War: A Love Story - Part 3 free porn video

In 1941 Russia comprised a fifth of the worlds land surface, but its main cities and industrial centres all lay to the west of the Volga, and it was this portion of the world Hitler hungered to take during the summer. During a ferocious German invasion the mass of the Red Army was quickly knocked to pieces in a series of colossal annihilation battles which cost it a million casualties, and by September four million more Soviet troops were slowly starving to death in miserable captivity. In the wake of the triumphant German Panzer Divisions followed the SS extermination battalions, clearing away vast numbers of unwanted peasantry and slaughtering Jews. Hitler relaxed into dreams of having a colonial Eastern empire... a million square miles of Slavic helots, ruled by a handful of Herrenvolk... German viceroys. In a jubilant mood he declared in a speech to his Party faithful, "The maxims to follow are: conquer and cleanse... then rule and EXPLOIT." Willy Froehlich was aware of none of this. It was early morning and a keen breeze from the North Sea was cutting across the narrow coast road as he walked its route. The people who had arranged things for him had thought it quite a clever ruse for him to remain in the guise of a woman, and he was wearing a simple top and skirt beneath a crumpled trench coat. His head was adorned with an unspectacular cloche style hat, his feet with white socks and dark brown side-buttoned shoes, and in his hand he carried a small, cheap suitcase containing the few items he had been able to bring with him. All in all his appearance hadn't changed much at all since departing from Ravenskopf eight months previously. He was in England in a place called Essex, but he had only a vague idea of where that was. Before he had set out someone had shown him a map of the area, but the names on it had gone through his head like the words of a Bavarian music hall song. As he stared at the wide river estuary on one side and the rising ground and trees on the other, he realised he needed to be on his guard. He knew he was entering, what was for him, a hostile unchartered terrain, where people played by different rules, where different skills and knowledge were necessary for survival and where cosy assumptions could be fatal. To remain alive he'd had to accept banishment from his own country, but as he followed the road he saw it as a worthy path. He'd been charged with helping to make peace between Hitler's Germany and the British. Despite his hatred of violence and his ultimate rejection of Nazism he was now an agent for Hitler codenamed 'Harmony'. How had he, a not unintelligent person in the mid-twentieth century, come to this? It was ludicrous, but his part was clear and he was committed. He would manage it somehow; there was no sense in which he would be found wanting. He would do it in the memory of Felix Haushofer, the old man who had forfeited his life in the name of peace. Perhaps it was an impossible task, but whenever the immensity of it weighed on his mind he recalled the English expression Felix had once mentioned to him. 'From little acorns mighty oaks do grow'. He was determined that his little acorn was going to flourish, and not just because some Nazi Party official had told him it must, but because he himself wanted it to. A noise interrupted the still of the early morning, and he watched as a car, a compact Austin 10, came up the road behind him. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should flag it down and ask for a lift or stand aside and let it drive on. In the event the car drew to a halt beside him without him making any kind of signal. Three men sat inside, and the driver, an elderly clean shaven man, pushed his head out from the open side window. On the shoulder of his brown jacket was sewn a patch bearing the words HOME GUARD. "You've got a long walk in front of you if you're heading for Colchester, Miss," he said. Willy nervously gripped the handle of his suitcase. "I'm not going to that place; I'm going to Brascombe Manor. Maybe that's not so far." "Far enough. We had a report that a submarine was seen in the bay earlier. Could have been Jerry putting ashore a spy, so we thought we'd take a look." The passenger in the back of the car climbed out and stood staring at him. He was wearing a brown blouse and brown trousers and he held a rifle in his hand. The man was holding it by the stock and he wasn't pointing or threatening with it, but just the near proximity of a gun felt intimidating enough. Willy's heart thumped, but he had a pouty mouth and a beautiful face and he used them to conjure up a disarming smile. "You don't think that I'm a spy, surely." The man seated in the car gazed up and beamed. "Course not; you're too little and pretty for that kind of thing." Then his smile turned down slightly at the corners. "But you do have a foreign accent and you are in the middle of nowhere, so I'd better have a look at your identity papers." Willy quickly produced what was needed from the pocket of his coat and thrust the forged documents into the man's hand. He studied them for a moment. "Dutch are you?" he said rhetorically. "How did you get here? "I come from the Refugee Resettlement Centre at Ramsgate." "That's quite a distance from here." "A man promised to take me to Brascombe Manor in his car, but he became what you call 'fresh', and when I protested he humped me." The man with the rifle gawped stupidly. "I think you mean he dumped you, luv," said the one examining his documents. "Some blokes just haven't learnt how to act the gentlemen." "Everything here seems okay," he said, handing the papers back, "And since you're genuine we'll be proper gentlemen and take you to where you're going." He gave the man at his side a nudge with his elbow. "Ere, Nobby, get in the back. I've just found someone prettier than you to sit next to me." A little over twenty minutes later Willy stood on the road again. At the end of a short gravelled drive bordered by grass paddocks stood a fine looking Edwardian house... grey stone mellowed by the years, with a battery of tall chimneys on its roof. There was a large oak door at its centre and so many windows showing that he didn't bother counting them. It wasn't as grand as Ravenskopf of course, but it was old, ogee and poignant. For a moment he dithered. The door, under a handsome limestone tympanum and surrounded by a cinque-foil arch, looked big and formidable and he hated the idea of banging on it to attract attention. But he had to get inside the house to see the man whose name was etched on his mind. "Watchcha' sweetheart!" a voice rose up behind him and a youth swung past pedalling a red bicycle. Dressed in blue he was instantly recognisable as a post-boy. Willy watched him go to a smaller door at the side of the house and stuff mail through a letter-box. He then remounted and charged back wearing a wide hearty grin. "Keep an 'and on yu h'penny, darlin'," he called as he went by. Willy thought about what he'd said and interpreted it as 'keep a hand on your half-penny', an inexplicable expression and one Felix Haushofer had never mentioned. Taking a deep breath he approached the place where the post-boy had gone and rapped the brass letterbox. A moment passed and then a woman's face peered through the half-open door; it had sharp features, a slightly aquiline nose and hair that was tightly pulled back into a French knot. Her eyes looking him up and down with undisguised disapproval. "Who are you? What do you want?" Willy stared at her bravely. "I am Wilhelmina Naarden. I have come from Holland to see Sir Mortimer Brascombe." The woman's expression showed indignation if not outright disbelief. "Sir Mortimer always tells me if he's expecting a visitor. He hasn't said anything about you." "I am expected, that's certain," insisted Willy stubbornly. She took him inside the house and sat him in a narrow passageway on a hard chair