaffe, even the Kriegsmarine. At the front stood the uniformed men of the Organisation Todt, their hoisted spades gleaming in the cold spring air. Ernst walked up and down banging his little stick. Ned felt drunk and in need of a piss.