A single crack of rifle fire resounded acrossNo Man’s Land.
Charles flung himself down onto Gustav,unsure of the direction the bullet was headed. It landed nearby andCharles realised then that Stoneham must have achieved the crawl over to hisrifle.
Another crack and Charles flinched and cried out as a bullet impacted into histhigh.
If he wanted to live, he needed to move, despite the acute burning in his legand a severe lack of energy.
A sudden flash and bang, louder andbrighter than Charles had ever experienced before, ripped open the groundbehind him. Charles collapsed back down onto Gustav as they both turnedto see the spectacle behind them. A massive shell had landed exactly onthe crater where they had been just a few minutes ago.
Stoneham’s threats ceased.
Charles propped himself up and began to drag Gustav onward. Breathlessand sweating, Charles came within a few feet of the German trenches, thesinuous lines of chalk mounds glistening in the moonlight. From theanimated babble emanating in front of him, he knew that he had been spotted andwas being carefully observed. His movements now were slow and deliberate;his energy was almost gone.
With nothing left inside him, Charles raised both hands in the air andslumped down beside Gustav.
‘Danke mein Freund, wir werden um Sie kümmern,’ Gustav whispered. He offered Charles his hand. ‘Schmidt, Gustav.’
‘Farrier, Charlie,’ he mimicked, shaking the man’s hand, before falling backinto the mud and staring up at the moonlit sky. Behind him, he could hearthe advance of a group of German soldiers.
In his head, Sussexby the Sea began to play. At first he hummed, then he sangaloud. ‘Far o'er the seas we wander, wide thro’the world we roam; Far from the kind hearts yonder, far from our dear old home;But ne'er shall we forget, my boys, and true we'll ever be, to the girls sokind that we left behind, in Sussex by the Sea.
ChapterEighteen
25th September 1974, Westbere, Kent, England
Nelliepaced the length of the lounge floor, back and forth, trying to subdue hernerves. Beads of sweat rose on her forehead, partly due to her anxietiesand partly due to the roaring fire, so incongruous to the warm dayoutside. She strode towards the front window, stopped and flung it wideopen. She breathed deeply and tried to steady her mind. MaybeI’m too old for one last adventure like this, Nellie fretted. Shelooked out at the three-wheeled bicycle propped up against the cottagewall. She was sure that it was exactly the same bicycle that Mrs Blakehad used since her arrival in the village in the early 1950s. Since then,in her own formidable way, Mrs Blake had delivered most children from thesurrounding villages. But now her services as the district midwife werequickly diminishing, as expectant mothers were being encouraged to choose thespecialist maternity unit at the Kent and Canterbury Hospital. WhenNellie had raised the question of delivery to Alfred, he had unequivocally insistedthat Margaret deliver at home. Nellie could only surmise that thedecision was entirely driven by a desire to minimise public scandal, withlittle consideration for Margaret’s wellbeing.
Nellie looked at the grandfather clock. Mrs Blake had been upstairs withMargaret now for over two hours. The last communication—an order for hotwater and an igniting of the fire ready to burn the placenta—had been more thanhalf an hour ago. It must almost be over, she reasoned. Timeto phone Alfred.
She slowly walked intothe hallway and reluctantly picked up the receiver and dialled her son’snumber.
‘Hello?’ he snapped.
‘Alfie, it’s me,’ Nellie breathed quietly. ‘It’s happening. MrsBlake is with her now.’
‘Is it born?’ Alfred demanded.
‘Not yet—any moment I should think.’
‘I’m in the middle of important business; I told you to telephone me when itwas over—not during.’
‘Why are you being so harsh towards her?’ Nellie responded, beginning to losepatience with her son’s reprehensible attitude. She heard an exasperatedsigh at the other end.
‘Look, what would you have me do? Place a birth announcement in the FolkestoneHerald for all the world to see? Celebrate my daughter’s disgustingpromiscuity?’
‘That’s enough, Alfred,’ Nellie chided. Yet again, she wondered how thegenes from Alfred’s placid father and her had resulted in such an intolerant,irascible man, although she knew deep down that his change in attitude hadoccurred in the dark days following his wife’s death in childbirth. Sheguessed that Margaret’s being in labour brought back memories he would ratherforget. Nellie took a deep breath. I need to show him patience, shethought.
‘You wouldn’t be so easy-going if you knew what she’d been up to…’ Alfredmuttered heatedly.
Nellie turned her head so that she was facing away from the stairs and loweredher voice to a whisper. ‘If you’re referring to the fact that sheconsented to this chap from America, then I know full well what she’s been upto.’ Nellie exhaled, instantly regretting having divulged her knowledgeto him.
A pause from the other end was followed by Alfred’s angry voice. ‘And inAmerica he can bloody well stay. I’ve written and told him so, too. Sending letters to my daughter. I’ve intercepted, read and destroyedevery single one. Disgusting, at her age.’
A short familiar squeak from upstairs told Nellie that Margaret’s bedroom doorhad just been opened. Without another word, she placed the receiver backdown and looked expectantly upstairs.
Mrs Blake, her blue uniformed sleeves rolled to her elbows, began to cautiouslydescend the stairs, cradling to her chest what looked like a small bundle offresh white blankets. With an unusual smile, Mrs Blake handed the bundleto Nellie. ‘A boy.’
Warm tears of joy filled Nellie’s eyes, as she cradled her great grandson. What will become of you, my boy? she wondered. Hopefully youwill never learn of the many Farrier family secrets that you’ve been born into.
Epilogue
29th December 2014, Rye, East Sussex, England
Itwas early in the morning and still dark outside. The closing of the frontdoor jolted Morton awake, as Juliette left for work. As had happened theprevious two days, he had been unable to stay asleep, wondering if an email hadyet arrived back from Andrew Sageman. Morton was becoming so desperate tohear from him that last night he had composed an email, politely checking if hehad sent anything, which might have gone missing. Juliette had told himto stop
