Perseverance Street (21 page)

‘Good. His vocabulary might well single him out.’

‘There is one problem,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got two quid on me. He sounds like the sort of person who’ll want money in advance to talk to me.’

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Well I’ve got about thirty bob on me but I’ll need to stop for petrol which is getting a bit low. If I put three gallons in, that’ll take about six bob, leaving me twenty-four. You haven’t got sixteen bob have you?’

Lily checked her purse. ‘Fourteen and tenpence ha’penny,’ she said, after counting it. That leaves us, what? One and three ha’pence short.’

‘I’ll just put two gallons in. That should do us.’

‘I’ll pay you back for all this.’

Charlie
grinned. ‘One way or another I’ll make sure you do.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Dunno,’ he said, still grinning. It was a pleasant grin, one she didn’t mind at all. She looked out at the passing grey buildings of Keighley and felt that a small part of the weight on her heart had been lifted.

It was market day in Grassington, which
meant the pubs were open all day. By two-thirty p.m. when Lily and Charlie arrived, Ogden Beakersfield was in the Black Horse, well in his cups.

Charlie parked the van and the two of them walked into the centre of the village, heading for the Dales Café which was doing good business. The photograph was still in the window, due to be taken out within a couple of days, Lily reckoned. They went inside and Lily asked the proprietress if a man had been showing interest in the photograph that day. They were trying to track him down.

‘I’m sorry, love. We’ve been run off us feet all day. I haven’t had a minute to notice anything.’

Charlie leaned forward and said in a low voice, so as not to offend the delicate ears of the customers, ‘He er, he uses the word, “bugger” a lot and we think he might be quite old.’

The woman pulled a face and said. ‘Now that sounds like Oggie.’

‘Oggie?’

‘Ogden Beakersfield – I know, but it’s his name not mine.’

‘And where would we find this Oggie?’

‘Most prob’ly in a pub, drunk as a skunk, grumbling about somethin’ or other. Never known a man who could find so much ter grumble about.’

‘I don’t suppose you could
describe him, could you? Lily asked. ‘You see, he knows the man in the photo we put in your window and he rang me up this morning only we got cut off.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t ring yer back. There’s a reward, isn’t there?’

‘Yes, two pounds.’

‘Well, he’s a little feller, in his seventies, miserable as sin and bald as a coot, only he’ll be wearing a black bowler that’s seen better days. Rarely takes it off, even inside. Oh, he wears his Boer War medals on his coat. I reckon the only fighting he saw were in the army canteen.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Out Threshfield way, I think. I should just have a look round the pubs. He’ll be in one of ’em.’

Ogden was in the third pub they tried. He was sitting at a table in the corner of the bar, fast asleep, snoring, head lolling back, his bowler tipped forward, half covering his face and revealing most of his completely bald head. The clincher was the row of four medals on his tattered coat. Charlie went to the bar and ordered two small shandies. He inclined his head towards the sleeping old man.

‘Is that Oggie?’ he asked the barman.

‘Aye, and I wish he’d clear off and annoy someone else. Whether he’s awake or asleep he’s an annoying old sod. Yer can have these on the house if yer’ll tek him off me hands.’

Charlie laughed and paid
the man the last of their spare cash. Then he and Lily walked over to Oggie’s table. Charlie shook him by the shoulder quite vigorously. Oggie woke up with a start.

‘What the buggerin’ ’ell?’

‘Afternoon, Oggie,’ said Charlie cheerfully.

Oggie sat up, adjusted his bowler and looked from one to the other. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m the woman you were speaking to on the phone earlier today,’ said Lily. ‘It was about the photograph in the café window.’

‘Wha …?’

Charlie was trying to assess if the old man was sober enough to talk any sense. ‘Do you remember?’ he asked.

Oggie frowned, searching his memory. ‘Course I remember. Two quid reward wasn’t there? Only it’s gone.’

‘It might not have gone,’ said Lily. ‘Depends what you can tell us about the man in the photo.’

Oggie’s frown deepened, trying to work out what was happening. He held out a bony hand. ‘Money first,’ he said.

Charlie took out a ten-shilling note and placed it in Oggie’s hand. ‘When you’ve given us ten bob’s worth there might be another ten bob,’ he said, ‘and so on.’

Oggie’s hand closed over the note like a claw, and said, ‘I know his name.’

