THE HERRENHAUS FORFEIT - Book review

 

Paul Phillips’s second book in the ‘Chasing Mercury’ series, The Herrenhaus Forfeit was published in 2024 and continues the story begun in The Borodino Sacrifice. Certainly, the books can be read independently, though it’s preferable they’re read in sequence.

Former US Army sniper Sam Bradley is being recruited by the shadowy character Doyle to chase down the Mercury outfit headed by Mila to discover what they were seeking. ‘Bradley’s sense of nausea increased. It was the motion sickness you got from the long, inescapable slide to inevitability... The thing about the long slide, the thing that let you cope with the dread of its inescapable outcome, was that wrapped up in the motion sickness was something else. Exhilaration’ (pp36/37).

Again, we tour the detritus of post-war Germany as we follow Bradley who has infiltrated a gangster group involved in smuggling whatever brought profit in the black market, while also dodging Nazis and Soviets. ‘There had been a serious lack of accommodation in Hamburg since the night the world had learned a new term: firestorm’ (p88).

As before there are many instances where Phillips conveys a scene with a minimum of description:

‘... a heavy vehicle had recently ploughed the neglected crust of mouldered mud and frozen leaves’ (p116).

The plot is convoluted, involving competing groups in a maelstrom of geo-political upheaval. There are double-crosses, betrayals and heroism, and death stalks nearby most of the time. Friendships are forged as are identity papers. There’s a sly name-change from Pfeffer to Salzen and a couple of fascinating character descriptions of middle-aged Marjorie Jessop and conniving Jack Penny. It’s not without humour; for example, when Bradley attempts to help some associates pretend to be Americans, ‘Most importantly, he handed out the Wrigley’s.’ (p159).

The blurb – and the previous book – indicate that Mila is searching for a lost child, which is not easy considering the mortality of children in the war-torn continent. ‘Before adoption, all Aryanised children were renamed, to bury their old identities, and welcome them as lifelong members of the race’ (p126). Though slight of stature, Mila is tough and determined – an irresistible force (p180).

Without telegraphing any spoilers, the forfeit of the title is referred to on p139 – it’s a kind of deal between Mila and some gangsters, where neither party actually trusts the other.

I felt the involvement of the criminal underground was inspired and realistic, the kind of thing that Len Deighton would have attempted. A number of chapter-endings reminded me of Adam Hall’s Quiller books where the protagonist would face a serious predicament at the end of a chapter and then in the next chapter he/she is Scott-free and the reasons are divulged after the event; it works well.

Mila and Sam are a great team.

Needless to say, in due course I shall be reading the third book in the trilogy, The Safehaven Complex.

Editorial comment for the benefit of writers:

‘... bring the leather doctor’s bag...’ (p95). This should read ‘bring the doctor’s leather bag’ or ‘bring the leather doctor’s-bag’ to avoid the perception that the doctor was made of leather.

‘She hissed “Now!”’(p174)  – there’s no susurration here, which is necessary for a hiss. Maybe whispered harshly or grated would be better?

THE BORODINO SACRIFICE - Book review

Paul Phillips’s spy thriller The Borodino Sacrifice (published 2024) is the first book in the Chasing Mercury trilogy. 

I can see why Phillips dedicated it in memory of Peter O’Donnell, author of the Modesty Blaise thrillers: the novel is fast-paced and introduces us to two characters who end up facing dangers together – in a similar manner to Modesty and Willie Garvin.

I’m a sucker for word-play in titles, chapter headings etc. There are four parts. 1 – Between the Lines; 2 – Behind the Curtain; 3 – Beneath the Ashes; 4 – Upon the Mountains. So we have four different yet relevant prepositions.

We start with US sergeant Sam Bradley protecting a Brit spy, Jones, in the Moravian forest when a violent altercation occurs between a partisans. Inevitably there’s plenty of action at this time of Cessation of Hostilities at the close of World War II in Europe. Czechoslovakia is a mess, with national militias, partisans, communists and anti-communist guerrillas on the rampage... Bradley’s observant and memory-scarred. ‘... the Red Army mechanics had the  jeep repaired by midday. Bradley wished flesh and blood was as responsive’ (p155).

Jones wants Bradley to find one of his people who is missing: Ludmila Suková, codename ‘Mercury’. Usually called Mila. She is almost a force of nature. ‘... there was something else about her, something real and strangely potent’ (p241). Mila is a layered character, an enigma, somebody who never gives up, no matter what obstacles get in her way. Like many spies, she used a poem to encrypt her messages, reminiscent of Violette Szabo’s written for her by Leo Marks in 1941; Mila’s is by W.B. Yeats. Gradually, we learn of her backstory and it seems the past has come to define her. Mila is on a quest of her own.

Bradley’s quest takes him to Berlin where he witnesses the devastation as well as the amazing rubble-women clearing away the detritus of war. Where there are razed buildings there are bodies: ‘Summer heat – the dead were making themselves known’ (p76).

Phillips's power of description puts you in the scene: ‘Smoke caressed the cobwebbed roof-space. The derelict mill was poorly shuttered and dusty beams of late afternoon sun were slinking across the walls. (He) heard an insect trapped somewhere, and the ticking of a watch’ (p55). And: ‘The sinking sun had turned the windows of the terraced tenements to molten ingots’ (p216).

His action scenes are intense; you can almost hear the shell casings hit the ground. However, it is not all action. Sometimes there’s poignancy. One individual reflects: ‘His heart had been buoyed by the last blessing, the tenderness of a woman, even directed at a worm such as he – a traitor, a nothing, a black joke, a geography teacher in a land without place names or frontiers, on a continent with its populations upended, in a world where the maps were redundant’ (p58).

The story has depth and is well researched, brilliantly evoking this period of post-war confusion. The assassination attempt on Heydrich in 1942 is pertinent. Men from GRU, NKVD and Smersh are plotting and loyalties are tested in grey areas. Behind the scenes the future of Czechoslovakia is and its people is being determined...

