Dead Ground in Between (25 page)

“I do indeed. But I hope you will see your young man very soon.”

She slumped against the back of the seat. “That's the problem, though, isn't it? You never know these days what can happen. I mean, I'm safe. I don't work in a combat zone or anywhere we're likely to get bombed. I'm in ciphers. But
Simon is engaged in dangerous war work.” Her fingers flew to her mouth and she flashed Tyler an anxious look. “Oh dear, I didn't say anything I shouldn't have, did I?”

The po-faced man across the aisle frowned over at her.

“I wouldn't worry,” said Tyler. “Your statement was very general. Besides, I'm not a spy, I'm a police officer.”

“That's a relief. I guessed you were in the government in some way. You have a sort of, well, a sort of air of authority about you.”

Tyler was absurdly pleased with this remark. It was a characteristic he aspired to.

The other man said, in a voice that was too loud for the circumstances, “You were indiscreet, young lady. This man could easily be a trained actor for all you know. I've heard that the special services have men who go up and down the rail routes seeing if they can trick people into revealing information about the country's defences. They get into what seem like friendly little chats and, before you know it, young women like yourself are spilling the beans. Then, when you arrive at the next station, there are two military police officers waiting for you.”

The other members of the compartment were now looking nervously at Tyler.

He addressed the sourpuss. “I assure you, sir, I am a police officer. I can show you my identification card. There have been no indiscretions in this conversation.”

He took a card from his jacket and offered it to the man, who examined it carefully.

“All right. You're genuine. But you could just as easily not have been.”

This was a man on a mission. as far as Tyler could see. He took back his
ID
card. The young
ATS
girl had inched away from him, and she went back to looking out of the window. The others resumed their previous activities. Nobody said a
word. There was just the sound of the knitting needles clicking busily.

As for Tyler, he watched the rain-lashed fields flash past, huge old trees swaying in the force of the wind. His thoughts drifted toward Christmas and the presents he would buy. He had missed the last two Christmases with Clare. The first time, 1940, hoping she'd be able to return to England, he had purchased an expensive lambswool cardigan for her, but she hadn't come, and the gift was still wrapped and sitting in a drawer. He'd bought nothing for the Christmas of 1941, not for reasons of economy but because he felt almost superstitiously that, if he didn't buy her anything, she would be there. She wasn't. That year, he'd handed out presents that hadn't required a lot of shopping – pound notes in envelopes for every member of his family, including his parents. Not that there were a lot of ways to spend the money right now. Non-essential items were getting more and more scarce. However, his dad had been able to buy a new spade, and that seemed to please him greatly. Janet had been delighted with her five-pound note. As far as he could tell, she had turned around and used some of the money to buy him a pair of leather gloves. Much to his chagrin, he'd lost one of them almost immediately. He supposed he'd have to fess up when he saw her. He shifted restlessly.
I suppose I'll do the same thing again this Christmas. Money is easier
.

He closed his eyes, hoping to doze off, but his thoughts wouldn't let him go. For the past two years, he'd held up the relationship with Clare as hope and inspiration, not really questioning that they would be together eventually. But the dictates of the war had postponed that. She was working for Special Operations Executive, essentially as a secret agent. She had to go where she was needed. No choice in the matter.

All right, then. If you're going to daydream about her, direct it. Don't be at the mercy of sweet memories and images. Go on
.

What if she comes back soon and we set up house as man and wife? Life goes on. The war ends favourably for the Allies. The years slide away. We grow old together
.

He smiled to himself as a vivid memory came suddenly back to him. It was the summer when they consummated their love. Intense and all-consuming, nothing else had mattered. In a moment of sentimentality, he'd bought a book of Yeats poems. He liked one particular poem and he'd memorized it. With the interruptions of his job, it took him most of the week until he'd got it down cold, but he did. That night, they'd been able to go to their favourite hotel. They made love first, but when they were both lying in bed side by side, skin of arms and legs touching, he'd started to recite it to her.

“When you are old and gray and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take –”

He didn't get any further.

She sat bolt upright. “What? What do you mean,
full of sleep
? I will never, ever be the kind of old lady who dozes off in front of the fire.”

He was hurt by her rejection of what he thought was a romantic gesture on his part. He'd taken great pains to learn the poem, after all.

“It's a poem about loving the woman when she's no longer young. When she's lost her beauty. Yeats wrote it to the woman he loved.”

“Should I be grateful for that? Is that what you're saying? That love is based on physical attractiveness? That men don't have to worry but women should be thankful if their husbands stick around long enough to wipe off their drool for them?”

“Clare. Don't be ridiculous. Of course that's not what I'm saying. I thought it was very tender and loving.”

“Yes, but they didn't grow old together, did they? Maud Gonne turned him down several times. She married somebody else.”

“I didn't know that. Besides, whatever his actual life was like, Yeats still wrote a bloody good poem.” Tyler tried to bring the focus back to what he'd been trying to say. “I want to grow old with you, Clare.”

“Hmm. Are you likely to nod by the fire?”

“I don't know. Probably. Will you still love me in spite of the fact that by then I'll have a fat gut and jowls?”

At that she burst out laughing. “I can't imagine you with a fat gut. But yes, I suppose it wouldn't stop me from loving you.” She rolled over and caressed his face. “I'm sorry, Tom. You took me by surprise. The truth is I don't want to ever grow old.”

“What's the alternative?”

She laughed at that. “Good point.”

“Besides,” he continued, “everybody goes through a phase when they think they're going to die young. The world would end if it all came true.”

She paused. “I can always depend on you to be practical.” She went back to tracing his lips with her finger. “Finish the poem, please, Tom. Please. I promise I won't interrupt.”

So he had. And he still remembered it.

“And one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.”

