A Crack in the Glass (Telling Tales Book 1) Read online

  A Crack in the Glass

  Charles Owen

  Telling Tales: Vol 1

  Books by Charles Owen

  Novellas:

  FIAMMA

  CRY CASSANDRA !

  Telling Tales:

  Vol 1: A CRACK IN THE GLASS

  Vol 2: THE MARK OF THE BEAST

  Vol 3: MAN OVERBOARD

  Vol 4: ESCAPADE

  Copyright

  Published by Charles B. Owen.

  Copyright © Charles Owen 2015

  Cover photograph by: Tanis Saucier / www.shutterstock.com

  Cover design by : Sarah Pearson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior permission in writing from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-0-9930399-7-3

  Ebook mobi ISBN: 978-0-9930399-6-6

  Contents

  Title Page

  Books by Charles Owen

  Copyright

  The Glass Pane

  The Roman Road

  A Sense of Obligation

  High Stakes

  Anyone for Tennis ?

  Orange Hat

  Footsteps

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  THE GLASS PANE

  Major Donald Tremlett slammed the garage door behind him. He limped into the sitting room, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

  ‘Lister Inquiry Agents. Ron Lister speaking.’

  Tremlett winced at the sound of the man’s rough vowels. His wife was on the train, he said. She would be at Victoria Station at six o’clock.

  ‘If the train is not delayed. You realise that it will be priced as an evening job.’

  ‘I have your price list.’ Money – that’s all those parasites were interested in. ‘You have the photograph of her?’

  He had it. ‘What is Mrs Tremlett wearing?’

  ‘A grey coat and skirt … a headscarf … and she may be carrying a mackintosh.’

  ‘I will see to it myself.’ Who else. Lister’s eyes flickered around the empty office with its peeling wallpaper and rows of grubby files.

  ‘I don’t want her approached.’ Tremlett raised his voice. ‘All I want to know is–’

  ‘Where she goes and who she sees.’ The old buzzard was beginning to get on his nerves.

  ‘Correct. And report back.’ He mopped his forehead. He did not mean it to sound like a parade-ground bark but it had been a trying morning.

  He threw off his coat and tie. Whatever had happened to respect for your elders and betters? Another casualty of the war, he supposed. War seemed to have been with him all his life. First The Great War. Then an interval in which people seemed to do nothing except ask themselves when the next one was coming. Then it had.

  He was adjutant of a training battalion in Surrey in that first show. He tried to get to the Front but they wouldn’t let him go. You are bloody good at your job, Tremlett. Too valuable to lose. Anyone can go to France and be blown to bits. But only one in a thousand can turn a yokel into a first-rate soldier inside a few months. So he stayed. Finished the war as a major.

  He was too old this time around. A few nights a week on fire-watching was all he could cope with. Julia’s death and then Peggy’s was a hard knock. First his daughter, then his wife. Men can fall apart for less reason and for a time he did lose his bearings.

  When Lucy came into his life he was at a low ebb and in a moment of weakness he agreed to marry her. She was a pretty creature with her fair hair and her WAAF uniform which showed off her trim figure. She did a job that he admired, she was a tolerably good cook and a pleasant companion. Above all, her life seemed to be organised and disciplined and, so far as he could judge, free of entanglements.

  The chaps at his club probably wondered what the hell the girl saw in him and he came in for some good-natured ribbing. Overweight he might be, and losing his hair, but he could offer her security, a rock to cling to in these turbulent times and that was beyond price.

  Lucy was working too hard. A week’s leave would put her right if she slowed up a bit. He was uneasy at the thought that they would be thrown together so much for they hardly knew each other. Then those trips to London, often returning on the last train. He didn’t like to interrogate her but who the devil was she seeing? That man in the photograph? The heavy cardboard envelope had arrived by special messenger! If that was not brazen, what was! It had taken him half an hour to open it and reseal it without leaving any traces.

  A young man in RAF uniform stared out at him. A flight lieutenant. In a corner it simply said, ‘Love from Johnny’. An officer and a gentleman does not open another fellow’s mail but neither does he sit back and allow himself to be made a fool of. Something has to give. He reached for his old briar pipe and sucked gloomily on the stem. If there was one thing that he hated, it was disloyalty – and indiscipline ran it a close second. Lucy must pack in this nonsense … or else. He did not want to think about the else.

  ***

  Lucy Tremlett settled back into her seat with a sigh and closed her eyes. A whistle, a snort of steam and the train pulled away from the platform. Her tired mind was like a chaotic sewing basket, a jumble of multicoloured threads, short ends all of them.

  The Senior Air Staff Officer had been adamant. Lucy, what you need is a complete break. The Ops Room is no place for people who are exhausted. Admit it. You are at the end of your rope. If you cannot shake off yesterday’s bad news you are no use to the men in the air today. So, off you go! Get the Major to take you away for a few days. And, by the way, I am sorry about Johnny. He was a good man.

  How different things might have been if she had met Johnny earlier. During the Blitz, she had once spent the day at the Air Ministry in Whitehall. Johnny Colgrave was working there on secondment from a bomber squadron based near Oxford.

