Henderson's Boys: Eagle Day (7 page)

Number eighteen was the fifth apartment down the hallway. PT checked the rim of the door and when he saw light shining through listened out for a few seconds before knocking. It was a rough neighbourhood, so his Aunt Mae put a chain on the door before opening up.

Her jaw hung, but much to PT’s relief her expression quickly warmed and she ushered him into a living room that was even warmer.

‘Darling,’ she said, looking suspiciously up and down the hallway before slamming the door. ‘My god, the state of you!’

Mae couldn’t have kids and her substitute was a cage stuffed with chirping canaries against the back wall. Their noise and the smell of seed cake brought back memories of his first ever visit: six years old with his mother and Jeannot just a baby. Mae had bought him a die-cast fire engine with ladders that came off along the sides.

‘You let someone in?’ Uncle Thierry said, leaning curiously out of the kitchen.

Thierry had worked the docks his whole life and always wore a sweat-stained, white vest, showing off the dragons and sea serpents tattooed up his arms. His reaction to PT couldn’t have been more different.

‘Well, well, well,’ Thierry said, giving a mean shake of the head that turned PT’s stomach. ‘Look what sprang out of the gutter.’

‘Would you like something to eat?’ Mae asked. ‘I’ve got stew.’

PT nodded eagerly, and found himself across the table from Thierry as his aunt ladled out a stew thick with potatoes and stringy lamb and bread sliced from a fat loaf.

‘Where you been?’ Thierry grunted.

‘Around,’ PT said. ‘Garage over in Brooklyn. Ducking and diving, you know?’

‘Can’t say as I do,’ Thierry said. ‘Never shot no cop myself. Never been on the run.’

PT felt small. Twenty years labouring the docks had turned Uncle Thierry into a side of beef, and PT got the feeling that not only could his uncle rip him in half with his bare hands, but that he was actively considering the idea as they spoke.

‘Had the cops here giving me the third degree Sunday afternoon,’ Thierry said. ‘You seen the paper? That poor widow, with three kids under seven. Who did the shooting, your father?’

PT’s hand trembled as he raised a spoon to his mouth. ‘Leon, I think.’

‘Federal Reserve too. I always said your father was a dumb bastard.’

‘There’s no call for that language, Thierry,’ Mae said sharply. ‘He’s your sister’s boy and he’s thirteen years old. His father brought him up to this life. You can’t blame PT for what Miles led those boys into.’

‘I did everything for that man when your mother died,’ Thierry said, eyeballing PT as he crammed a fat slice of bread between his teeth. ‘Called in a dozen favours to land him easy work loading the mail on the transatlantic ships. Do you know how many men shovel coal in the docks for twenty years and still don’t get a job like that? And then the asshole doesn’t even last two months and leaves me looking the fool.’

PT couldn’t answer for his father’s sins and turned to his aunt. ‘Have you seen Jeannot?’

‘They let me visit this morning,’ Mae said, nodding. ‘He’s real sad, but the police are done with him and they’ve moved him to a children’s home. I’m going to try bringing him to live here, but there’s a procedure. I’ve got to petition the court and apparently it could take a month or more.’

‘We’re his next of kin,’ Thierry explained. ‘And he’s young enough not to have too many of his father’s bloody stupid ideas in his head.’

‘I’ve got some money,’ PT said. ‘Maybe I can help you out.’

Thierry interrupted with a huge laugh. ‘You think I’m gonna lay a hand on that dead-cop money? If I start showing cash around the cops’ll have me locked up faster than a longshoreman drinks his wages.’

‘Do you still have influence in the docks, with the union and that?’ PT asked, although he already knew the answer. For all the complaints about his brother-in-law being a criminal, Thierry was a well-paid representative for the dockworkers’ union, which was a thinly-veiled front for the New York mafia.

‘I’m sure we could help with a lawyer and things, PT,’ Mae said. ‘But after what happened, you’re going to have to accept a severe punishment and there’s not much we can do about that.’

Thierry smiled again, and much to PT’s relief it had a touch of sympathy to it. ‘That’s not why you’re here though, is it?’

PT shook his head. ‘I thought, with your influence in the docks, you might be able to get me on a boat.’

‘You were always smarter than your brothers,’ Thierry said. ‘I thought you might turn up here sooner or later. I’ve already put out feelers, just in case.’