with a tobacco-coloured corduroy seat. He found it difficult to decide whether the house was peaceful or merely gloomy. The stillness of everything gave an empty feeling to the place. "I'll tell Sir Mortimer you're here when he's had his breakfast. He can decide if he wants to see you or not," the woman told him. Willy used the time alone to go over his cover story. He was anxious, because although it was reasonable plausible he had to use it to established himself as a resident in that house. Before long his eyes drooped. In the past two days he had endured a train journey, a long drive down an autobahn and a sea crossing, and now he felt exhausted. He didn't notice the tall man come down the set of narrow stairs nearby, but the man saw him. He took note of the blond hair pulled back each side of the visitors face, noticed her white, even teeth chewing thoughtfully on the tip of a finger as he looked down at her. Her skin seemed rather pale, but her mouth was poppy red, full and tempting. "Oh, hello!" he said cheerfully, "Are you waiting to see Mrs Whippet? Are you hoping to join the house staff here?" Willy's head snapped up. The question was posed by an individual who stood straight and tall, a dapper young man dressed casually in slacks and open necked shirt with a paisley cravat at his throat. His handsome countenance was authorative and his head well formed under a luxuriant frame of blond hair, but although he looked neat and professional his demeanour suggested a relaxed man. He was expressing enough interest to set a girls heart afloat and Willy bristled uncomfortably. "No, I have come here to speak to Sir Mortimer. Who are you?" The man's eyes twinkled and his mouth bent into a flirtatious grin. "You're right to be careful. I'm Jack the Ripper." Willy laughed, again flashing his teeth. "That's ridiculous; Jack the Ripper is English folklore...isn't he?" "I dare say you're right. I was lying, I'm rather respectable really. My name is Jeremy de Vere, and my father is a Court of Sessions judge. I can give you his telephone number if you like. You can phone and confirm..." "That's silly." Before the man could respond again the scowling woman returned, and he waved a good natured hand. "If you're still here at lunchtime we'll talk again." "Sir Mortimer will see you now," the woman told Willy, "he's in the Gun Room." Willy gulped. "Gun Room!" It sounded like the casement in a fortress. "It's his study," the woman explained impatiently, "follow me. I'll show you the way." Willy trailed behind her down the passageway. The woman knocked at a mahogany door at the end and opened it, stepping aside to let him through. As soon as he was through the door, Willy felt he were in another world. The floor was furnished with comfortable leather chairs, deep pile carpets and an antique desk. On the wall behind the desk hung a glass-fronted cabinet containing shot-guns and hunting rifles. Sir Mortimer was sprawled in a chair behind the desk. He was middle- aged man sporting a tweed bow-tie, not tall, rather rotund and with a podgy boyish face and thinning hair. He indicted for him to sit down and Willy perched on the edge of a chair. The furniture looked as if it were standing to attention; and the cushions looked so bosomy he thought they would probably resent being disturbed. "Mrs Whippet tells me that I should be expecting you, but I don't recollect making any such arrangement," the man began. Willy pushed out his cover story. "The Administer at the Refugee Relief Centre telephoned and was told I should come here," he said. The man frowned. "One of my house staff took the call I expect, and never told me. Can't hang on to reliable people with the war on. Mrs Whippet said your name is Naarden. Are you a relation to Oscar Naarden?" "I'm a niece." "Oscar as been a dear friend of mine for years. How is he weathering life in Nazi occupied Holland?" "I don't know, I've not seen him. But we spoke on the telephone briefly, and he told me that if I reached England I should try to find you. He said you would help me." "Of course I'll help. Any relation of Oscar's deserves that. What kind of help do you need?" "I have to find lodgings and employment." The man pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You'd be better off in a town for that sort of thing. There's nothing much around here except farm work, and you look a little too delicate for that. What was your last job?" "I helped in a bookshop. There were no books there printed in English of course, but I have attended university and I know quite a lot about art." "Art!" Sir Mortimer rolled the word forlornly around in his mouth. "What else? Can you use a typewriter?" "Yes, I'm very good with typing." "Well, that's a start at least. You do have a Work Permit of course." Willy looked genuinely mystified. "No one gave me such a thing." The man tutted. "Dash those refugee relief people. I know they're busy, but to forget to provide you with a basic vital document is unforgivable. I shall have to have a word with someone at the Ministry of Labour to lay one on, and until we have something arranged you will stay here as a house guest. Show Mrs Whippet your Ration Book, she'll expect to have some of your food coupons." At that moment a woman entered the room without knocking, moving across the floor with the grace of a dancer. Her thick brown hair was swept back from her forehead and layered along the side into a heavy mane. Her makeup was generously but expertly applied, and her eyes shone bright to betray an easy nature. She smiled at Sir Mortimer who was obviously someone very special to her. Sir Mortimer greeted her with obvious delight. "May I introduce you to Deborah Findlay, my... er... lady companion. Deborah came over from New York with me before all the disagreeable stuff began here." The woman grinned warmly. "Call me Debbie, honey. I'll only put up with being Deborah if Mortimer takes me to Buckingham Palace, which ain't likely." The woman...Sir Mortimer's paramour... looked about twenty-five and had a wide mouth which puckered at the corners, hinting at a smile even when her expression was serious. But there was something about the angle of her cheeks and the line of her throat that Willy recognised as not belonging to a woman. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Debbie. And you must call me Willy. Everyone calls me Willy." Debbie put a pensive fingertip to her chin. "This kid needs sorting out, Mortimer. Look at those cotton socks and scuffed shoes," She then gazed down at Willy with an expression of slight pity, "And if you don't mind me saying so honey, the rest of you looks like it's been done over with a garden rake." Willy plucked at the collar of his coat. "I've been travelling a lot lately, but I have other things." Debbie Findlay looked doubtful. "That suitcase of yours in the passage outside is hardly big enough for a toothbrush. But don't worry; I brought a whole mess of excess baggage with me when I moved over here and I can afford to share some with you." "Are you hungry after your journey, Willy?" asked the man. "Hungry? Yes, I am a little. But more than anything I'm tired. Is there somewhere I can sleep?" The man's female companion took control at once. "Come with me. I'll show you what we've got." "It ain't much," Debbie said leading the way up a set of creaking oak stairs, "I came here expecting a palace, and what I got was a big old dog kennel full of draughts and spooky housekeepers." Willy smiled, for despite Debbie's clowning talk and loud American manner he judged her to be a rather warm kind of person, and the house had a sense of permanence and stability perfectly kept, the air thick with the smell of polishing wax. The room he was shown to was quite small and included a fireplace in one wall, although no fire was lit. The furniture was unremarkable too, just a mirror, chest of drawers, a small closet and a bed. But what impressed Willy was how the bed linen was