Lily was about to say,
So do we
, but Charlie stayed her with an upraised hand.

‘All right, what is it?’ Charlie said, with a slight challenge in his voice, as if he was testing the veracity of Oggie’s story.

‘I know his rank as well, and
I know where he’s stationed.’

Lily and Charlie said nothing. Oggie was talking about a different man, probably the wrong man, but it would do no harm to let him ramble on. No way would they get their ten bob back.

‘He’s a sergeant.’ Oggie screwed up his eyes trying to think of the man’s name. ‘Aw, bugger me! I ’ad his name when I rang yer. Same as that comic from Lancashire. Vulgar little bugger. George summat or other, no, Fred … Frank … Frank Randle. God! He meks me laugh, does that feller.’

‘So, this man’s name’s Frank Randle?’

‘No, this bloke’s a sergeant. Sergeant Randle. In fact I know his first name. I remember that because it’s my middle name. Ogden Bernard Beakersfield.’

‘His name’s Bernard?’ said Charlie, looking at Lily. This sparked her interest. Yet another Bernard. Was the last one just a coincidence, or was Oggie’s man the one she was looking for?’

‘Where did you meet him?’ she asked.

‘Met him in Skipton.’

‘When?’

‘About a year ago – it were in some pub or other. He were havin’ trouble with ’is motor. I fixed it fer him so he gave me a lift home, and he gave me a pair o’ nylons fer me missis. I sold ’em fer ten bob. I don’t have a missis. She buggered off years ago.’

Lily stopped herself
saying she wasn’t surprised. Instead she said, ‘Is Randle married?’

‘He is. He were with her that day.’

‘What’s her name?’

Oggie’s face screwed up once more. ‘Buggered if I can remember.’

‘Could it have been Edith?’

‘Hmm, not sure.’

‘This car of his. What model was it?’

Oggie’s face brightened. ‘Austin Seven, love, 1937. Good little motors, them. I used ter be a mechanic, see.’

Lily looked at Charlie. ‘Oldroyd’s car was an Austin Seven. I know this because Larry mentioned us getting one some day.’

Charlie was nodding. ‘The other people who saw the photo hadn’t seen him for donkey’s years, before he grew his tash. This man’s seen him quite recently.’ To Oggie, he said, ‘You say he’s in the army? Seems a bit old to me. What mob is he in?’

‘No idea. He’s stationed at a place called … oh buggeration! I knew that as well this mornin’. It’s where they keep all them Eyeties locked up.’

‘What? Eden camp?’ said Charlie.

‘That’s it. He were told old fer combat with him havin’ been in t’ first lot but he’s looking after Eyeties. It’s near Malton.’

‘It is,’ said Charlie. ‘I went there myself once or twice before I got sent overseas.’

‘What for?’ Lily asked.

‘As a translator. I’d learned Italian as part of what I had to do, so they decided to make use of me before they kicked me over to Italy. There used to be Italian POWs and Italian nationals over there. I think they moved the Italians out last year. Mainly Germans now, as far as I know.’ He smiled at Lily. ‘I think the women who thought the man in the photo was Armitage were just plain wrong.’

‘I agree. This man sounds a much more
likely prospect,’ Lily said. ‘He was in the first war, as Oldroyd told me he was, and he’s got an Austin Seven, although I am wondering why he would use a false surname but his own first name?’

‘To avoid slip-ups in general conversation,’ said Charlie. ‘If his wife started calling him Fred you’d wonder if he was genuine.’

‘Oh, it’s the same feller all right,’ Oggie assured them. ‘Do I get the rest of me brass, now?’

Charlie looked at Lily. ‘There’s another reason he’s a more likely prospect,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s alive.’

Charlie took out another ten shilling note and gave it to Oggie, who looked at it with mixed feelings.

‘I thought yer said two quid.’

‘We don’t know for certain it’s him yet,’ said Charlie. ‘If it turns out to be him we’ll send you the other quid. I can’t say fairer than that. I’ll need your address, though.’

Oggie wrote his address down on a beermat, which Charlie stuck in his pocket. They were outside the pub, heading for the van, when Lily asked, ‘Why didn’t you give him the full two pounds?’

‘Because we need more petrol if we’re going to Eden Camp today, and I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I reckon our spare quid should be enough for another two gallons plus a decent fry-up, don’t you?’