PT smiled, but only until Thierry yanked his head across the table and nearly twisted his ear off.

‘Uncle,’ PT gasped. ‘Please.’

‘When cops get killed there’s a of heat,’ Thierry growled. ‘I dearly loved my sister. She wouldn’t have wanted you to rot in prison so I’m doing this for her – but once you’re gone you can’t
lot
ever
come back to the United States. Not next month, not next year, not even when you’re a hundred years old.’

‘I understand,’ PT moaned weakly.

‘If the cops ever find out that I helped you, I’ll be in so much shit that even my union connections won’t help. So you keep your mouth and if you ever mention my name or even try to contact me or your little brother – god help you.’
shut

Thierry let go of PT’s ear.

‘Thanks, Uncle.’

Thierry explained more as Mae refilled his bowl of stew. ‘A stolen French passport and identity documents will cost you a hundred and sixty dollars. I can get them sorted in a few hours. I assume you can cover that cost?’

‘I’ve got money.’ PT nodded.

‘And you speak good French?’

PT nodded again. ‘Dad always spoke it at home.’

‘There’s a cargo ship sailing for Bordeaux tomorrow evening. Captain’s a man I’ve known for many years. He’ll put you on crew as a cabin boy, but I expect he’s gonna want a few hundred dollars for his trouble.’

‘And there’s no bother getting me into the docks?’

Thierry shook his head. ‘The crossing takes around eighteen days. Once you arrive in Bordeaux you’ll be on your own, but you’ve got money, and the captain may even be able to help you some. We’ll make your documents so that you’re fourteen. Plenty of boys that age work on the ships, so you should have no bother getting yourself a room in a hostel. When your money runs low there’s always gonna be work on a boat or around the docks.’

‘I appreciate this, Uncle,’ PT said, as tears started welling in his eyes.

Thierry was a hard man, but he stood by you when it mattered.

*
Equivalent to roughly $55,000 in 2009.

Bordeaux, France

France signed a formal surrender agreement with Germany on 22 June 1940. The country was to be divided into two zones. The industrialised north and a broad strip stretching along the Atlantic coastline down to Spain would be occupied by Germany. The rural south and the Mediterranean coast were to be ruled by a puppet French government based in the small spa town of Vichy.

Under the terms of surrender the French Navy was under Vichy Government control, but the British feared that its fleet would eventually fall into German hands. On 3 July the Royal Navy surrounded the main body of the French fleet at the North African port of Mers-El-Kebir and delivered an ultimatum. The French could either scuttle their ships, join the British in the fight against Nazi Germany, or be destroyed.

Meanwhile in Berlin, the German High Command was jubilant at the rapid capitulation of France. Hitler had no desire for a long battle and expected to reach a diplomatic settlement with Britain that would end the war within months.

Once he’d met up with Paul and Rosie again, Henderson wanted to take the kids by ship from Bordeaux or across the border into a neutral country. But Paul was too sick to travel for a week after the sank and by that time German forces controlled the entire Atlantic coast, including all ports and the borders with Spain and Switzerland.
Cardiff Bay

Henderson couldn’t risk getting arrested at a port or border crossing and decided to lie low. Hopefully the Germans would assume he’d left the country if a few weeks went by without any sightings.

They needed somewhere to stay and consular official Maxine Clere provided it. The half-English daughter of a Bordeaux property developer, Maxine let Henderson and the four youngsters move into a house she’d inherited from a great-aunt. It was a grand affair, but its location on hilly ground several kilometres out of the city made it unlikely the Germans would pay much attention.

The exterior was pink. A balcony ran the length of the first floor and the interior was richly decorated with antique furniture and a spooky array of animal skins and native artefacts that Maxine’s great-uncle had brought home from France’s African colonies. But while the house remained impressive, the substantial grounds were shabby, because the gardener had been conscripted into the army.

On a sunny day you could sit out on the overgrown lawn, listen to nothing but birdsong and bake in the height of summer. At least you could until PT and Marc decided on a bout of tag wrestling and all hell broke loose.

Barefoot and bare-chested, the pair squared off with one arm behind their backs and handkerchiefs tucked into their back pockets. The game’s object was to snatch your opponent’s hanky and, despite three years in age and a huge difference in height, the pair were a surprisingly even match.