fastidiously tucked and squared, and just how clean the sheets were. It was a world to which he had been denied access for a long time; cosy, comfortable, respectable. Safe. He took in the woman at his side called Deborah, to be called Debbie whenever possible. His eyes became riveted on her, almost to the point of rudeness. Her abundant, carefully dressed hair was dark with reddish lights; her face with a good straight nose was set above a large beautifully modelled mouth and a firm jawline. Her cheekbones were high, the outer ends of her eyebrows slanted slightly upwards and her flawless skin was a pale gold. And now he was sure. Everything had been well thought through. Those Secret Service people in Germany who had planned where he should go had cleverly selected the house of a man who enjoyed the company of world- class transvestites. "You'll find Brascombe Manor operates like a second-class hotel," said Debbie, "All the necessaries are outside, down at the end of the landing." Willy nodded. "I understand. I have lived in large houses such as this before." "You have, huh! Are you a strayed Russian princess, or something?" Willy sat on the bed and gave a weak smile. "Sometimes I don't know what I am." Debbie paused, looking the newcomer up and down to appreciate what she saw, and patting him on the arm with cherry-red talons. "I know what you are. Your hands are slight, your fingers are graceful and your legs are demure, but you can't fool me, kid. Us kind of girls can pick each other out in a crowd, can't we?" She went to the door, and winked. "Don't worry, I can keep a secret. Grab some shuteye. I'll make sure you don't miss out on dinner." Later that day, following a long sleep, Willy returned from the bathroom with his torso covered by a dressing gown and his hair wrapped in a white bath towel. He found his bedroom door opened and Debbie Findlay standing inside. She was smelling of scent and was wearing an evening dress of purple-patterned silk and a mass of barbaric golden jewellery, while in her arms she was holding a pile of other items. The wardrobe in the corner now contained a range of women's clothes, and as Debbie gestured towards them, she regarded Willy inquisitively. "I've brought some things for you to wear. Some may not be the right fit, but you look Size 10, and I'm way past that now. I should have thrown 'em out ages ago." Willy stood in the doorway, his face freshly scrubbed and rosy pink, feathery lashes sweeping his cheeks. "You are very kind." "Think nothing of it. Can't have you going down the stairs looking like Pocahontas just out of the woods. Bombs may be falling and cities may be burning, but a girl still as to look her best. It's Saturday, and Mortimer has dinner-guests to night." "Dinner! Oh, yes, I'm very hungry now." "Good. You're in the right place. Mortimer holds the tenancies on most of the farms around here, so he can usually scrape up three courses for a meal, despite the food rationing. Sit down and I'll fix your hair." "I must first put on some clothes," he flustered. "No hurry on my account. You've got nothing to hide and plenty to look at." She grinned at him. "Anyway, you look perfectly decent. That dressing gown covers more of you than most people would wish." Pulling Willy onto a chair she began running a comb through shoulder- length blond hair. It was still damp as she put it up for him, persuading the thick waves into an elegant chignon which made the most of his elfin features and big eyes. "Will there be many guests tonight?" Willy asked. "Some half dozen, I guess, mostly men." "What do I say to them?" "My advice is just be pleasant and don't try to be too clever. Just talk about parties and fashion and jewels. That's what men want to hear. Otherwise they get to thinking you're smarter than they are and you'll scare 'em." "Sir Mortimer is a nice man." "He's an OK guy. Helluv a shy one with girls. I think he only invited me to come to England because he couldn't think of anything else to say to me." The transvestite laughed. "I guess I'm being a little unfair. Mortimer rates me rather high in his affection." Willy went to the side of the room, threw off the dressing gown, and quickly slipped on the fragile top that Debbie had brought for him. It clung to him like a second skin and was probably the sexiest thing he'd ever worn. His companion noticed that he was slim with small jutting breasts that blended with a rather small frame, and he had a small face and big blue eyes, delicate facial bone structure and smooth skin. Sleeping Beauty's prettier little sister, she thought. She cocked her head for a better look at his face. "You're going to look sensational." she said softly, the husky quality of her voice telling him she meant every word. "Every eye is going to be on you tonight." Willy looked faintly alarmed. "I do hope not." He was not unaware that he was already being closely studied, but being what he was he had taken the precaution of wearing pants both to and from the bathroom, and the lower reaches of him seemed of no interest to Debbie. Not yet, anyway. She returned to the pile of clothing she had brought with her. "Say, how about a pair of these?" Willy's eyes opened in wonder. "Nylon stockings! I've seen people wearing them but I've never owned any." "They're fifteen denier, an' that kind ain't been available long, not even in the States." Willy sat on the bed, then he carefully rolled up an item of hosiery, pointed his toes and slid it up over a shapely smooth leg, slowly, so that he could enjoy the cool sensation. "The term 'nylon' is an abbreviation of New York-London, isn't it? That speaks of close collaboration, but Americans share no close attachment with the English in the war against Hitler." Debbie shook her head. "Ach! The President would like to get more involved, but he can't carry Congress with him. Heck! You Europeans have been banging each other over the head ever since you first learned about swinging sticks, so most yanks would rather leave you to get on with it." Fiddling with the silver backed hairbrush she still held in her hand she then added. "As a matter of fact I think the British have had it, actually. Ambassador Kennedy said it last year and nothing much as changed since then. They've left it too late to do anything worthwhile. Everyone thinks the same except some politicians who should have stood up to Hitler years ago. But here we are and I suppose we've just got to make the best of it." Indicating Willy's legs she reverted to the theme of his stockings. "Make sure the back seams are straight on those things when you put them on, and take care not to snag 'em or they'll run like a bitch on heat." Willy flapped the remaining stocking in his hand and displayed an expression of puzzlement. "They run by themselves! How is that possible?" Debbie wafted a dismissive hand and turned away towards the door. "Forget what I just said. Life ain't long enough to explain everything." As she reached the door she swung about and caught Willy rocking his face behind his hands and laughing uncontrollably. "You crazy Dutch cheese. You knew what I meant all along." Willy descended the stairs sometime later with a degree of trepidation. He had tricked his way into Sir Mortimer Brascombe's home in the guise of a girl, but whether he could fool all the guests gathered for the evening meal was another matter. If he didn't succeed it would be no fault of his outward appearance, he knew. The outfit Debbie had given him was comprised of an ivory- coloured top with shoe-string straps that showed off the bare slope of his narrow shoulders, and he had a salmon-coloured silk tube for a skirt. His golden hair hung down in ringlets, while glass ear rings in the shape of two crystal pear-drops hung down from his delicate ears. On his bare arms Florentine gold bangles gleamed with satinato lustre. The whole made the most of his small breasts, round bottom and lean curvaceous legs, and there was