Youll have it, he said, I promise you.
They had Dupont on a stretcher by then, carried him out and we followed.
The whole place had been put together in the mid-eighteenth century by a Sir William Chevely, we were told later, the cottages, harbour, quay, everything. By repute, Chevely had been a smuggler, and the port had been a front for other things. The pub, the Hanged Man, had mullioned windows and timber inserts. It certainly didnt look Georgian.
Zec took us in and found a motherly sort of woman behind the bar who answered to the name of Betsy and who fussed around Denise immediately, taking her off upstairs. I stayed in the old, beamed bar with Zec and sat in front of the roaring log fire and enjoyed a very large Bushmills Whiskey.
He sat Tarquin on a ledge near the fire. Let him dry natural.
He took out a tin of cigarettes and selected one. I said, The bear is important to you?
Oh, yes. He nodded. And to another. More than youll ever know.
Tell me.
He shook his head. Later, when that wife of yours is with us. Quite a girl, that one. Got a few years on you.
Twenty-five, I said. But after fifteen years together, we must have got something right.
Take it day by day, he said. I learned that in the war. A lot of dying in those days.
Were you in the Navy?
Only for the first year, then they pulled me back to be coxswain of the lifeboat. It was like a full-time occupation in those days. Ships torpedoed, pilots down in the Channel. No, I missed out on the real naval war.
As I discovered later, this was a totally false impression of a man who had earned the Distinguished Service Medal during his year with the Navy, then the George Cross, the MBE and four gold medals from the RNLI during his extraordinary service to that fine institution.
I said, The sign outside the inn shows a young man hanging upside down suspended by his ankle. Thats a tarot image, isnt it? I think it means regeneration.
Ah, well, it was Julie Legrande painted that back in the big war. Housekeeper of the manor and ran the pub. Weve had to have it freshened over the years, but its still what Julie painted.
French? I asked.
Refugee from the Nazis. He stood. Time you had a bath too. What business would you be in?
Im a novelist, I said.
Would I know you? I told him and he laughed. Well, I guess I do. Youve helped me get through a bad night or two. Its a pleasure to meet you. Now, if youll excuse me He stood and walked out.
I sat there thinking about it. Mystery piled on mystery here. The solution should be interesting.
We had dinner in the corner of the bar sea bass, new potatoes, and a salad and shared an ice-cold bottle of Chablis with Zec and Simeon. Denise and I both wore jeans and sweaters provided by the management. There were perhaps eight or more fishermen at the bar, three of them crew members of the lifeboat. The log fire burned brightly, rain rattled against the windows, and Tarquin steamed gently.
My dad used to tell me about Tarquin, the flying bear, when I was a kid, Simeon said. I always thought it was a fairy story.
So now youve finally learned the truth, Zec said. You listen to me in future, boy. He turned to Denise. Tell me where you got him.
Antique shop in Brighton the other years, she said. They told us hed flown in the Battle of Britain with his owner, but they didnt have any proof. I was always intrigued by the fact that besides RAF wings, he also wears Royal Flying Corps wings, and that was the First World War.
Yes, well he would, Zec said. Thats when he first went to war with the boys father.
There was silence. Denise said carefully, The boys father?
A long time ago, 1917 in France, but never mind that right now. He nodded to Simeon. Another bottle. Simeon went obediently to the bar and Zec said, I last saw Tarquin in 1944. On his way to occupied France. Then all these years later, he turns up on a shelf in an antique shop in Brighton.
He opened his tin, took out a cigarette and my wife said, Could I join you? He gave her one and a light, and she leaned back. Tarquin is an old friend, I think?
You could say that. I took him out of the Channel once before. Nineteen forty-three. Went down in a Hurricane. Great fighters, those. Shot down more of the Luftwaffe than Spitfires did. He seemed to brood and as Simeon returned with the new bottle of Chablis, the old man said, Harry, that was, or was it Max? We could never be sure.
Simeon put the tray down. You all right, Dad? There was concern in his voice.
Who, me? Zec Acland smiled. Wasnt there a book about some Frenchman who smelled or tasted something and the past all came flooding back?
Marcel Proust, Denise said.
Well, thats what that damned bears done for me. Brought it all back. There were tears in his eyes.