  That night there was a heavy raid and it was impossible for her to get home. It was late and they left the building together as soon as the all-clear sounded. His mother, he told her, was dead. Cancer. His father was a naval officer. His destroyer had been sunk in the Norway Campaign and he had been taken prisoner. The family had a flat near Baker Street and he had the use of it. The two of them shared a makeshift supper and afterwards she made a few half-hearted telephone calls in search of a bed for the night but there was not a room to be had.

  They talked into the small hours. Lucy learned that he had flown on twelve missions before being rested. Some tiresome scruple led her into telling him about Donald.

  She had met her husband a few months earlier in a London underground station during one of the heaviest raids of the war. Outside, buildings, gutted by fire, were toppling into the street. The sky was criss-crossed with white beams searching for the bombers. Down in the docks, even the water was burning.

  Donald’s house had received a direct hit the week before. His wife was killed instantly. His daughter, their only child, for whom they had spent years waiting, had been lost a few months earlier when the ship on which she was being evacuated to Canada was torpedoed. As she talked to Johnny, one of the images of that night in the shelter came back to her. Donald, caught up in that press of bewildered humanity, leaning on a stick, looking from one face to another like a lost dog. ‘Oh, God!’ she remembered praying at the height of the raid, ‘out of this terrible night
let some good come.’

  She had married Donald and vowed to be a good wife to him. He was almost twice her age. There was so much destruction, so many people were dying, it seemed like a very small sacrifice at the time.

  There was a piano in the flat and Johnny played for her, finishing with one of those magical Chopin nocturnes. The magic worked and beyond the blacked-out windows all was hushed. For a few precious minutes the noisy world seemed to have laid aside its quarrels to listen.

  Afterwards, she and Johnny sat in silence until the gas fire sputtered and went out. He found her some pyjamas and lent her his bed. He was suddenly so shy and correct that she felt like throwing something at him. Of course he slept on the sofa.

  The next day, she heard that Johnny had asked to be transferred back to his squadron. Was it something that she had said? Was it vanity or guilt that made her want to call him. But she thought better of it. After all, what business was it of hers? It had been a very pleasant evening. That was all. One of hundreds of little adventures that happen in wartime. She was married to Donald. She must put Johnny Colgrave out of her head.

  But it was not so easy. She and Donald rented a small house in Croydon not far from the airfield where she worked. At night, just as she was getting to sleep, she would hear the drone of the bombers as they set out on another mission. Was Johnny back with his squadron? Was he up there somewhere in the darkness?

  Then, one evening, she got home to find an envelope addressed to her. Inside there was a photograph of Johnny. She was cross with him but not as cross as she should have been.

  An hour later he called her. ‘Hello Lucy. Can you talk?’

  ‘Donald has gone out for a drink, if that is what you mean. Look, Johnny. I don’t think the photograph was a very good idea and that goes for this call too.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry but I am flying again tonight.’

  ‘Where are you calling from?’ The idiot. He could be court-martialled for this.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m in a telephone box in the village.’ She could hear him putting another coin in the box. ‘Mission number thirteen coming up.’

  ‘You don’t believe in that superstitious nonsense?’

  ‘Anyone who says that they don’t think about it is a liar.’

  ‘You will be alright.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Oh, Johnny. This isn’t fair. I can’t be your girl.’

  ‘Then, be my good-luck charm.’

  ‘To put in your pocket or hang around your neck like a rabbit’s foot?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no!’

  Change tack. ‘Who is flying with you?’

  ‘I have got my old crew back – Bill Lakin, Mike Maguire, Chalky White and the others.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. And their skipper is not going to let them down.’

  ‘Not if I can help it. It’s just that I have this presentiment–’

  ‘Johnny – this is morbid. Have a stiff glass of brandy. As soon as you are in the air you will feel quite different.’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right. But if I find myself the other side of the glass pane, I will try to–’ He was cut off.

  That night, she woke up shivering with cold and aching all over. Her nightdress was soaking wet. She was in the garden. Curled up next to the sundial. It was still dark. She must have walked in her sleep. She had not done that since she was a child.

  She crept back inside the house and up the stairs. In her bedroom, she changed quickly and got into bed. She could feel the photograph under her pillow. She would send it back to him first thing in the morning.

  That night’s losses were marked up on the board in the Ops Room. Johnny’s Lancaster never got to Essen. Over the Dutch coast it ran into heavy anti-aircraft fire and came down somewhere in Holland. The whole crew was posted missing, believed killed.

  ***

  It was dusk by the time the train drew into Victoria. The pavements were damp and a fine mist hung in the air. Lucy shivered into her mackintosh. The house that she was looking for was in a dark, unlit street close to Vauxhall Bridge but her feet seemed to lead her there as if she had known it all her life.

  Once she thought she heard footsteps behind her, but when she stopped to listen, they stopped too. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. From the other side came a shuffling noise accompanied by what sounded like a whispered argument and when the door was opened, she was surprised to see only the tall, gaunt figure of an elderly lady.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs–’

  ‘Just call me Zelda. Everyone does.’