At the end of the book the reader is quite breathless. Happily, as you will be aware from the first sentence, there are two more in the continuing saga of Bradley and Mila. (I suppose that constitutes being labelled as a ‘spoiler’ – both survive the tense travails of this book!)

Note:

Berlin's rubble-women are detailed in Volume 4 of my Collected Stories - 18 history tales, Codename Gaby.

THUNDER POINT - Book review

 

Jack Higgins’s thriller Thunder Point was published in 1993 and is a credible page-turner.

It concerns serious incriminating documents from 1945 locked away in a metal Nazi briefcase located in a sunken U-boat in the Caribbean.

The U-boat is discovered by accident in 1992 but when the diver learns of the contents inaccessibly locked in a watertight compartment he consults friends in London. This escalates, ultimately involving Brigadier Ferguson who runs a clandestine unit only answerable to the PM. Ferguson inveigles Sean Dillon, Irish assassin and hard man to penetrate the submarine and recover the briefcase.

Other people learn of this and want the contents either to be destroyed or for potential leverage in a political power-game.

It’s colourful, well-researched and the reader becomes invested in the characters.

A first-rate fast-paced Higgins thriller.

Editorial comment:

In most cases my comments are not criticisms but hints about writing.

There are a couple of contrived episodes involving imprisonment in Yugoslavia and a nun outside Paris, the latter of no real relevance; nothing to spoil the reading experience, however,

This section is from Dillon’s POV:

‘... He recognised Algaro at once... and then Santiago came out of the wheelhouse. “Who’s the guy in the blazer and cap?” Dillon enquired.

“That’s Max Santiago, the owner...”’

Instead of ‘Santiago came out...’ it should have read ‘a man in a blazer and cap came out’. (p179)

Several characters sit or lie and ‘think about things’...

Dillon’s favourite handgun – Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer...

Fact:

The skeletal remains of Martin Bormann were discovered in the 1960s and identified in the 1970s, though not conclusively until 1998 following genetic testing.

THE HEART OF THE MATTER - Book review

Graham Greene’s novel The Heart of the Matter was published in 1948. It became an instant best-seller and has been reprinted many times and won awards and high praise.

In 1926 Greene was received into the Roman Catholic Church and, not surprisingly, several novels of his deal with characters bound by that faith. Major Scobie, the police chief of a flyblown West African colony during the Second World War, is one such.

Inspector Wilson is a new arrival: ‘He was like the lagging finger of the barometer, still pointing to Fair long after its companion has moved to Stormy’ (p11). Wilson shares accommodation with Harris and there’s an amusing episode where the pair start a cockroach hunt – The Cockroach Championship – to alleviate boredom (p70).

Scobie has been here for fifteen years and feels comfortably bound to the place. ‘Why, he wondered, swerving the car to avoid a dead pye-dog, do I love this place so much? Is it because here human nature hasn’t had time to disguise itself?’ (p35).

Unfortunately, his rather faded wife Louise wants to have a break, to go away on holiday. Scobie feels guilty that Louise is not happy. The bank won’t lend Scobie the money as his salary is not generous and, indeed, he has just been passed over for the post of Commissioner. In a moment of weakness, he accepts a loan from a local Syrian merchant, Yusef, who is a known black marketeer though no proof has ever been found. ‘He never reaches the freezing-point of knowing absolute failure. Only the man of goodwill carries always in his heart this capacity for damnation’ (p60).

While Louise is away in South Africa Scobie begins a clandestine affair with a refugee from a sunken transport ship, a young widow, Helen. He is aware he is committing the grave sin of adultery. He argues it is not a sin, it is love. And doomed.

There are several themes: guilt, sin, avarice, blackmail, deceit, love and trust. ‘Trust was a dead language of which he had forgotten the grammar’ (p264).

As the book blurb indicates, ‘inexorably, his conscience and his love of God lead him to disaster’.

There are too many examples of Greene’s prose imagery to note here, but the following are examples:

‘There was nothing to be read in the vacuous face, blank as a school notice-board out of term’ (p55).

These two, among many other insights in the book, suggest he drew upon his time as an Intelligence Officer in Freetown, British Sierra Leone:

‘The mosquitoes whirred steadily around them like sewing machines’ (p112). ‘... a mosquito immediately droned towards his ear. The skirring went on all the time, but when they drove to the attack they had the deeper drone of dive-bombers’ (p122).

‘Only the vultures were about – gathering round a dead chicken at the edge of the road, stooping their old men’s necks over the carrion, their wings like broken umbrellas sticking out this way and that’ (p230).

Editorial comment:

I’ve brought this up before; something that editors don’t spot: the tendency for writers to state a character thought to himself or herself. This really is tautological.  ‘He thought’ is adequate; ‘to himself/herself’ is superfluous.

‘He thought to himself, poor Louise’ (p17). Also on p53...

RECOLLECTION OF A JOURNEY - Book review

R.C. Hutchinson’s novel Recollection of a Journey was published in 1952; this edition 1983.

Several of Hutchinson’s novels are about a journey – the human journey through life, with its entire vicissitudes, and this book is no exception. It’s narrated by Stefanie Kolbeck, looking back as an old woman to a time in 1940 when Poland was invaded by the German Army and then by the Soviets. ‘One’s memories of childhood are seldom clear visually’ (p9).

In 1940 Stefanie is pregnant. She has a young daughter Annette with her as she boarded a train to escape bombardment, accompanied by her father-in-law, Julius; they’re returning to the Kolbeck family home, Setory. Her ex-husband Casimir had absconded and she had since wed his brother Victor who was in the Polish army.