not the least evidence anywhere that he was not a girl. Even so, he had hoped for a little time to find his feet in his new situation before having to confront so many people. Mentally he shook himself, then took a deep breath and put on his best smile to join the assembled company. Sir Mortimer and Deborah were in conversation with a guest; he counted one woman and four men, and he made towards a face that he recognised from earlier in the day. Jeremy de Vere was handsome, smiling, and attired in an immaculately tailored dinner suit. They had barely exchanged greetings before Sir Mortimer introduced someone else and a man called Arnold Knapp and his wife Brenda aligned themselves in front of him. They were people from a large industrial city descending upon a much smaller place, taking a break well away from the centre of things. They were both about thirty, and seemed rather alike. Not that they closely resembled each other... she was slender with a good figure, but beneath her make up, her face was hard and tired. She had thin features with high arched eyebrows and hair that was short and very curly, and she wore a dark, demure dress with a lace collar. Her husband sported a neat pencil-line moustache and he looked slick and extremely self-satisfied in his dinner suit. But although unlike in appearance they clearly suggested the same kind of life and the same outlook. In a weird synchronisation they moved together like two people with one mind. Alarmingly for Willy, who had become suspicious of officialdom, he was also introduced to two army officers in khaki-brown uniforms. In the hide-and-seek world he had inhabited after leaving Ravenskopf he had become nervous of military uniforms, but he barely had time to hear the names of the soldiers before the housekeeper gave a bang on a gong and Sir Mortimer ushered them to a dining table laid up with crystal and silver and good quality starched napery. A number of servants were employed in the house, none of them young. There was a cook and a couple of old dears past retirement age who did most other things, but under Mrs Whippet's keen supervision they remained unobtrusive, hidden in the background and on the wings of life. They seemed to fade into the wallpaper. He had expected to endure a difficult evening, because whenever asked about himself he could only tell lies. To his relief everyone accepted his story of being a desperate refugee, and it was important that they did, because for the work he had to do everyone had to accept him just as that. For the first part of the meal he remained silent, just nodding with his mouth full and letting the others talk, but eventually Arnold Knapp pinned him with his eyes. "Sir Mortimer tells me you recently escaped out of Holland. A tricky business with the Germans being so watchful." "It wasn't easy," Willy told him, "A trawler brought me over when the weather was thick with cloud. I was lucky." "Glad to get away from under the Nazi jackboot, I dare say. Glad to be in a country where one can live normally, eh?" Willy frowned slightly. "No one is living normally in a country where people are being bombed all the time, and where all the young men have to wear a uniform, Mr Knapp." He glanced at the two soldiers and then back at him. "You are not an old man, but you don't wear a uniform." "I'm exempt from military service, my dear. I'm in a reserved occupation." His wife leaned forward wearing a tight smile. "Arnold owns a firm that manufactures steel rivets. Such things are vital to the war effort." she explained, without allowing her smile to slip. Arnold sucked his teeth as he manfully scooped the last potato from the tureen in the centre of the table. "I'd like to help in a more direct way, of course, but these days everyone must do as they're told." Willy's eyes moved along the table until the man called Jeremy de Vere offered a disarming smile and threw up his hands. "I'm with the Foreign Office, so I'm not in uniform either," he declared in a strong voice, "The government keeps me where I am too, and without being a braggart I believe people such as Sir Mortimer are glad of that. They find my opinions useful." Willy accepted the explanation from him with surprising good grace, and he wondered why. What was so special about him? he questioned. Well, for one thing he was wearing his dinner suit with unselfconscious ease, and it fitted him somehow as though it was part of him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to be sensible, and then opened them again, and moved his gaze onto the two soldiers. "You each have a medal ribbon sewn over your pocket. You must both be very brave," he said. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember your names." One of them, a genial, athletic looking young man with a bristling moustache and a ready smile, completed the introductions. "I'm Toby Troughton, Captain Toby Troughton," he said, "And the bounder sitting next to me is Captain Jimmy Hyde. Jimmy is Sir Mortimer's nephew. I'm just a camp-follower." Toby was a caricature of an Englishman with a form of affected speech that would have appealed to upper-class English schoolgirls, but the other man, Jimmy Hyde, was altogether different; more brooding and more sombre. He was dark-haired and his face was cheekboney like in a fifteenth century Flemish portrait as depicted by Memling or Van Eyck, and although it was pleasant enough to be attractive, his eyes were another matter. They were fearsome, as if they were in a temper. Jimmy Hyde gave a somewhat disparaging glance at the ribbon of decoration on his jacket. "France, last year!" he explained. "That was a bloody mess in every sense. Our army that went there was tiny compared to the one France herself mobilised, so it was put under the direction of their High Command." "They made a complete ash of things." explained Toby Troughton. "They spread everything they had in a thin line along the frontier, all the way from the Channel to the Swiss border... just as if they were going to fight the Great War all over again...and they left nothing as a Central Reserve to reinforce places where Jerry may break through. Of course they did break through. They came through the Ardennes which everyone believed was an impossible way in, and we ended up needing the Navy pull us off the beaches at Dunkirk." He paused to smile disarmingly. "Still, someone's got to fight the wars the older ones get us into, haven't they? And we can't have you girls doing it, can we? Fighting our battles for us." Willy offered a nod of sympathy, but with his confidence blooming he couldn't resist a criticism. "Your country went to war unprepared. Your politicians should have been wiser and sent a larger army. Even now your country is still not yet halfway prepared. Not even a quarter ready." "Don't you think so?" put in Brenda Knapp. "Not even with all the rehearsals and drills people are doing?" "You may practise as much as you wish, but if you don't have the ships the planes and the guns you cannot expect victory." Jimmy Hyde's mouth curled down slightly. "From the time of Oliver Cromwell the British have bucked at having a large army on their own soil. Napoleon called us a nation of shopkeepers, and maybe he was right. The profession of soldier is derided here, and the expense that an army incurs is resented, until there's a war, and then everyone wants to know why we weren't ready." "Things are getting better. Mustn't be so gloomy and doomy," said Sir Mortimer, trying to introduce some optimism, "When France fell the big wet-ditch of the Channel gave us a second chance. We have a larger army under training now and the Dominions are assisting. Help is coming from Canada, South Africa and India, and the Anzac's are with us again. Roosevelt and Churchill have a good relationship and America is providing massive amounts of material aid." Having finished eating Willy positioned his knife and fork neatly together on the centre of his dinner