‘We’re going today are we?’

‘Unless you’d like to leave it until
tomorrow, or maybe let the police know what we’ve found out.’

‘No, I want to go right now. Why would we leave it? It’s my son we’re talking about.’

‘Look, we’re heading into the unknown a bit here. We could be there a while. Perhaps we should have left some sort of message for your friend. She’ll be worried about you.’

Lily looked at her watch: two forty-five p.m. ‘She’ll be on the market until half past four, home at half five. I’ll ring her then.’ She smiled at him. ‘You do have a tendency to think ahead, don’t you?’

‘It’s something I’ve had drilled into me. Life’s like a game of chess. Always stay two moves ahead. It’s kept me alive more than once.’

She said nothing. If he wanted to talk about the war he would, when he was good and ready.

Eden Camp was situated near
Malton in the East Riding of Yorkshire. It was built in 1942 and originally housed around 250 Italian prisoners of war and civilians. In 1944, the year after the Italians surrendered to the Allies, they were replaced by German prisoners, many of whom were destined to be held in this country until 1948. The camp comprised forty-five prefabricated huts and a brick office block within a barbed-wire enclosure. Most of the prisoners had been put to work on nearby farms. Few attempted to escape. In 1944 there was nowhere for them to go. Germany was overrun by the Allies.

It was quarter past four when Lily and Charlie arrived at the camp. Charlie had a pal whom he thought might still be stationed there.

‘We’d both been on the same language course in Scarborough only Jimmy didn’t get into the Regiment so they kept him on here.’

‘The Regiment?’

‘Yeah. Jimmy broke his leg during parachute training. He’s still got a bit of a limp.’

It was common knowledge that most of the men who were returning from the war didn’t talk about it much, especially those heavily involved in combat, so Lily didn’t enquire further.

There were two gates, one to the prisoner compound
and one to the adjacent guard compound, both were wide open with the black and yellow barriers up and men wandering in and out, seemingly at will, many with the letter P painted on the trouser leg of their dark uniforms. The soldier on duty at the guard compound gate was smoking a Woodbine when Charlie and Lily arrived in a van marked
Cleghorn Demolition
. The guard rested his rifle butt on the ground, swivelled his cigarette round in his hand so it was hidden by his palm and leaned in through the van window.

‘Name and business, sir?’

‘Charlie Cleghorn and I was stationed here for a few weeks in ’43. I’m trying to track down an old pal of mine – Jimmy Dunkersley. Is he still here?’

‘Jimmy? Yeah.’

‘Where would I find him?’

‘He’s in charge of the pay office.’

The guard stepped back and took a surreptitious drag of his Woodbine as Charlie drove through.

‘Security seems a bit lax,’ said Lily. ‘He didn’t ask for any form of identification or anything.’

‘Security’s slackened off a lot since the war ended.’

Lily looked across at the prisoners wandering around their compound, mostly in small groups with the odd British guard standing around, not displaying too much concern or alacrity. In the guard compound were two machine-gun posts and four gun batteries, all unmanned.

‘The murdering sods seem well fed,’ she commented grimly. She felt a surge of hatred towards these men who belonged to the same army that had killed her Larry.

‘The Germans in here are better fed than
most of the civilian population of this country,’ said Charlie. ‘They’re also taking up jobs on the farms that belong to men coming back from the war. Cheap labour. There’s a lot of bad feeling about that.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Lily. ‘Makes you wonder who won this war.’

‘There’s going to be a lot of disquiet in the coming years,’ said Charlie. He pulled up in front of a long wooden hut marked Camp Office. ‘I sometimes think I’m lucky I didn’t have a wife and family to come back to, with the wife turned all independent and kids all strangers to me.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Well, mebbe the wife’s had a job of her own for the past few years. Mebbe she’s found another feller. It’s beginning to happen. I’ve seen it among my mates.’

‘It happened to you, didn’t it – with Beryl?’

‘Fortunately, yes.’

He nodded at a group of prisoners playing football. ‘Some of those guys will have British girlfriends, and not all of these girlfriends will be single women. The quicker they get repatriated the better. Trouble is there’s millions of ’em all over Europe. It’s gonna take years. I’m lucky I got an early demob otherwise I’d still be over in France or Belgium or somewhere, taking care of displaced persons. Not a job I’d relish.’

‘Did you relish the job you did over there?’