Simeon poured the wine. Come on, Dad, drink up. Dont upset yourself.
My bedroom. The red box in the third drawer. Get it for me, boy.
Simeon went obediently.
Zec put another log on the fire, and when Simeon returned with the box, Zec placed it on the table and opened it, revealing papers and photos.
Some of these youve seen, boy, he told Simeon. And some you havent.
He passed one of the pictures to Denise: the quay at Cold Harbour, a lifeboat moored, a much older model, Simeon on deck, a naval cap on the back of his head. Simeon and yet not Simeon.
I looked good then, Zec said.
Denise leaned across and kissed his cheek. You still do.
Now dont you start what you cant finish, girl. He fell about laughing, then passed photos across, one after another, all black and white.
The pub looked the same. There was a shot of an Army officer, engagingly ugly, about sixty-five from the look of him, steel-rimmed spectacles, white hair.
Brigadier Munro, Zec said. Dougal Munro, Oxford professor before the war, then he joined the intelligence service. What was called Special Operations Executive. SOE. Churchill cooked that up. Set Europe ablaze, he said, and they did. Put secret agents into France, that sort of thing. They moved the local population out of Cold Harbour. Turned it into a secret base.
He poured more wine and Simeon said, You never told me that, Dad.
Because we and everyone else here had to sign the Official Secrets Act. He shook out some more photos. A woman with Brigadier Munro. That was Julie Legrande. As I said, housekeeper at the manor and ran the pub. There was another picture with Munro and an officer, a captain with a ribbon for the MC, a stick in one hand. That was Jack Carter, Munros aide. Left his leg at Dunkirk.
There were others, and then he came to a large brown envelope. He hesitated, then opened it. Official Secrets Act. What the hell. Im eighty-eight years old.
If the photos before had been interesting, these were astonishing. One of them showed an airstrip with a Junkers 88S night fighter, the German cross plain on the fuselage, a swastika on the tailplane. The mechanic wore black Luftwaffe overalls. To one side was a Fieseler Storch spotter plane. There were two hangars behind.
What on earth is this? I asked.
What on earth is this? I asked.
The airstrip up the road. Yes, Cold Harbour. Night flights to France, that sort of thing. You foxed the enemy by being the enemy.
Not too healthy if they caught you, I should have thought, Denise observed.
Firing-squad time if they did. Of course, they also operated RAF stuff like this. He passed her another photo. Lysander. Ugly beast, but they could land and take off in a ploughed field.
Another photo showed the Lysander, an officer and a young woman. He wore an American uniform, the bars of a lieutenant-colonel, and a string of medal ribbons. I could make out the DSO and the DFC, but the really fascinating fact was that on the right breast of his battledress blouse were RAF wings.
Who was he? I asked.
His reply was strange as he examined the photo. Harry, I think, or maybe Max, I could never be sure.
There it was again, that same comment. Simeon looked as bewildered as I did. I was about to ask what he meant, when Denise said, And the young woman?
Oh, thats Molly Molly Sobel, Munros niece. Her mother was English, her father an American general. Clever girl. A doctor. Trained in England before the war and worked in London during the Blitz. Used to fly down from London with Munro when a doctor was needed. It was all secret, you see.
He seemed to have gone away to some private place of his own. We said nothing. The fire crackled, rain battered the window, the men at the bar talked in a low murmur.
Simeon said, You all right, Dad?
Never better, but better Ill be with a large rum in me. Im cutting loose a burden tonight, a secret nurtured over the years. He shook a fist at Tarquin. All your fault, you damn bear.
Simeon got up and went to the bar. Tarquin, still slightly steaming, sat there, enigmatic to the end.
Simeon, obviously concerned said, Look, Dad, I dont know what this is about, but maybe its a bit much for you.
Again, it was Denise who cut in, leaning forward and putting her hand on Zecs. No, leave him, Simeon, he needs to talk, I think.
He clasped her hand strongly and smiled. By God, I said you were a woman of parts. He seemed to straighten.
Right, she said. The pilot, the American, Harry or Max, you said?
Thats right.
Which doesnt make sense.
Dear God, girl, all the sense in the world. He leaned back, laughing, then opened another envelope from the box. Special these. Very, very special.