  She followed the stooped figure to a small sitting room. By the dim yellow light of a lantern she could see the remains of a coal fire smouldering in the grate. The woman helped her out of her mackintosh and laid it over an armchair, over which tartan rugs had been thrown.

  She gestured towards a hard upright chair drawn up to the table and took one herself. Her hair was white and fell to her shoulders.

  As Lucy sat down, a fluttering movement in a corner of the room startled her.

  ‘Captain! Mind your manners! That’s the parrot. Pay no heed to him.’ Zelda placed a hand against the side of a teapot. ‘Tea? Or would you like something stronger?’

  ‘Tea will do fine.’

  ‘I always have a pink gin at about this time. My husband was a navy man.’ Zelda inclined her head towards a photograph on the mantelpiece and sipped at her glass.

  ‘Happy landings!’ squawked the parrot from out of the darkness.

  Zelda was wearing a long-sleeved black velvet dress with a white fur collar and she teased a handkerchief from under the cuff to wipe the corner of her mouth. Somewhere a clock chimed.

  ‘You came about Flight Lieutenant Colgrave,’ said Zelda softly.

  ‘I … I don’t remember that I gave a name.’

  ‘But that is the officer you came about,’ Zelda repeated. Her long, bony fingers tapped lightly on the table.

  ‘We weren’t married … or engaged … or in love … you see, I’m married already ... I hardly knew him…’ The words tumbled out before Lucy could stop them. Momentarily overwhelmed, she pressed her lips together and bowed her head in silence.

  Zelda stretched across the table and took Lucy’s hands in hers. ‘My dear, this will do no good.’

  Lucy reclaimed her hands. ‘Do you mean that there is no hope? His plane disappeared over Holland but nobody saw it go down.’

  ‘I know that you have been asking after him.’

  Her eyes widened in surprise but she did not frame the question. ‘These past days I have done nothing else. Nobody can tell me anything. I saw your card in the window of a newsagents, so … in desperation…’

  ‘You came to see old Zelda. You would not have done that, my dear, unless in your heart of hearts, you believed that he would not come back.’

  Lucy dabbed at her eyes. ‘I know. It must seem ridiculous but somehow I still feel responsible for him. His mother is dead and his father is in a prisoner of war camp.’

  Her companion gave a deep sigh. ‘What is it that you want from me?’

  ‘I don’t know. If only I felt that he was at peace.’

  ‘That takes time. You must be patient.’

  ‘How long must I wait?’

  ‘My dear young woman, I cannot tell you. There is so much fear, so much pain, so much anger – it all has to be worked through.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then he may declare himself. Until then, you must leave him alone. I say this for your own good. It could be dangerous.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Surely that is rather fanciful. John was the one who ran the risks.’

  Zelda pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. ‘I am asking you to drop these investigations. Come back and see me in a month. Do this for my sake.’

  Lucy dropped her eyes. ‘I cannot promise that. Not just yet.’ She had been given the name of a club. The Fallen Angel. It was in Chelsea and had the reputation of playing hos
t to rather a fast crowd. It was strictly against orders for servicemen and women to visit it but some of Johnny’s squadron had been seen there.

  Lucy reached into her handbag but Zelda refused any payment. ‘Off Limits! Off Limits!’ the parrot squawked as they made their way to the front door.

  Lucy took Zelda’s hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I feel that I have disappointed you.’

  Zelda pressed her hand. ‘There is no disappointment, my dear, but you look tired and unwell. I confess that I am anxious for you.’ The door closed softly.

  ***

  The mist had been replaced by a yellowish fog which swirled about her head and reduced visibility to no more than a few yards. The acrid taste of sulphur was in her mouth. She took shallow breaths at first and then great draughts of the foul air as her stride lengthened.

  People were going home from work. She drew a few curious glances from those she overtook. Someone behind her stepped in a puddle and she heard a muttered curse. There was not a bus or a taxi to be had. She would have to walk all the way. Along the river to the Chelsea Embankment.

  What would Donald think if he knew about this escapade? It wasn’t the first time. There had been evenings when she could not face going home to that cramped little house. Donald, tired, taciturn, smoking. The smell of smoke got into the fabrics, the curtains and chairs. It hit you as soon as you opened the front door. She never lied to him. She simply said that she had to go up to town. Perhaps he believed that there was a late meeting at the Air Ministry and she had been asked to help. She would walk about the streets or sit in the corner of a pub sipping her drink. Sometimes the siren sounded and she had to run for an air-raid shelter. Then she would catch the last train back. Donald must be worried about her. She was worried about herself. How could she be so selfish, so inconsiderate, so cruel? In truth, she no longer recognised herself.

  Perhaps that was what overwork did to one. She had not got the resilience, the emotional strength to discuss Johnny’s death with Donald. Later. Not now. She did not trust herself to be sensible, to be kind and understanding or to talk about Johnny in a calm, rational way. Not yet. Later.