Tim Binding - Island Madness

A minute later he had crossed into van Dielen’s yard. Ned ran round and pulling himself up looked over the fence. Monty was knocking on the little wooden door, but there was no one there; he tried the handle, but someone had fitted a new lock. He sat down and squeezed his head. There was a rumble of thunder. He looked up as the light rain returned. Monty hunched his shoulders and jammed his hat down. He was going to wait.

At the end the of the harbour stood a small sentry hut. Ned walked over and showing his warrant, asked if he could sit by the window and watch.

“ Kriminells ,” he said, exaggerating his consonants.

The guards were polite, dragging a chair to the greasy window, wiping the glass clean with an oily rag. The rain outside had settled into a steady drizzle. The wind from the sea had turned the day cold.

“ Kaffee? ”

Ned took the tin cup gratefully. The two guards trooped outside, leaving the door open. He could see their capes and their boots and the butt ends of their rifles. He breathed on the hot liquid and stared out. Back on watch, the guards resumed their conversation. He could understand some of it. There was a new girl over at the local brothel. French. Young. Very good. Something about a bottle. Much laughter. Someone had managed to drop one of the new field guns into the harbour. Smashed a boat in as well. Then a complaint. He couldn’t work that one out. Their boots rang against the cobbles as they passed it back and forth. For zwei Woche . Two weeks. Jeden Tag . Every day? Boots, uniform, the lot. He followed their gestures. He got it. Another inspection.

George Poidevin arrived two hours later. Ned nearly missed him. A line of trucks queuing up for the depots on the north side had obscured his view. As the last one moved off he caught a glimpse of van Dielen’s green lorry before the gates were shut again. Ned turned his collar up and ran through the puddles.

There was a light in the shed now, low and flickering, and though half the window was covered with brown paper he could see the two of them moving back and forth inside. Monty Freeman was waving his hat in the air. George was trying to calm him down. Ned’s arms grew tired. In about ten minutes the two of them came outside and walked over to the lorry. George clambered aboard and started throwing things out of the back.

“We’ll wait until nine,” he said. “It’ll be dead quiet by then.”

“Can’t we start earlier?” Monty sounded bitter.

“It’s a weekday, Mr Freeman. It wouldn’t be safe. Come on, help me put these out of the rain.”

Ned dropped to the ground. Waiting was not a game he was used to. In Southampton it was always a knock on the door or a quick twist of the elbow. He walked down the road to where the phone box stood. At least they still took the old currency. Ned called the station.

“Tommy? I’m at St Sampson’s. By the custom hut on the south side. I want you to bring me a bike. You can ride it over and walk back. Oh, and get me something to cover myself with. It’s chucking it down and I’m wearing my best suit.”

Tommy tried to be helpful. “A cape, you mean.”

“No, not a bloody cape. I’m trying to look inconspicuous. Something from lost property, something to cover my legs. And hurry.”

Tommy arrived twenty minutes later. He had a white bundie underneath his arm. A coat. There was black lettering on the back.

“Deckchair attendant!”

“It’s all I could find,” Tommy told him, helping him on with it. “People don’t seem to lose things like they used to.”

The lorry nosed out of the gate at around ten past. As it neared the hut the guard stepped out. George had all the papers ready; his driving licence, his petrol permit, identity card, the firm’s accreditation to the Todt. The guard waved him on. Ned eased out onto the road and started to pedal hard. The coat was tight around the shoulders and flapped uselessly about his legs. The beam on the lamp flickered on and off but there was the grey of the sea and the light of a sullen sky to help him. The cranes were silent now, the gunboats and barges dim silhouettes. On the rolls of barbed wire hung strands of dark seaweed, dull with oil. Back in St Peter Port George swung the lorry up Julian’s Hill and then turned sharp left, down the narrow alleyway that served as a rear access to the shops on Smith Street. The lorry crept along slowly, its tarpaulin sides brushing against the cobbled walls. At the end the alley broadened out into small courtyard. George wheeled the lorry round then backed it up against the back door to the bank. A jangle of keys later and the two men slipped in, Monty with a hurricane lamp in his hand. Ned counted to thirty, then followed down the narrow passageway that led to the bank. He could hear the echo of footsteps hurrying over the parquet floor. Inside the main area the smell of floor polish seemed even stronger than before. He stood in the doorway, trying to find his hearings. The counter was straight ahead of him. To his right rose the wooden partition which made up the back wall to Monty’s office. On his left stood the table where the girl with the ledger had worked, and behind, illuminated in fading flickering light, an open door with a whitewashed ceiling sloping down. He could feel the cool air rushing up from the cellars below. He took a deep breath. As he moved towards the door he heard the heavy tread of George Poidevin labouring back up. Ned skipped across and hid under the shell of the hinged counter. A grunt and George stepped into the hall.

“Mind the ink.” Monty’s voice was close behind. “Here, I’ll go first.”

They were carrying three of four boxes apiece, the stack higher than their heads. Monty moved forward gingerly.

“This’ll take all night,” George complained.

“What if it does. I’m ruined if they find this lot here.” He squealed. “Oh, Christ, I’ve done it myself now! Oh Christ, oh Christ, oh Christ! What am I to do?”

George balanced his boxes on the desk and laid down a carpet of paper.

“Walk on those,” he said, “otherwise your footsteps will be all over the place.”

Ned let them make six journeys. That way if there was any trouble they’d be more tired than he. Not that he could envisage Monty Freeman having a go at him. George was a different matter. He was a big man but quicker than he looked. On the seventh trip down Ned followed. As he made his descent he was struck by the low metal glitter that seemed to radiate from the walls, like a thousand polished boots, a curious royriad of glossy lights. He had never considered what might be found in a bank vault but he supposed it would be notes and coins and a stack of safe deposit boxes; never a grocery store. Stacked up against the wall were fairground pyramids of cans: sliced peaches, fruit cocktails, spiced pears; cans of peas and carrots and butter beans; tins of pilchards and sardines and round halves of salmon; corned beef, jellied ham, fish paste, evaporated milk, vegetable soup, and huge buggers of apricot jam. Sides of ham and bacon hung from hooks in the ceiling and bags of flour were stacked up on the floor. Ned stood and watched. George’s fat back was bent towards him as he dragged a couple of sacks across the stone flagging. Monty was stacking loose cans of cocoa into a half-opened box, methodical even in haste. Van Houten’s Cocoa. Ned could almost smell the bittersweet of it, hear the drum snap of the spoon handle as it broke into the paper seal. It would be easy for him to lift a couple and take them home. It would perk Mum’s spirit up no end, to hold a real cup of cocoa in her hand. He stepped out and stood under the solitary bare bulb.

“Need a hand, gentlemen?”

George took a swing at him. Ned had never enjoyed hitting a man before but he enjoyed it now, ducking from the wild blow and landing a fist in the dough of the fat man’s stomach. It was the right place to hit George, in the folds of his coarse corruption, and he made the right sort of noise, a thick wallowing noise like a blocked drain sucked free. A hot wave of fetid breath washed over Ned’s face as George feil against him. Ned pushed him upright and sent him sprawling back into the arms of Monty Freeman. The thin man staggered back under his weight, the two of them crashing against the sacks of flour.