History tells us that the contest was uneven, though the Poles fought valiantly. ‘These Prussians, and those barbarians on the other side, they suppose they can make an end of Poland by seizing our people and crushing their bodies; they think they can bury the whole history of our nationhood, make us forget our own tongue...’ (p29). ‘We get our greatness from suffering’ (p227).

When the Germans fled and the Russians took over, life didn’t improve for the Kolbecks and the villagers nearby. ‘All the official guidance we had came from the area propagandist, one much lower in intelligence than most of his kind’ (p224) who extolled the superiority of freedoms enjoyed in the Soviet Union...

The descriptions of the family’s constant upheaval, the privations, the move from one labour camp to another, are thoroughly immersive; the reader is there, sharing this first-person narrative. We view scenes in detail through her eyes. ‘... the image of that session remains upon a separate page of my memory, like a photograph in a family album; blurred at the edges now...’ (p55).

Julius’s ageing father was with the family for a while. ‘... even if he was in physical pain his clouded eyes would be faintly lit with amusement over something scratched from his mind’s vast field...’ (p109). ‘... but in their pinched and cheese-white faces I saw the settled apathy of those to whom life is only death’s postponement’ (p109).

When the family and the villagers are herded towards the train and its cattle trucks the imagery seems totally real: ‘It was light too feeble to reach ourselves. In the darkness where we stood we were only spectators of a shadow play that was at once unreal and oddly sinister, where a waving arm would suddenly protrude from the black sierra, where the glint from a bayonet showed like a falling star’ (230).

Amidst hardship, loss, brutality, ignorance, and death, Stefanie learns compassion and perseverance. ‘The heart, I think, which may be convulsed by lesser griefs, is an instrument too finely made to respond at once to the highest charge of sorrow; it will vibrate a little, and that vibration must continue through the years before the charge is absorbed’ (p121).

Throughout, the novel reads like Stefanie’s autobiography, revealing the suffering of innocent casualties of war, displaced, traumatised and exploited, with great observation, imagery and prose:

‘He did pause for a few moments, as if some breeze had brought to his mind a dust which had to settle’ (p181)

‘He drank it slowly, making little grimaces, as children do with medicine; and this reminded me how much the contentment of the cold depends on the precise observance of their simple routines’ (p211).

‘... that Siberian morning light which gives a stone-like quality to the earth and to every object that it finds...’ (p286).

‘... it began to rain, and soon, at a petulant shout from our commander, the prostrate figures, like the dead summoned to judgement, were struggling all together to their feet’ (p287)

‘... behind the stygian hills the sky had become a furnace in the sunrise; ahead, where the river turned, a soft-fleshed shoulder of the farther heights had caught from this fire an unearthly, roseate glow, and in the thorny scrub which lined the river’s edge that fluorescence was broken into shimmering gold by a million particles of ice’ (p298).

For Stefanie, the journey ends on the Caspian, though we know she eventually moved to the west. It’s a remarkable book by an excellent writer, neglected for too long.

Hutchinson (1907 – 1975) wrote seventeen novels, many of them best-sellers and book club choices in their day.  I’ve previously read his A Child Possessed and March the Ninth which didn’t disappoint.

D-DAY - Book review

Stephen A Ambrose’s weighty tome D-Day does what it says on the cover: it’s about the battle for the Normandy beaches on June 6, 1944. It was published in 1994 to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the landings; my copy was published in 2002. Ambrose regards it as a love song to democracy.

At 655 pages, with 9 maps, a glossary and extensive endnotes and two sections of contemporary photographs, this is a daunting volume. Ambrose has relied on many sources, many of them from oral histories and memoires: a remarkable compilation, covering that one unforgettable day.

Ambrose’s style is very readable and lucid and is not judgemental but reasoned.

As early as 1941 the Allies began preparing for the invasion against the formidable ‘Atlantic Wall’ that Rommel and others had constructed. The identity of the target beaches was highly secret and amazingly on the day came as a surprise for the German high command. Although no plan seems to go according to plan, the preparation was formidable: for example, every Allied warplane was painted with white bands around the fuselage and wings (during the invasion of Sicily, Allied planes had been fired upon by their own ships and troops (p194).

There were many ruses and feints employed to confound the Germans, including dummy parachutists landing near Le Havre and Rouen (p216).

On the fateful morning of June 6 Eisenhower was in bed, smoking, and reading a Western novel. He had met the troops prior to their embarkation, enthusiastic, tough and fit men with ‘the light of battle in their eyes’ (p483). He did not interfere now the battle was about to begin; the forces were committed.

The air bombardment not only included the Atlantic Wall positions but inland targets elsewhere, still to confuse the enemy. ‘By 0800 many aircrews were back at the base, having a second breakfast [maybe Ambrose had read Tolkien?]. The RAF returned to Caen, trying to concentrate on the rail station. The Germans in Caen, in retaliation, took eighty French Resistance prisoners out of their cells and shot them in cold blood’ (p248). The Geneva Convention was abused repeatedly: ‘Jerry would deliberately shoot the medics. I think that the hottest place in hell is reserved for the man that would do that’ (p424). In contrast: ‘On the beach, men saw Father Lacy go down to the water’s edge and pull the dead, dying and wounded from the water and put them in relatively protected positions. He didn’t stop at that, but prayed for them and with them, gave comfort to the wounded and dying. A real man of God’ (p429).

Regarding the equipment, there was friendly rivalry between the Americans and the British. ‘They managed to disable two enemy tanks with Gammon grenades (how the Yanks loved that British grenade; it was the best antitank weapon they had, far superior to their own bazookas – if they could get close enough)’ (p310). Gen. Percy Hobart came up with some ideas: floating tanks – using the so-called duplex drive (DD) and the ‘Crab’ – a tank with a drum in front, flailing chains to detonate mines, nicknamed Hobart’s Funnies. (p54). ‘We were saved by our flail tanks’ (p551).