plate. "I am a foreigner here and perhaps I know nothing, but I feel you are only making the problem bigger with your building up of forces. The best solution surely would be to make peace." Arnold Knapp chewed thoughtlessly on his last mouthful of main course. "Not a bad idea. Damned nuisance the Riviera being out of bounds at Easter." The more earnest Captain Hyde dug in again. "To make peace under Hitler's terms would make us just one more of his lackeys. He would expect us to follow his aggressive policies. He would subvert our way of government and install a Fascist Police State much like he as in his own country. More than that, he would expect us to join in his war against the communists, so there would actually be no peace." Willy poked his spoon at the stewed plums and custard that had been placed in front of him. "You're surmising a great deal, Captain Hyde, and you're only guessing at what might happen. There could be a completely different outcome to the one you expect." The man stared back at him with eyes of vibrant penetration. They conveyed an impression of shrewdness, while his dark face, thin and hollow-cheeked, became overtly hostile. "You have a strong accent, Miss Naarden. More German than Dutch I'd say." Willy had long been ready for an observation like that. His attitude to unsympathetic people, he had decided, should be whimsical and slightly roguish. Sitting back and composing himself he brushed the dark wings of his eyebrows with a delicate fingertip. "I was raised in Venlo on the Dutch-German border, Captain Hyde. Both language and accents tend to be rather fluid in such places." Observing the sudden build-up of tension Sir Mortimer sought a way to soothe it. "Yes, well, we've no coffee I'm afraid, so shall we adjourn and take a drink of another kind in the drawing room? We can play cards or play music or something." When Debbie led the way into the drawing room he indicated a full figure portrait of a distinguished looking man wearing a solar topi gracing the wall above the fireplace. "That's Sir Neville, Mortimer's grandfather," she told Willy, "He was Military Governor of some place called Baluchistan for a while. Mortimer's folks have all been soldiers since way back and he broke the mould when he favoured politics." "Mortimer never wished to be a soldier?" "Nope, he's dead against killing anything... if you'll excuse the pun. Those hunting rifles in the Gun Room haven't been out of their cabinet since his father died." She nodded up at the portrait. "Rather a fine painting, ain't it?" Willy cocked his head left and right. "Hmm, it's a picture but it's not really art." His eyes settled on a smaller postimpressionist painting further along the wall. "That one is better, it's a Braque. He exhibited in London early in the century along with Cezanne and Picasso, so I expect that's when it was acquired." Debbie looked at the collection of illogical shapes and designs being referred to, and then glanced sideways with a slight air of bafflement. Willy continued unabashed. "All the best artists practised pointillism at that time. You see how the small dabs of colour mix together to produce an intense effect. Quite sensational isn't it?" Suddenly having had enough of art Deborah turned him about, and when Willy surveyed the spacious surroundings of the drawing room he was amazed at the unexpected clutter. The floral patterns of the couch, wallpaper and rugs clashed in a riot that was almost audible, and added to that was the innumerable pieces of bric-a-brac that dotted every surface. Sir Mortimer's study was furnished sparingly with functional items, and this was only something a woman could contrive. A frivolous, feminine woman such as Deborah Findlay. "Come on," she urged Willy. "Let's you and me liven this joint up before Mortimer sets his mind on some boring game of bridge or something. Can you jitterbug?" Puzzled, Willy shook his head. "What is a jitterbug?" "It's a dance. Nobody does it here yet, but I'll show you how." Everyone else was grouped to the side of the room sipping drinks and talking. Debbie stalked across to a box full of large vinyl discs, cranked up a Victrola gramophone that stood against the wall, and set some music playing. Then suddenly they were dancing. Just Willy Froehlich and Debbie were dancing in the middle of the floor. Not an awkward one-two-three and stepping on toes, but gyrating to the beat of fast swing music and moving together in fast bouncy movements. Willy loved it, and he responded with uncontrolled exuberance and delightful high contralto laughter when Debbie twisted and swung her hips, then looking like she'd swallowed the tune, grasped his hand and lifted it over his head before swirling him around. When the music played out Brenda Knapp gave everyone an icy look and took control of the gramophone. She made a couple of vitriolic comments about 'jungle music' and 'civilisation' before saying that most people still preferred rhythms that are more sedate. She looked so ferocious at that moment that even Debbie declined to challenge her. Selecting some slower music to her own taste she put the stylus to it and demanded her husband dance with her. Jeremy de Vere asked Debbie to join in, and for some reason known only to him the sour looking Captain Hyde took Willy out into the middle of the room and led him through a clumsy two-step, holding him at arms length and moving like someone with arthritic joints. For a moment Willy thought he was acting the clown, nearly treading on his toes all the time. But when he saw the determined expression on his face, he realised that he was just a poor dancer who had never had much practise. "I'm not much good at this. Never have been," he admitted. "But I wanted to say sorry for being so sharp with you earlier. I'm afraid you caught me on the end cusp of a black mood." Willy noticed that his eyes had lost their antagonistic glare and were now shiny and as brown as coconuts. "Ah, I thought so... I could practically smell the paintwork blistering under your bad temper. I hope your moods aren't too frequent, Captain Hyde." "I'm afraid they are fairly frequent, Miss Naarden. It's nothing unusual these days. Prime Minister Churchill suffers dark moods that he terms 'black dog', so at least I'm in good company." The end of the music jolted Willy back to awareness and suddenly the awkward soldier had disappeared and he found himself looking up into the face of Jeremy de Vere, a different kind of man, a sophisticated, teasing man who was completely at ease. The man was already grinning jovially. "If your dance programme for the evening is not yet fully booked, may I claim the next number for myself, Miss Naarden?" A tiny shudder ripped through Willy. The man's teeth gleamed nearly as white as his shirt front, and he was sure there was real muscle beneath all his smart tailoring as well. And when music began to play again Willy found no awkwardness this time. Jeremy danced wonderfully, rising on his toes and sweeping him around. He was soon smoothly enfolded in the man's arms, swaying to the melody and counter-melody of a soft, lilting ballad about a nightingale singing in Berkeley Square. Now he knew what it was like to dance with a really good partner. He felt like he was floating on air half the time, so perfectly did Jeremy hold and guide him. Surreptitiously and by degrees he accessed his partner. He had hair that was so blond it was almost white, but it was his eyes they fascinated most. His stunning blue eyes shone like those of a baby and were an almost innocent feature for a worldly man, but they had an unsettling habit of looking into his own gaze as if he could see the soul hiding there. It was like he was being X-rayed, and there was not a single thing that man didn't already know about him. Why did he look at him like that? Suspicion, maybe! Doubt, no; he was confident and nothing would rattle such ironclad composure. Pink cheeked he realised that