‘Talking of taking shots—I’m going to phone the wedding photographer and see when we can meet,’ Juliette said, taking out her mobile and turning back to face the view towards Dover.
Morton took a series of photographs of the property, but even with the zoom lens he was dissatisfied. Through the viewfinder, he scanned the property and concluded that it looked empty. With Juliette in full conversation, Morton began to wander up the concrete drive, pausing sporadically to take further pictures. He stopped as he reached two globe-topped stone pillars which defined the opening of a square gravel parking area adjacent to the house. Photographing the upstairs rooms, he lowered his view to the front porch. Someone was standing there watching him. An old lady.
He smiled wanly as he lowered his camera. She was too far away for him to explain anything without shouting, but she was close enough for him to see that she was not happy. Now what? Should he continue into the car park and explain himself? Or simply walk away? A strange man taking photographs could terrify an elderly woman. He decided to continue towards the house and stepped into the parking area with a genteel wave to the old woman.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you?’
Now that there was only a short flight of stone steps between them, Morton was able to fully take her in.
She was an unkempt, shrivelled woman—at least in her nineties, Morton guessed—in a drab knitted jumper and chocolate brown skirt. Her drawn, haggard face somehow fitted perfectly with that inhospitable house behind her. The extent of her anger was revealed in her cold hard eyes.
He needed to speak. And quickly. ‘Hello, so sorry to trouble you,’ Morton began. ‘I’m just doing some genealogical research into someone who was born here during the war…’
She sliced through his convoluted explanation by raising a walking stick that he had somehow missed. ‘I don’t know what you’re saying or what you want, but get off my property right this minute. This is private land and you’ve got no right to be here,’ she ranted, moving towards him with her stick in the air. ‘Go on, get out of it!’
‘So sorry—I’m going now,’ Morton apologised, holding his hands up defensively as he trotted out of the parking area.
‘I’ll call the police and have you arrested for trespassing!’ she yelled, trooping at a remarkable pace that necessitated that Morton break into a fair run. ‘Get out of it!’
He reached the safety of the gate and saw Juliette’s look of disbelief at what she was witnessing.
The old woman ground to a halt but continued to hold her stick aloft. She eyed Juliette suspiciously. ‘I’m phoning the police; you’ve no right coming onto my property taking photos!’
‘Kindly put down your stick, madam,’ Juliette instructed.
‘I’m phoning the police,’ the old lady repeated.
Morton stepped to one side and watched in awe as Juliette transformed into Police Constable Meade. She held up her warrant card and moved closer to the woman. ‘I think you’ll find that to be a futile exercise, madam: Trespassing is nothing to do with the police—it’s civil law. Don’t worry, I’ve got this one covered.’ She grabbed Morton by the arm and led him back down the hill. ‘Sectioning him might work, though….’ she called back.
‘Thanks,’ Morton said.
‘You’re like a child; do you know that?’ Juliette complained. ‘I can’t leave you alone for two minutes without you getting into some sort of trouble.’
Morton smiled, took her hand in his and continued back towards the main village.
‘Now where?’ Juliette asked. ‘Preferably somewhere without stick-wielding pensioners, if that’s okay. And a coffee—if that’s not too much to ask.’
‘I know just the place.’
They were standing in the grounds of the National Memorial to the Few. In front of them was the memorial wall dedicated to all the aircrew who took part in the Battle of Britain. Fifteen tall sheets of shiny black granite, filled with the carved white names of two thousand nine hundred and forty-one men. Behind them was the sculpture of a seated airman, overlooking the thin ribbon of water between England and France, over which so many had fought and died.
‘The Christopher Foxley-Norris Memorial Wall is dedicated to the aircrew who flew during The Battle of Britain 10th July 1940 to 31st October 1940,’ Juliette read from the centre panel.
‘If Barbara’s father was a pilot in this area when he met her mother in August 1940, then he should be here, on this wall.’
‘What was his name?’
‘William Smith,’ Morton answered.
They shifted along to the right, tracing the alphabetised names back to the panel third from the end.
‘There,’ Juliette said triumphantly, placing her finger just below the name. Smith, W.
Morton took out his camera and photographed the name. ‘Right, let’s go inside and see if we can find anything else on him.’
They climbed a short run of steps into a new state-of-the-art education centre, built to look like a cross-section of a Spitfire wing. Morton was impressed. They stepped inside the quiet room and took a look around. In front of them was a rounded reception desk and to their left a shop containing an abundance of books and memorabilia referring to the Battle of Britain.
Morton approached the desk and the lady behind it—middle-aged with a black bob and thin pink lips—stood. ‘Hello,’ she greeted with a smile.
‘Hi. I’m looking for some information on a pilot called William Smith—his name is on the wall outside but is there any more information to be found on him in here?’
‘Well, the first place to start would be over there,’ she said, pointing to a fat book resting on its own podium. ‘That has a lot of information and photographs of the aircrew. If that doesn’t answer your questions, then come back and I’ll see