The germ of the idea for Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan: ‘Sgt Bob Niland was killed at his machine gun post at Omaha Beach. One of his brothers was killed the same morning at Utah Beach. Another brother was killed that week in Burma. Mrs Niland received all three telegrams from the War Department announcing the deaths of her sons on the same day. Her fourth son, Fritz, was in the 101^st Airborne; he was snatched out of the front line by the Army’ (pp316/317).

The stories of heroics are thick and fast in this longest day: ‘We sometimes forget that you can manufacture weapons and you can purchase ammunition but you can’t buy valour and you can’t pull heroes off an assembly line’ (p359) – which is as true today as it was then.

Author Ernest Hemingway was in the seventh wave onto Omaha Beach, reporting for Collier’s, and employed his inimitable descriptive style: ‘the big guns sounded as though they were throwing whole railway trains across the sky’ (p478).

There is an enlightening if brief chapter regarding the feelings of those at the home front on both sides.

Unsurprisingly, the emphasis is mainly on the American landings. Description of the British and Commonwealth landings only begins on p508 – amounting to about 70 pages. Lt. Richard Todd arrived with the Fifth Parachute Brigade, having starred in three films and then joining up in 1939; BBC broadcaster Capt. Huw Wheldon landed in a glider.  The Atlantic Wall took the Germans four years to build; at the beaches of Gold, Juno and Sword it had held up the Canadian and British forces for about an hour. (At Utah Beach, the Americans were held up less than an hour; at Omaha, less than a day.) (p577).

If you want a more detailed British perspective, you could try James Holland’s Normandy ’44 and Brothers in Arms.

The planned British capture of Caen was over-optimistic due to several factors; ultimately, Ambrose concluded that ‘The British were outstanding in gathering intelligence, lousy in using it’ (p517).

Eisenhower concluded that the price paid by the Allies was heavy, but they did it that ‘the world could be free’.

Editorial comment:

There are very few typos, not worthy of comment; however, I couldn’t resist this:

‘You have heard of the Lord Mare’s Show...’ (p510) – which, clearly, should be the Lord Mayor’s Show... 

CLANDESTINE OPERATIONS FROM MALTA - Book review

 

Clandestine operations from Malta and the French Resistance connection in Tunisia is a fascinating book by Frederick Galea, Platon Alexiades and Adrien Abraham, published by Wise Owl Publications in 2023.

It does what it says in the title, complete with many black and white photographs, and covers the period 1938 to 1943 in considerable detail.

In the Second World War Malta was vital to the Allied effort, serving as a staging post for espionage and submarines against the Axis forces in North Africa, Sicily and Italy. That was why, at great cost in lives, convoys were sent to bolster the islands during the terrible air onslaught by the Italian and German forces.

Many vital clandestine missions were undertaken, among them beach reconnaissance of Italy and Sicily – the latter for Operation Husky (a secret protected by Operation Mincemeat no less), sabotage of railways and bridges and factories, intelligence gathering, anti-shipping with underwater chariots, commando raids, extraction of agents, and diversions. These efforts, notably by the agents in Tunisia (who were in contact with Malta) aided the detection and destruction of Axis shipping, thus denying important replenishment supplies for Rommel et al.

The beach reconnaissance efforts impressed Lord Mountbatten and led to the creation of Combined Operations Pilotage Parties (COPP) – they trained at a secret base on Hayling Island, Portsmouth. They used chariots and folding boats (folbots) that could be easily transported by submarine and get through the boats’ forward hatches.

Agents were flown from Malta to Tunisia to set up a French Resistance network. Every flight was fraught with tension and suspense.

Remarkably, planes took off from Mildenhall in Suffolk, flying through the night and, after covering nearly 1,600 miles, much of it over occupied France – to deliver sabotage units, such as X Troop to Malta. For example, in February 1941 X Troop flew from Malta in six Whitworth Whitleys and parachuted into the Genestra area and seriously damaged an aqueduct; inconveniencing the Italian troops and locals and affecting morale.

The authors quote witnesses to many of the events; sources are provided at the back of the book.

Many of the agents and other personnel involved in transporting them received honours post-war – some posthumously.

SECRETS OF MALTA - Book review

 

Cecily Blench’s second historical novel Secrets of Malta was published in 2024. It is set in 1943, primarily in Malta but also in London, Tunisia and Egypt; there are flashbacks to Syria in 1926.

The dreadful plague of air-raids on Malta has lessened by now.

As the title suggests, the story involves intelligence activities of the Allies against the Axis forces. Dennis Pratchett is sent to Malta to root out a suspected mole in the intelligence community of Malta. ‘Chap called Morton runs our networks in North Africa and he’s got several operatives who go back and forth’ (p20). Pratchett’s senior, Sir Harold informs him the suspected agent was active in the last war and used the code-name Nero; and the man was believed to be responsible for a couple of murders in Europe before the war. The presence of Nero in Malta at this critical time is most serious – for reasons that will be explained in the book much later...

Margarita is a cabaret singer in Valletta; she has just ended an affair with Henry Dunn. Mrs Vera Dunn accosts Margarita in the night club and reveals that Henry has gone missing. There is no animosity between them; indeed, they seem sympathetic towards each other.

In 1926 Vera was one of four young archaeology students working on a dig in Syria for Professor Curzon. The relevance of these flashbacks only becomes significant as the book progresses.

Now, Margarita is courting a submarine officer, Arthur. Several submarines are involved in covert missions, landing spies in Tunisia, which was recently occupied by Axis forces.

The two women conduct their own investigations, and secrets are revealed...

Vera is a pragmatist: ‘Nothing does more to stimulate one’s sex drive than a war’ (p131).

The author has captured the period and the situation both in Malta, Tunisia and in Syria. Her characters provoke interest throughout. There were some clever misdirections, too; which only seems appropriate in a book about spying and deception!