Jeremy's incisive gaze had finished sweeping and was now fixed on his mouth. He felt his lips start to part, as though they were readying for a kiss and hurriedly he closed them, his face burning. Willy danced with all the men that evening, with the exception of Arnold Knapp whose wife refused to allow her husband dance with anyone but herself, and when the dancing palled Sir Mortimer seated himself before a Bechstein baby grand and played some pieces from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, explaining that if he became more serious he was likely to drift off into the works of German composers, and he felt that would be quite unpatriotic. Apparently there was a military encampment a few miles away at a place called Foxley Wood, and Mortimer's nephew and his friend left to return there at the end of the evening. Arnold and Brenda Knapp spent most of their time in Birmingham, but had rented a holiday cottage nearby, and when the soldiers had gone Brenda began urging her husband towards the big front door. Everyone gathered outside at the top of the steps to wish them farewell. "Byee!" said Brenda, with just a hint of something cow-like in her expression. Willy waved back cheerily. "Goodnight, Arnold. Goodnight, Brenda. Keep a hand on your h'penny." Brenda glowered back at him, looking like she'd just swallowed a poker, and when the front door had been closed Debbie pulled Willy to one side. "Someone as to tell you not to say that." "Is it bad?" "It's a slang expression around here warning a lady to guard her virtue. You know... to keep her hand on it." "Oh, I see," said Willy with a shrug, "In that case I shouldn't have said it. Brenda probably as no virtue left worth guarding." *** The following morning Willy was still confused, still nervous in his new surroundings, yet the change in him had become evident: his gestures possessed a greater conviction, which suggested he was beginning to feel more comfortable. Little things like the sure way he picked up a cup of tea, the certainty with which he told everyone he didn't take sugar or milk with it, were very significant. He was considered a peculiarity and a spectacular and charming rogue, but everyone he chanced to meet seemed to love his unconventionality. His presence seemed to light up a room when he entered, even if his unguarded observations did sometimes make people want to roll up their eyes. Of course his conversation was in part still somewhat stilted and broken and he spoke hesitantly sometimes, as if feeling his way through the English language, yet his vocabulary and his powers of understanding were noticeably acute, and he giggled happily, girlishly proud of those achievements. Sir Mortimer and Jeremy de Vere were due to go to London the following day, and although things were so sublime and pleasant at Brascombe Manor that one could have forgotten about the horrors of war, Willy Froehlich couldn't forget. In the evening, believing he had established himself well enough by then, he decided to make his first approach to Sir Mortimer. He needed to be careful. That horrible Mrs Whippet who ran the household crept about, watching, listening, intent on knowing things. She was one of those working class women who, when entrusted with some authority, mistrusted the working classes. "They are not so bad if you know how to deal with them," she had been heard to say in the same condescending tone she used when talking of pet animals. He was sure she had searched his room, wanting to discredit him and see him ejected from the house, but he was happily safe despite such inspections. He carried with him no wireless transmitter, no codebook or any incriminating documents. There was nothing more evil in his possession than a couple of oft read Dutch classics; a book by Louis Couperus and Multatuli's 'Max Havelaar'. He had nothing with which to carry out his allotted task but his own personal resources. The door to the Gun Room was open and Sir Mortimer was seated behind his desk consulting some paperwork when Willy found him, and he fiddled with his hair and applied a touch of lipstick before he entered. "Excuse me, Sir Mortimer. I've come across some English words that puzzle me. Do you have a bilingual dictionary I could refer to?" Mortimer looked up briefly. His normally well-fed, relaxed and rosy- cheeked face looked, not frightened or worried, but extremely concerned. "Not Dutch-English," he said, "I have a German-English thing I picked up some time ago. It's on my book-shelf." "That will do fine. German I understand well enough." Willy went over to the book shelf and peeped over his shoulder. "You are busy this evening." "Yes," he said, "I was just going over the latest shipping figures. A substantial part of our war effort relies on the cargoes we receive from America, and the losses due to U-boat action in mid-Atlantic and the Western Approaches are very grave." He shook his head sadly. "We've lost sixteen hundred merchant ships since the war began, and a good many brave men have lost their lives trying to bring them here. It's unsustainable. I shall have to raise the matter at Prime Minister's Question's next week." Willy took the book he'd requested and went across to the desk, weighing his words carefully, not wanting to give the impression of knowing too much or seeking too much immediately. "I would like to say something to you. Would you mind?" The man raised his eyebrows. "If it's urgent, you should. You look like you're going to burst, so talk up. I'll listen, but I've things to do at the same time, if you don't object." It was awkward to speak to him while he was bent over his desk opening and shutting drawers. He kept looking at the clock too, which was hardly encouragement. Willy drew a deep breath. "Uncle Oscar mentioned that you once admired Adolph Hitler. Is that true?" Mortimer stopped fiddling around and there was a strained silence before he replied. "I attended the Berlin Olympics in '36. In those days a great many of us admired him. His remedies for things were sometimes rather harsh, but his country was on its back when he took control and he pulled it up by its boot-straps and made it function properly again." "I understand that is probably true," Willy said, "and when Britain declared war on him you became unhappy and allied yourself with a 'peace-movement'." The man shuffled uncomfortably. "Steady on, Willy. I don't know how you discovered that, unless your Uncle Oscar told you that too, but one doesn't admit to those kinds of things these days. Even in a democracy there are limits to what will be tolerated during a war. The people that elected me didn't do so because I'm a defeatist." "You are not a defeatist, you're a pacifist." "Same thing to most people these days," he offered a slightly glum expression. "Since Churchill took over the reins from Chamberlain everything as been sewn up. The Opposition Parties are in coalition with the government, and the running of the war is the province of a hand-picked War Cabinet. People like me don't have a voice anyone will listen to anymore." "You should speak to the poor seamen who risk their lives on the oceans, and you should ask the common people, do they want peace or do they enjoy being bombed in their homes every night?" Mortimer smiled grimly. "You have a simplistic way of looking at things, Willy. Anyway, there is no 'peace movement' as such any longer; there is no cohesion amongst those that think as I do. We all hate the war but we exist as individuals." Willy turned and gazed at a spectacularly morbid Piranesi print of dungeons hanging on the wall. "I hate war too, but unlike you I know no influential people. When you go to London you should speak with your friends and arrange to form a group. It's only because you all live separate lives that you feel so vulnerable. There will be others who remain silent for their fear of being ostracised. Handled with skill such a group could compel Churchill to alter