They were large prints and once again in black and white. The first was of an RAF flight lieutenant standing against a Hurricane fighter. It was the same man wed seen earlier in American uniform.
Yank in the RAF, Zec said. There were a few hundred before America joined the war at the end of 41, after Pearl Harbor.
He looks tired, Denise said and handed the photo back.
Well, he would. That was taken in September 1940 during the Battle of Britain just after he got his second DFC. He flew for the Finns in their war with the Russians. Got some fancy medal from them and when that caved in, he got to England and joined the RAF. They were funny about Yanks at that time, America being neutral, but some clerk put Harry down as a Finn, so they took him.
Harry? Denise said gently.
Harry Kelso. He was from Boston. He took another large print out, Kelso in American uniform again. Nineteen forty-four, that.
The medals were astonishing. A DSO and bar, a DFC and two bars, the French Croix de Guerre, the Legion of Honour, the Finnish Gold Cross of Valour.
I said, This is incredible. I mean, Ive a special interest in the Second World War and Ive never even heard of him.
You wouldnt. Thanks to that clerk, he was in the records as a Finn for quite some time and, as I said, there were reasons. The Official Secrets Act.
But why? Denise demanded.
Zec Acland took another photo from the envelope and put it on the table, the show-stopper of all time.
Because of this, he said.
The photo was in colour and showed Kelso once again in uniform, only this time, that of the Luftwaffe. He wore flying boots and baggy, comfortable trousers in blue-grey with large map pockets. The short flying blouse with yellow collar patches gave him a dashing look. He wore his silver pilots badge on the left side, an Iron Cross First Class above it, a Knights Cross with Oak Leaves at his throat.
But I dont understand, Denise said.
Its quite simple, Zec Acland told her. Munro gave me that. The other photos, the Yank in the RAF? That was Harry. This is the Yank in the Luftwaffe, his twin brother, Max. American father and German mother, a baroness. So Max, being the eldest by ten minutes, was Baron Max von Halder. The Black Baron, the Luftwaffe called him. He put the photos away. Ill tell you what I can, if you like. He smiled. Make a good story for you. He smiled again. Not that anyone would believe it.
By the time hed finished, the bar was empty, Betsy locking the door after the last customers and bringing us tea on a tray without a word. Simeon, I think, was as astonished as Denise and I were.
Again, it was Denise who said, Is that it?
Of course not, girl. He smiled. Lots of pieces in the jigsaw missing. I mean, the German end of things. Top secret there too. Cant help you there. He turned to me. Still, a smart chap like you might know where to pull a few strings.
A possibility, I said.
Well, then. He stood up. Im for bed and Simeons wife will wonder what hes about. He kissed Denise on the cheek. Sleep well, girl, you deserve it.
He went out. Simeon nodded and followed. We sat there by the fire, not speaking, and then Denise said, Ive just thought. You served in Germany for a while in the Army. You mentioned those German relatives from years ago. Didnt you say one of them was in the police or something?
In a manner of speaking. He was Gestapo.
She wasnt particularly shocked. The war, after all, had been half a century before, well before her time. There you are, then.
Ill see, I said, and pulled her up. Time for bed.
The room was small, with twin beds, and I lay there, unable to sleep, aware only of her gentle breathing as I stared up through the darkness and remembered. A long time ago a hell of a long time ago.
2
The German connection for me was simple enough. National Service with the old Royal Horse Guards, a little time with the Army of Occupation in Berlin, a lot more patrolling the East German border in Dingo scout cars and Jeeps in the days when the so-called Cold War was hotting up.
The area we patrolled was so like the Yorkshire moors that I always expected Heathcliff and Cathy to run out of the mist or the snow or the torrential rain for I can honestly say that inclement was a mild word to describe the weather in those parts.
The border at that time was completely open and, as a kind of police action, we were supposed to stem the tide of refugees trying to flee to the West as well as the gangs of black marketeers, usually ex-SS, who operated out of East Germany, using it as a refuge.
Our opponents were Siberian infantry regiments, hard men of the first order and occasionally the odd angry shot was fired. We called it World War Two and a Half, but when your time was up, you went home to demobilization. American troops doing the same work in their sector got three medals. We got nothing!