Perhaps more could have been made of the awful destruction from the almost continuous bombing of 1942, and the stoic response of the inhabitants; but that’s a minor quibble.

I kept turning the pages; it was a quick read, made enjoyable because the setting was familiar.

Editorial comments:

‘Arthur had complained that Malta had no beaches, but Margarita had taken him to one of her swimming spots, where they swam off warm rocks...’ (p59). I’ve heard this nonsense before. There are plenty of sandy beaches on Malta!

There are a lot of ‘sighs’ and ‘sighing heavily’ – which do not detract from the reading pleasure; but perhaps the editor could have addressed some of them.

‘Her eyes brushed past and then returned to settle on him’ (p366). To avoid the surreal image, it would read better if ‘gaze’ was used instead of ‘eyes’!

THE SCARLET NIGHTINGALE - Book review

 

The Scarlet Nightingale (published 2018) is another excellent novel from the talented Alan Titchmarsh. His output is varied, to say the least. This outing begins along similar lines to Shute’s Requiem for a Wren – in other words, the female protagonist Rosamund is dead. The post-war Rosamund was a successful novelist and she had left behind a buff folder: ‘souvenirs and accretions of a life that had mostly had its share of romance... but which had also put a young woman in danger. Rosamund might have come from a privileged background, but it was something that she had been quite prepared to sacrifice in the name of love and duty. This is her story’ (p3).

The narrative is mostly in the third person, however interspersed are small insertions from Rosamund’s notes in first person (a good writer’s ploy which brings the character to life at a deeper level).

As ever, Titchmarsh reveals his gift for short telling character descriptions: Dr Armstrong ‘wore a wing collar and his eyebrows were long and upturned, giving him the look of a rather frightening owl’ (p31). Rosamund’s French governess Celine has to break the sad news to her charge: the girl had become an orphan and was to stay with her aunt Venetia in London (in 1938).

Venetia, the sister of Rosamund’s father, had married well and was now Lady Reeves and lived in Eaton Square. When war came, her aunt was loath to hide in the nearby air-raid shelter, preferring the basement in her house. Quite a character: ‘her aunt, in a floral Hartnell creation, half reclined on a sofa so generously furnished with brocade-covered cushions that she seemed in serious danger of suffocation’ (p125). ‘She might give the impression of being unworldly and ethereal, but the razor-sharp mind was clearly in no need of a whetstone’ (p125).

Venetia’s cook, Mrs Heffer, had a helpful brother who did odd jobs: ‘He was not exactly a liveried footman, but he did wear his three-piece Sunday suit and employed a liberal amount of brilliantine to tame his unruly thatch, which, on a bad day resembled an exploded Brillo pad’ (p220).

Rosamund meets and falls in love with Harry Napier who seems to be involved in secret war work. Before long, like many socialites of the period, Rosamund joins the SOE and is dubbed the Scarlet Nightingale; she is landed in France with others to sabotage a factory...

There are details about her training and the actual mission. Naturally, the reader is aware that she will survive, even if captured, because she died at the ripe old age of ninety-three (p1); however, there is still plenty of tension concerning the other operatives involved.

Titchmarsh has a gift for creating sympathetic characters. As Aunt Venetia says, ‘If we do not approach life positively, if we succumb to the naysayers and the defeatists, then we might just as well throw in the towel now, because such negativity becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy... I cannot and will not be bowed down by a bunch of thugs who want to rule the world by bully-boy tactics. The only way to beat bullies is to stand up to them, and that – as you have discovered – is often painful and can have tragic consequences’ (p317). [That applies to any period, even today... – Ed]

A bitter-sweet tale, well told.

THE ENGLISH LADY - book review

William Harrington’s Second World War espionage novel The English Lady was published in 1982. It comprises three parts: 1931-1934; 1938-1940; and 1941-1942 (though the final pages are 1981).

Lady Nancy Brookeford has grown up knowing the rich and famous movers and shakers of Great Britain and the United States, including the Prince of Wales, Winston Churchill and President Roosevelt! ‘Her face was faultless, clear, smooth skin; a small nose, a small mouth with full mobile lips; large, deep-blue eyes; straight, unplucked brows... She had a reputation for being pretty and intelligent’ (p5). The family had relations in Germany, one of whom was Helmut Bittrich, a cousin, who taught her to fly when she visited that country.

Her skill as a pilot combined with her looks gained the attention of Germans, especially Nazis, not least Von Ribbentrop and Hindenburg, and in the early 1930s Göring and Goebbels. By 1934 she found herself being employed as a pilot for Lufthansa. Before long she was brought to the notice of Hitler, who seemed enraptured by her...

However, Hitler was not the only one under her spell: Reinhard Heydrich was intensely interested in her: ‘He was a sensual man – his narrow eyes wandered over her like exploring fingertips... He liked to fly, to fence, to play the violin, and to make love to beautiful women. This was the positive side of his personality. He showed a dark negative in the performance of his official duties, she supposed. Maybe she need not see that side’ (p132).

And then, when returning to England for a funeral, she is faced with a proposition she cannot refuse: to become a spy because war was imminent.

Haydrich observed ‘We have to prepare for war. To save the peace, you prepare for war’ (p183).

A phrase handed down from the fourth century Romans, perhaps: si vis pacem, para bellum. Interestingly, part of this was used as a motto by a German arms maker – parabellum guns and cartridges.

There is plenty of intrigue among the Nazi hierarchy, several of them intent on ridding the country of Hitler and then suing for peace – among these was Admiral Canaris. Nancy is often in the thick of it, all the while getting closer to Heydrich.

Two aspects of the novel create suspense and verisimilitude. The detailed behind-the-scenes behaviour of the Nazi hierarchy and the quite exhilarating flying sequences.