his attitudes and seek conciliation with Hitler. "This war creates such misery for everyone. Isn't it worth at least trying to bring an end to it?" Sir Mortimer's initial emotion on hearing this was one of anger, and his first inclination was to rebuff what Willy said out of hand. Just who did this flighty little madam from the continent think she was, telling him, a distinguished and respected Member of the House of Commons what he should and shouldn't be doing? How dare she presume to have a better understanding of world events and English politics than he had? She was a madhat, idealistic undergraduate like so many her age, and she had recently fled her home and was destitute. Out of pity and the need to uphold credibility with an old friend he had given her lodgings for a few days, but her outlandish remonstration was a damned impolite way of thanking him for his generosity. He pulled himself back on the verge of making a sharp reply when he suddenly realised that she had just summed up the very sentiments he'd felt himself a number of times over the past two years but had never had the moral courage to attempt implementing. Perhaps it was not such a bad thing after all to have someone around to prick his conscience and give him a little push now and again. He slanted a look at her, shifting in his seat to take it all in. The girl's blue eyes, beneath thick, dark lashes, were alert. "I suppose you have a point," he replied with only slight enthusiasm. He lowered his eyes, joined his hands and placed his fingertips on his lips. His face took on an expression of harshness and sadness has he thought things over. "I suppose one should at least try to do something. Sometimes a man must do what he believes is right, even when so many others may disagree with him. I know a dozen people I could contact who think the same as I do. Some of them will know others that may be interested." Having set the wheels of thought moving in the man's mind Willy was content to leave it at that for the time being. But Sir Mortimer was as yet too faint-hearted to be trusted to continue without encouragement, and he knew he would soon need to return. *** Willy enjoyed being a guest at Brascombe Manor. The old house felt warm and lived in, and the next day when he strolled in the grounds with Deborah he made it clear he wished to see everything. He loved the birds foraging in the trees and the rascally rabbits scurrying in the paddocks, and he adored the rural view of the fields beyond with their cattle and sheep. Most of all he loved the genuine enthusiasm of Deborah to share it all with him. He listened attentively to her descriptions of local wildlife and shrieked with giggles when they chased each other and hid in the bushes like schoolchildren Left with Debbie as his only companion he became alive to her humour, and when he laughed, his whole being seemed to sing with joy. To the American it seemed the house guest was coming alive before her gaze, and the ability to make someone laugh she never underrated. In the centre of a sunken garden that was long past its best show they came upon an incomplete brick structure. "Mortimer's air raid shelter," explained Debbie, "He decided to have one built last year, but then gave up on the idea." Willy expressed surprise that the area didn't attract any of Reichsmarschall Goering's Luftwaffe bombers. "We sometimes hear squadrons of them going over flying high in the night sky, but they don't bother us here." Debbie told him. She explained that suitable targets were widely scattered in rural Essex, and German aircraft knew they could inflict greater damage if they visited the big industrial towns further inland. "Best to blackout your bedroom windows at night though," she advised, "When those sons-of-bitches get lost they drop their bombs on any point of light they see rather than carry them home. If Mortimer would loan me a duck-gun, the bastards would all end up dead-meat. What do you say, Willy?" Willy sorrowfully rocked his head from side to side. "Oh... I knew a German pilot once, and he was a good man." Debbie treated that comment with more than a little cynicism. "Don't go spreading those kinds of stories around, missy. Folk in these parts think the only good German is a dead one." Willy frowned at the flippancy. He tried not to think of Eduard Dietz whenever possible, but when reminded of him his jaw tensed and involuntary tears filled his eyes. "The man I knew was handsome, he was gentle, he loved me and never tried to take advantage of my naivet?. He was the best thing that ever happened in my life. But he was killed early in the war." Suddenly aware of her incaution Debbie winced at the unintended cruelty she'd inflicted. "That's a pretty good list, sweetie. I'll remember it. Have you a photograph of this fella'?" Willy shook his head. "I had one once, but it was taken from me." "That's a shame. We could have framed it and given it a place of honour somewhere." Willy sniffed unhappily, and all Debbie could do was curse her own insensibility and stroke the slender, vulnerable young neck that leaned against her. In the afternoon it rained and they retreated to the drawing room where Deborah gave Willy another lesson in dancing the jitterbug. She spent the entire afternoon teaching him the basic steps, and found the pupil to be an avid learner. Willy had cheered up by then and he delighted in the rapid moving pace and seemed to fall in naturally with the jiving steps. It seemed like dream. That presence, that invigorating music in all its moods was not to be resisted. The room had a surreal quality at that moment, heightened by several ornate gilt-framed mirrors on the walls that reflected the two of them back and forth, increasing their numbers into infinity and making them a mere element in a rolling, surging multitude. Being a leggy five foot ten and having the advantage in height Debbie went across to where Willy had retreated and stared down into his liquid blue eyes, unable to break a connection that suddenly crackled like a high-tension wire between them. The new arrivals lips, slightly swollen and as plush as pillows, were trembling. His skin was the purest cream. She couldn't help wondering what it would be like to kiss him. An uncontrollable urge washed over her and she felt her body drawn towards his. Willy winced as a gentle stroke was administered to his face. "You're beautiful," she purred into his ear. "So are you," he responded. Debbie laughed. The cones of her breasts were conspicuously evident through her tight dress, and she was clearly aware of the fact. "You're being kind, but if I invited you to touch me, I don't think you would." Willy could only shake his head. "You are Sir Mortimer's partner, are you not?" Debbie cocked one of her exquisite eyebrows for greater effect and shimmied her curvy hips suggestively from side to side. "Sure, Mortimer's a honeybunch an' I love the guy to bits. But a little harmless smooch on the side with someone like you won't hurt that relationship." The American noticed that even though he wore no bra Willy's chest had a certain pert rise to it that could push out the front of a blouse and give men the impression of an intriguing bosom. It certainly intrigued her. "I was truly proper, y'know, once upon a time. As proper as can be. Then the fella' I lived with went an' died on me, poor soul, and I took up with Mortimer. He wants me to be completely decent of course, but oh, la-la-la, that's not for me." "No," Willy said, "not for you." "It's better with the war. God forgive me for saying it, but we have to live tonight for tomorrow we die." She moved very fast; she was beside him almost before she had finished speaking. Willy hadn't bargained for it and she was far too near for his peace of mind, and that peace was wholly shattered when her hand moved of its own volition, coming to rest on the she-boys silken neck as her face moved forward and kissed him quite fiercely on