Marc was like a bull. With broad shoulders and solid limbs, he tended to stand his ground while his opponent danced about. PT loomed over him, circling on fast feet, swooping in all directions and hurling abuse. Sometimes PT managed to grab Marc’s tag, but mostly Marc would evade PT until he tired. He’d then use his strength to charge forwards and knock PT on his back.

Today was no different. Paul and Rosie watched from garden loungers a few metres away as PT crashed backwards on to the shaggy lawn. Rosie enjoyed having the two testosterone-fuelled boys riling the place up, and they both flattered her with their attention.

PT was brazen about his attraction, though Rosie hadn’t let him near enough for a second kiss. Marc’s interest was more innocent, but she often caught him glancing at her chest or staring jealously when she was deep in conversation with PT.

Paul was less comfortable with Marc and PT. He was a quiet boy who’d sooner draw than wrestle and he didn’t like sharing the attention of his big sister. It was nineteen days since the sank, but he still couldn’t close his eyes to sleep without his imagination sucking him underwater. His broken arm ached relentlessly and his swollen face gave him regular headaches.
Cardiff Bay

‘Hah!’ PT yelled triumphantly as his long arm zipped the handkerchief out of Marc’s shorts. ‘Thirty-five–twenty-eight to me.’

They’d been keeping score since day one and the running tally was hotly debated.

‘Thirty-three–thirty-five to ,’ Marc yelled back.
me

PT gasped theatrically. ‘You can’t count those stupid bouts up in the bedroom. I was half asleep and there was no room to move about!’

‘Aww, crap,’ Marc scoffed. ‘The only reason you don’t count them is that I pinned you five times running.’

‘Get stuffed,’ PT said. ‘You couldn’t pin a sheet of newspaper to a horse’s arse.’

‘Wanna bet?’ Marc jeered as the two squared off again, this time without tags or any pretence of rules.

Rosie smiled and sat up so that she could see better. Paul sighed and stood up. ‘I’m going indoors for a rest.’

Rosie looked concerned. ‘You OK? You want me to get you an aspirin, or a drink?’

As Paul headed inside, PT and Marc slammed into each other.

‘Lying son of a whore!’ Marc shouted.

‘Box baby!’ PT shouted back.

PT got his long arms around Marc and slapped his bare back hard. Marc ploughed forwards and shoved PT on the grass beneath him, then pinned one shoulder beneath his knee.

‘Fifteen years old and you’re such a weed!’ Marc grinned, as sweat trickled down his brow. ‘If we were the same age I’d crush you.’

But PT knocked him off and they somehow ended up fighting head to toe, this time with PT on top. He got his knee across Marc’s chest and squashed him, but PT’s foot was right in Marc’s face and the younger boy opened his mouth wide.

‘AAAARGH!’ PT shouted, springing into the air and hopping on one leg. ‘Toe-biter! What kind of wrestling is that? Christ almighty, it’s bleeding.’

‘Victory is mine!’ Marc shouted, thumping his chest before picking his shirt off the lawn and using it to wipe PT’s blood from his front teeth.

Rosie found the whole performance hilarious, but as she laughed she turned and saw that Paul had come back out on to the lawn.

‘You OK, mate?’

Paul smiled mischievously before pointing his thumb at an upstairs window. ‘I was heading upstairs when I saw something. Henderson’s got Maxine up there. They’re kissing and they’ve not closed the door properly.’

‘Gotta see this,’ Marc hooted.

PT’s eyebrows shot up and he gave Marc an almighty shove before leading the way inside and racing up the marble staircase. Paul, Marc and Rosie followed a few steps behind, stifling giggles as they hurried down the hallway and slowly poked heads around a half-open door.

The master bedroom was more than ten metres deep, with a parquet floor and four-poster bed. Maxine lay across a chaise-longue set in the bay window, wearing nothing but black stockings. Henderson sat at the end, massaging the stockinged feet in his lap.

‘I bet he’s gonna fertilise her,’ Marc whispered with a snigger.

PT stuck his hand in front of Paul’s eyes. ‘You can’t watch this, you’re too young,’ he hissed.

‘Get off,’ Paul said, gritting his teeth and batting the hand away. ‘You wouldn’t even know if I hadn’t come down and told you.’

Oblivious of the fascinated audience, Henderson leaned over Maxine and kissed her on the mouth before standing up and starting to unbutton his shirt.

‘What’s fertilising, anyway?’ Paul asked as quietly as he could.