Certain events are touched upon, notably Kristallnacht – the Night of Broken Glass, and Hitler’s detestation of the Soviets. Both monsters, Hitler and Heydrich, are given human faces, no mean feat, though I doubt that this will endear some readers to the book.

Any student of the Second World War will be aware where the book is leading when Heydrich is transferred to Czechoslovakia. While Nancy frequently uses the airfield at Lidice, the book does not mention this town’s awful fate.

William Harrington was a lawyer turned prolific novelist, writing a half-dozen Columbo books and over 17 standalone novels. He died in 2000, having committed suicide aged 68. 

JACKDAWS - book review

 

The prolific Ken Follett’s Jackdaws was published in 2001. His output is varied and broad in theme and place and time. Here, he returns to the Second World War and spies – some twenty-three years after his WWII debut novel Eye of the Needle.

The story covers the nine days before D-Day, June 6, 1944. Twenty-eight-year-old Felicity 'Flick' Clairet, an SOE agent is leading a Resistance assault on a French chateau in the village of Sainte-Cecile, the German communications hub for the area. But it goes wrong and she and her French husband barely manage to escape. Some of their team are killed and others are captured.

The German interrogator is Colonel Dieter Franck who, while not enjoying inflicting pain on his victims, is good at it. The Germans are aware that an invasion is about to occur soon and that will entail the rising up of many Resistance cells. He is certain that if he can break the will of his captives, he can learn details about the various groups.

Flick returns to England and is given permission to try again to crack the chateau communications hub. She recruits the Jackdaws, a ‘dirty half-dozen’ – all-female team to infiltrate in place of the regular cleaners. Not all of them will survive...

This is a typical Follett page-turner with characters you soon come to know and care about. Even Franck evokes a measure of sympathy. The interrogators, the invaders, considered the SOE agents as terrorists. Both sides were ruthless. In these sensitive times perhaps some readers will find certain aspects of the violence depicted as distressing; yet this kind of thing – and worse – happened. I’ve read a number of nonfiction and fiction books about the SOE and Follett’s research seems very accurate – and never slows the pace.

If you want an involving fast read, this suspenseful thriller will fit the bill.

Editorial comment:

Blame the editor. On p312 a coded message mentions Friday 1 June. Yet on p315 we’re told that Friday is 2 June. Oops. [Hopefully it has been amended since my 2002 edition].

THE INFORMATION OFFICER - Book review

 

This is the third book by Mark Mills – each one different in place and time. The Information Officer was published in 2009. It’s set in Malta in 1942 during the second great siege (the first being against the Turks in 1565). [The book brought back memories of the time my wife Jen and I lived in Rabat in 1974-75].

There are two maps – one of the Maltese islands with significant places shown; and a second of the Grand Harbour – which will prove helpful if you’re unfamiliar with Malta.

It begins (mistakenly in my opinion) in London, May 1951 with a viewpoint by a restaurant’s maître d’ with the hint of a spoiler. The real story begins in Malta, April 1942 when a young woman is murdered.

Major Max Chadwick is the Information Officer in Malta, responsible for reporting to the populace with suitable material to maintain morale. Max has a number of friends, among them Freddie, the medic who works out of Mtarfa hospital [I worked there in the 1970s; it’s now a school and apartments]; Elliott, an American serviceman; and Ralph, a cavalier pilot.

When Max is told that there have been three young women murdered yet the authorities seem to be hushing it up, he decides to do some private investigating himself. Digging around for clues is not easy for an amateur, granted, and it is made more difficult by the wartime conditions, notably the constant air raids.

The submarine base on Manoel Island, the Tenth Submarine Flotilla, was one of several targets for Italian and German bombers; inevitably, the airfields were prime targets too: Ta’ Qali, Hal Far and Luqa; and of course the many quaysides and docks of the Grand Harbour and its inlets. [Jen learned to drive in Malta and took her driving-test on the old airfield at Ta’ Qali].

Mills quickly immerses the reader in the place and period. ‘It was typical of many Maltese homes in that the unassuming façade gave no indication of the treasures that lay behind it’ (p21). [When living there we’d seen many examples of this.] He also has a fine turn of phrase: I liked his ‘bewilderment of bastions’ when describing Valletta.

‘…he accompanied her and her mangy dog to the Blessing of the Animals at the church of Santa Maria Vittoriosa’ (p130). [We’d seen these ceremonies in Malta and Spain].

‘… he’d been forced to crash-land in a field – a near-impossible thing to do on Malta without hitting a stone wall’ (p191). [Not much has changed with this overbuilt island].

‘The Point de Vue Hotel stood on the south side of the Saqqija, the leafy square separating Mdina and Rabat’ (p230). The hotel ‘took a direct hit during an afternoon raid, killing six’ (p230). [We enjoyed a splendid meal here].

He mentions the megalithic temples of Hagar Qim and Mnajdra (p243) and on the same page on Dingli Cliffs the primary Radio Direction Finding station is found there; [even now, though the spying is somewhat more sophisticated].

He conveys the absolute terror of living through intense bombing day after day. ‘The ground beneath him had bucked like a living thing, and all around him the air had rung to the tune of flying splinters, a lethal symphony of rock and metal overlaid by more obvious notes: the whistle and shriek of falling bombs, the thump and crump of explosions, the staccato bark of the Bofors firing back blind, and the screams of the diving Stukas’ (p43).

Intermittently, we are privy to the male murderer’s thoughts, jotted down in his notebook, though he remains faceless; a man without empathy, a thoroughly unpleasant specimen. The mystery of his identity is maintained almost to the end.

It was obvious that Mills did a lot of research for the story and highlights two of the many books he consulted: Malta Magnificent by Francis Gerard and Fortress Malta by James Holland. ‘Twice the tonnage of bombs dropped on London during the worst twelve months of the Blitz had rained down on their heads in the last two months alone’ (p61).