the mouth with warm lipsticked lips. She brushed her mouth gently across his and found the touch intensely sensual. When Willy's lips parted slightly to protest, she took advantage and covered his mouth to slowly sample the moist warmth of his tongue. To her surprise, he allowed him to continue the tender assault and she deepened the kiss, the wave of heat in her body in danger of becoming a raging tide. She reacted to the intimate pressure of his body against hers, and his attributes of sex began to swell wantonly as a totally familiar desire to grind his hips against him pulsed with increasing intensity. Gradually, through her hazy passion, she realised that Willy wasn't responding. His hands rested limply at his sides and his body stood unmoving before her, a pillar of reticence. The taller figure dragged itself back and stepped away. "You know, you should moan a little when you get tongue in your mouth, and you could try mauling my tits a little bit too. Mortimer never does enough of that." Willy still didn't respond and Debbie looked at him with a look that wasn't unkind but failed to hide a trace of disappointment. "Shit! I get it. You can only get hot for guys in trousers. Just my goddamn luck." "I'm sorry if I displease you, but I can't change. I am what I am." Deborah held up a hand of peace. "Sure, I understand that and I accept it. I ain't into trying to change the world or anyone in it." After a moment she added with a touch of an appeal, "Not even a little bit of hand-jobbing?" Willy said nothing; he nodded slowly, then converted the nod into a negative shake that was absolute. For a moment they looked at each other, then as abruptly as it had disappeared, the smile came back to Deborah's face. In resignation she turned to the gramophone. "Come on. We'll put on another record. Let's dance." *** On Wednesday morning at breakfast Deborah told him they were due for a trip out. "No arguments," she said, "we're going into Nuttsford." At the end of the drive they caught a bus into town. Nuttsford was a market town just a few miles distant from the manor that stood beside a small sinuous river in which a line of ducks paddled up and down in convoy. They peered down into the cold grey water from a small humpbacked bridge as they crossed it, then Debbie turned into a narrow street which led to a square lined with old red brick shops and houses. Everything seemed quite normal until one saw the sandbag barricade outside the police station and noticed, not withstanding that the town had never had a bomb dropped near it, that every windowpane in sight was criss-crossed with black tape. In front of one shop she stopped. "There it is." She was admiring a hat in a window, a divine creation topped with flowers and silk pom poms. Clothing was rationed. Make-do-and-mend was a clich? of government policy in those austere times, and the scarcity of material and the number of clothing coupons needed to acquire new outfits almost made them a luxury. But that hat was something Debbie had set her heart on, and she had to have it. While she was in the shop Willy watched the passers-by on the pavements, the women wrapped with scarves pulling against the wind, the children in woollen pullovers and small coats, their cute faces, blue eyed and pink cheeked. The older men looked solid in topcoats and hats, while all the younger ones seemed to be wearing some version of a uniform. They had a lovely time window shopping afterwards, and made some more modest purchases. He discovered that fruit and vegetables were not rationed, but the trick was to know what was in season and where to find a shop that had a supply of what you wanted. Deborah happily left the cook and Mrs Whippet to figure out those kinds of things. Willy wondered if they had any time to sit down, but then they went into a tearoom that had frilly curtains and doilies on the tables and where everything was too small, and they settled among a clatter of dishes and quiet caf? chatter. The room was richly carpeted in red, nicely furnished too, garnished with flowers and warmed by a coal fire burning economically low, and the chairs were comfortable, dignified and upholstered in pleasing damask in various shades of blue. Willy was only half finished with a cup of weak tea when he gasped inwardly. It was impossible. It was against every chance and all the odds, but there was Tom Soames, sitting at the little table opposite. It was not something he was prepared for, not something to which he had given a thought, that on a large island that held fifty million people he should meet up with someone he had known in Heidelberg three years previously. He stared at him. He could help it. Tom looked younger than he thought he should, but not as lean, so perhaps leanness had been an illusion in his mind, but the bone-structure of his face he remembered, and he still had the dark, intriguing eyebrows of an Old Testament prophet. He was one of those well-groomed, clean-cut men with a quick, witty way of talking that girls...and boys, were drawn to despite of their better judgement. Tom Soames had been one of his lovers during his wild time at university, and the sudden recollection of those times was like a benison... summer evenings, long and cool, and winter ones dark and cosy, with the mist rising off the river. Nothing had been sacred in those days. The fly on a boy's trousers was never spared, the vulnerability of a young backside always pillaged. But sweet as those memories were he realised that meeting Tom now would be a fatal mistake. Tom was wearing the blue-grey uniform of a British air force officer now instead of the crumpled slacks and jerseys he'd favoured before, but there was no doubt it was him. Willy froze his own face to prevent it revealing his surprise, and he shuffled his chair sideways slightly to disguise his profile. Out of the corner of one eye he noticed Tom was gazing steadily at him and showing an element of puzzlement, but he was obviously unsure of what he was seeing. He couldn't possibly recognise him, decided Willy; Wilhelm Froehlich hadn't been a girl when they had known each other. Not one in lipstick and skirts anyway. And three years had passed since they had last seen each other. Nevertheless when he and Debbie got up to leave, Tom got up too. There was something about the odd way he persisted in looking that was unnerving and Willy felt a shudder of apprehension run through his body. Tom seemed a little uncomfortable making an approach, but he took a deep breath and stepped forward. "Excuse me," he said, looking directly at Willy. "Your face is familiar. You remind me of someone. Could it be we have met before?" Willy's eyes opened wide with alarm, he blushed, shook his head furiously and made straight for the door. Deborah winked at the young man. "Nice try, sonny. But you'd do better thinking up a more original line next time before you stop a girl." Sir Mortimer arrived home on the Friday evening, driving the big Daimler touring car that was used for the short journeys to and from the railway station in Nuttsford. Petrol was rationed, but anyway the journey into London was more easily done on the train. As the car rounded the last curve of the lane and he saw the sweep of wooded lawns with the chimneys of the manor house rising behind he felt a nostalgic lump in his throat. He loved that place. Everything creaked and everything was crooked, but he loved its old brickwork and rambling corridors, he loved its weathered eaves and steps worn concave from years of use. Above all he loved the sense that it provided the timeless haven of stability and ease that was England. He found himself beginning to smile in pleasant anticipation as he waited for Mrs Whippet to open the front door. There was always something delightful in returning home. It was a fact, because Deborah would be there. But not that night. Deborah was out in the garden watering something, so he shrugged off his topcoat and st