Tyler felt a wave of desperation sweep over him. He had to find out where she was and how she was. He had to.

The camp didn't have a proper place of detention. So far, there had been no need to punish anybody for anything more than minor infractions: not keeping their bunks and lockers tidy; being insolent to the guards (very rare); quarrelling among themselves (more frequent now as Christmas approached and bad weather kept them confined). Usually the punishment was being
confined to barracks, with extra
KP
duty added in some cases. However, if Captain Beattie thought one of the
POWS
needed a cooling-off period, as he put it, a small hut near the guardhouse had been set up to hold a couple of men for a short period of time.

The sergeant unlocked the door and directed Angelo to step inside. There were two bunk beds, a small table, and a chair. Functional not fancy.

“You'll be by your lonesome,” said the sergeant. He scowled at Angelo. “You were a silly laddie, weren't you? You know you shouldn't have kept that ring. Not your property. Why'd you do it?”

Angelo shrugged. “Weak moment. It was there lying in mud. I pick it up.”

“Do you now see the error of your ways?”

“Indeed I do, indeed I do.”

He wasn't going to confide in the sergeant how the delicate ring had been intended for his love. His wife in Christ.

Angelo put his knapsack on the lower of the two bunks. “I might as well take this one.”

The sergeant removed a little booklet from his pocket. “I'm obliged to read you the Geneva Convention rules for the treatment of prisoners of war who, for reasons later specified, are held in detention. First. You will be served three meals a day, same as the others, but you will have them here, not in the mess hut. Second. You get two periods of exercise a day, half an hour in the morning and half an hour in the afternoon. You have the right to refuse these periods if you so desire.” He looked at Angelo over the top of his glasses. “I recommend you take them. It can get mighty tedious in here after a while. Especially as you don't have company at the moment. Third. You can request a pastoral visit. In your case that is probably the local padre. Good fellow. Name's Father Keegan. He don't speak Italian but I don't suppose that matters. I recommend
that as well. Breaks up the solitude. Four. You are entitled to receive writing materials, that is, paper and pencil. Five. You are expected to keep your sleeping quarters clean and tidy. There is a bucket for the necessaries. I recommend you hold on until you get to the latrines, which you can ask to do. Keeps the room a bit sweeter that way. You have an oil lamp over there but it must be extinguished by ten o'clock. Any questions?”

“No, Sergeant. Thank you.”

“Good. You might find it chilly in here but you have some coal for the heater. I recommend you don't overdo it with the coal. It's rationed. Wear your overcoat if you get too cold.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” said Angelo. It was indeed very chilly in the hut.

The sergeant smiled kindly. “Don't look so down in the dumps. You'll only be here for a week. You'll survive. Besides, the captain's heart is softer than a baby's bottom. He'll probably show you mercy and let you out sooner. It's not as if you've done something so terrible.” He reached into his pocket. “Do you want your ciggie ration?” He held out three cigarettes.

“I'll take two, and I'd be obliged if you would have the third one.”

The sergeant chuckled. “If you insist. They're worse than smoking rope but better than nowt, I suppose.” He put one of the cigarettes into his jacket pocket.

Angelo took the other two and placed them on the bed beside him. The sergeant left and Angelo heard the sound of the key in the lock. He sat on the edge of the bunk and put his head in his hands.

“All change. All change,” the guard called as he walked up and down the platform. The train engine gasped and steam rose
from its sides like an overworked horse. Passengers were spewing out of the carriages. Most seemed to know where they were going and immediately headed away from the train, threading their way through the dense crowds of other travellers. Mr. Misery had jumped out at once and was swallowed up, but Tyler paused and offered his hand to the
ATS
woman as she stepped down.

“Thank you. Nice to have met you.”

He would have liked to have utter words of comfort that would bring a smile back to that young face, but he didn't have any. “Good luck” was all he could manage.

She hurried away in the direction of another platform where a train was waiting. At least she had been completely discreet as to her final destination. It obviously wasn't Shrewsbury.

He headed for the exit.

He'd been to Shrewsbury many times but he never failed to be impressed by the strange and wonderful architecture of the station. A castle? A grand manor? Could have been either. Not to mention the carved heads around the windows. The prison on the hill was visible across the platform, although a high wall now screened off the special platform that was used for incoming prisoners. He knew that those who were considered more reliable were offered the chance to shorten their sentences by enlisting. Apparently a lot of them were doing just that. Tyler wasn't completely in favour of this new practice. As far as he was concerned, the seriously criminal characters weren't going to change that much if they were soldiers. Perhaps the opposite would happen. The army would give them an opportunity to act out.

He headed for the police station. The crowds on the platforms had dissipated like the blowing leaves and the streets were empty, the pavements wet and black with rain. It wasn't yet five o'clock but the dreary weather made it seem later.
Darkness was pressing in fast. He hoped he could finish his business with the chief constable quickly.

Slightly to his surprise the reception desk at the police station was in the charge of a female auxiliary police officer. She looked to be a lot older than Agnes Mortimer but seemed just as competent and efficient. Tyler gave her his name and reason for being there.

She smiled at him. “Lieutenant Colonel Golden is ready for you, Inspector. I'll show you to his office.”

She opened the connecting door into a narrow hall and he followed her. She tapped discreetly on a door farther down and he heard, “Come.”

“I'll bring you some tea,” she said as she opened the door, and he stepped inside.

Tyler knew the chief constable of the Shropshire constabulary was a long-serving military man, as all those in the upper echelons were. He also knew Golden was about his own age, but he wasn't prepared for how young his chief looked. His complexion was ruddy, his eyes clear, his moustache neat and trim. He exuded the aura of a man who was fit and vigorous. For some reason he made Tyler feel flabby, and he sucked in his stomach without quite realizing he was doing so.