There are a couple of interesting choices of character names he has used:

Chadwick lakes are formed behind a number of dams constructed by Sir Osbert Chadwick, a British engineer, in the late 19th century.

Mabel Edeline Strickland was the editor of The Times of Malta before and during the war. Mills’s book The Savage Garden has a main character called Adam Strickland…

If you have any interest in wartime skulduggery or Malta, you should find the book a fascinating read.

I’d also recommend Malta: Blitzed but not Beaten by Philip Vella. And of course Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Kappillan of Malta.

Editorial comment.

Two characters go to see a film at the Rabat Plaza (p229). Jen and I often went to the Adelphi cinema in Rabat (sometimes twice a week!); according to the Old Cinemas in Malta Facebook group, Rabat has only ever had two cinemas – the Adelphi and the Astoria.

BLACK OUT - Book review

John Lawton’s highly accomplished debut novel was published in 1995, the first of eight detective Troy books. It's a mix of crime in the main plus espionage elements. Sergeant Frederick Troy doesn't like any form of his given name, preferring to be addressed by his surname. He is the younger son of a Russian immigrant father who has become a wealthy newspaper publisher and baronet. Defying class and family expectations, the independently wealthy Troy joins Scotland Yard, becoming an investigator on the ‘murder squad’. 

The book begins at the height of the London Blitz, February 1944, when a dog is spotted carrying the severed arm of a man. Before long, Troy is assigned to find out who's murdering German scientists who've been secretly smuggled out of Germany and into Britain. There seems to be a conspiracy of silence regarding the murders and the upper echelons of the American forces. The newly formed OSS is involved, it appears. The convoluted investigation has its compensations for Troy, however, in the erotic form of not one but two femmes fatales – socialite Diana Brock and US Army sergeant Tosca.

The story skips to 1948, when Troy tracks a suspect to Berlin during the Blockade, which provides a fine twist.

Throughout, the characters are well defined and interesting, from the Inspector Onions, to the Polish pathologist Kolakiewicz, the dissolute MI5 man, Pym, the voluptuous Diana and the amusingly voluble and voracious Tosca, to Troy himself. The sense of time and place are expertly evoked.

There is wit and sly humour as well as a little graphic sex. For example, an amusing scene where Troy’s Uncle Nikolai, who works at Imperial College, has a dud bomb stowed in his lab. ‘It fell in Islington churchyard last night. Believe me, it’s as safe as houses.’ That particular metaphor did nothing to reassure Troy. So many houses in Islingon these days were nothing more than rubble and dust’ (p78).

‘Pym was running rapidly to seed and looked as though he meant to enjoy every moment and ounce of it. Somewhere in his attic was a portrait that was forever young’ (p93).

And we have suspense, also: ‘She smiled and took the page from him, and he knew as certain as eggs were powdered that there was someone hiding in the next room’ (p113).

A pleasure to read.

The second Troy book, Old Flames, takes place in 1956 during Khrushchev’s visit to UK. Subsequent books skip about in time, some before the events in Black Out.

TOKYO STATION - Book review

 

Martin Cruz Smith’s standalone thriller Tokyo Station was published in 2002. I’ve read several of his books and haven’t found a bad one yet. This one is very impressive indeed.

The book spans three time periods: 1922 in Tokyo when the main character Harry Niles is a young boy; 1937 in Nanking, mainly a flashback of Harry’s that reveals the many atrocities committed by the Japanese against the Chinese; and 1941 in Tokyo, some days before the Japanese attacks on Pearl Harbour.

The amount of detail seems prodigious but never swamps the narrative.

Harry was the son of an American missionary couple Roger and Harriet who were absent and busy proselytising most of his formative years. He gets involved with a gang of Japanese kids and quickly learns the language and the tricks of pickpocketing and generally conning people. A chance encounter with a local artist Kato ends up with him running errands and fraternising with his models, among them the beautiful Oharu. ‘To Americans a whore was a whore unless she was willing to be rescued; to the Japanese, a girl sold by her family to a brothel was a model daughter’ (p262).

Harry’s close friend Gen undertakes one of Harry’s errands as a favour and becomes involved with one of Kato’s clients, the enigmatic samurai Ishigami. Years later, Harry is responsible for Ishigami losing face in Nanking and thereafter he is hunted by the samurai. And neither he nor his friends and lovers are safe from the samurai sword…

The switches between the timelines are not labelled, but in most instances it’s obvious when that shift occurs.

Harry’s parents didn’t have much success in converting the citizenry: ‘The Japanese would smile, bow and say anything to move the gaijin along. Or would accept Jesus as a mere backup to Buddha’ (p101).

Harry owns and runs The Happy Paris nightclub. His jukebox operator is Michiko, who possesses a fiery temper and shares his bed. To complicate matters Harry lusts after Alice, the wife of the British ambassador, Beechum: ‘She did crossword puzzles in four languages. Most of the day, she was a brainless thing who spent her life at the Ginza’s shops and smart cafes, but every morning she spent in the code room of the British embassy’ (p168).

The imminent war with the United States is like an oppressive shroud over the Tokyo of 1941.  ‘A cart with metal-rimmed wheels went by, the nocturnal visit of the night-soil man visiting homes without plumbing, gathering what kept the rice fields fertile, the cycle of life at its most basic. The cart moved aside to let pass a van with the crossed poles and looped wires of a radio direction finder on the roof. The van sifted the air for illegal transmissions the way a boat night-rolled for squid. Or, Harry speculated, if the van was from the Thought Police, perhaps they were trying to sift dangerous ideas out of the air’ (p54).

Unusually, there is an instance of a single paragraph running to almost six pages (pp241-247), but Smith can be forgiven as it’s a painful reminiscence of his time in Nanking and his encounter with Ishigami – powerfully done.

Harry’s sexual awakening is finely judged and well told without being prurient. It’s almost poetic: ‘Followed by a profound sleep with Harry folded around  Oharu as if they were riding with their eyes closed slowly through the rain, the heart’s rhythm like a black horse. A faint electric haze lay in all directions. They rode through high grass soughing in the wind’ (p257).

A willow house was an establishment where geishas entertained, and there were plenty of them about. ‘A willow suggested something yielding and feminine, the sort of tree that knelt by water to admire its own reflection’ (p266).

There are suspenseful moments, some others quite grisly, and several finely tuned wisecracks pepper the tale. The characters are fallible, complex and believable. Throughout, Smith captures the time and the place convincingly. Recommended.

Christmas story 2 of 3

 

Over the years I’ve been asked to contribute a Christmas story to a variety of publications. In the next few days I’ll feature some of them. Here is ‘The Trilby Hat’ which was read on BBC Forces Radio Malta in 1975 and published in The Portsmouth Post magazine in 2003, after some judicious tinkering. It is one of 18 historical stories in Codename Gaby, my fourth collection of stories, here.

THE TRILBY HAT

Portsmouth, England, 1995

It was a snow-laden Christmas Eve. Police Constable Paul Knight was approaching the end of his shift and glad of it as he rounded the corner of Fenchurch Street.

Then he saw them. Two youths. Faces partly covered by woollen scarves, they were leaning threateningly over an old man in a snow-heaped gutter. Paul broke into an unsteady run, careful lest he slipped on ice. It looked like Alfred Munro, the loner.

Wisps of breath gushing out of his mouth, Paul lifted the cold whistle to his blue lips.

The two muggers froze at the shrill noise.

‘The filth!’ one of them yelled.

Paul was barely yards from them when his boots slipped. Although he retained his balance, the few seconds delay gave the two thugs time to scurry off.

He was tempted to follow, but Alfred seemed in a bad way. There was no blood or obvious injury, but the old man was sobbing.

‘It's all right, Alfred,’ he said. ‘They've run off.’ He helped the frail old man up.

Alfred wiped his blood-shot eyes. ‘I - I'm all right,’ he wheezed, ‘But - it's my hat - they stole my trilby.’

Thinking back, Paul did recall one of the youths had worn a hat. They must have been baiting Alfred. He flushed hotly. ‘I'll see what I can do,’ Paul promised, not holding out much hope.

But Alfred didn't seem to hear. ‘Must get it back - You see, I've had it nigh on fifty-two years. Christmas...’

***

The war was in its fifth Christmas.

Alfred gazed at the 1943 calendar with its popular painted scene of skating on the Thames in the days of Queen Bess.

He thought about Liz, his wife, who died six years ago.

Thank God she missed this terrible war.

He looked around the cosy room: utility furniture, an embroidered pouf, a wicker basket sewing box and a well-placed chintz-covered suite that concealed the thread-bare carpet's many patches, whilst the dining table stood cluttered with the remains of their frugal evening meal.

The tiny coal fire flickered warmly in the tiled fire-place, its firelight reflected from the far corner where stood the proud Christmas tree, a battered fairy perched precariously on top; sparkling tinsel was draped over the branches. The tub, tightly packed with fresh black soil was wrapped with brown paper, which had been painted by Connie, his grand-daughter.

The other decorations were sparse, but for all that the festive season shone from wherever Alfred looked.

There was a gaiety, a family warmth, an atmosphere here that no war could possibly destroy.

Beyond the shielding hills of their small Hampshire town, air-raid sirens wailed.

Alan, his son-in-law stopped playing with Connie on the hearth-rug. ‘They seem closer tonight, Pop,’ he said.

Denise, his daughter, paused from her knitting and her troubled eyes sought Alfred.

He forced a smile of reassurance. ‘We've nothing worth bombing.’ Accepting this, they returned to their own amusements, whilst Alfred smiled contentedly to himself and looked at his daughter.

She's grown into a fine woman, he thought. Liz would have been proud of her. A full- no, a comely - figure, married so young, with her mother's auburn hair and hazel eyes aglow in the firelight. But she possessed his stubbornness.

And the memories flooded back. With an effort he blinked them away.

Yes, and Alan made a good husband. Denise was lucky to have Alan home, in a reserved occupation in the dockyard. Alan stood by her side, his thick spectacles reflecting the fairy lights.

He just had to look at young Connie there, the best of both of them already noticeable in her. Precocious, certainly, with a will of her own at times, but a little darling with it. He spoiled her unashamedly. And Denise scolded him, but she didn't mind, not really. Surely all grand-fathers are the same.

In a few more hours they would be opening their gifts. But he couldn't face that yet; it still sorely reminded him of Liz and how they used to dote over Denise... Perhaps next year the wound would have healed sufficiently, though of course never completely; he didn't want to forget her, just to deaden the hurt at times like this.

Reluctantly he rose from his comfortable chair. ‘Denise.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Denise, I think I'll be off now. It's getting late for me - and for you, Connie - Father Christmas will want to climb down the chimney soon...’

Connie giggled excitedly at mention of Santa.

Denise bundled her knitting into an embroidered bag. ‘As you wish, Dad.’ She helped him on with his great-coat.

‘Granda!’ Connie shouted, crushing herself against his legs. ‘You can't go yet. You haven't had your present.’

Alfred patted his coat-pockets, each filled with a package from Denise and Alan to open first thing tomorrow morning before his return here for lunch. ‘But I have. I wouldn't forget these.’

Connie shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Granda! No, you haven't had mine!’

Alfred noticed a puzzled look between Denise and Alan. Apparently, then, their daughter had kept her secret well.

Perhaps their neighbour had bought the present. With great ceremony his grand-daughter walked to the under-stairs cupboard and tossed out two gas-masks in cardboard boxes then handed over a large brown-paper parcel. It seemed to be a gift-wrapped boot-box.

‘Thank you, darling,’ he said and he leaned forward to kiss her.

But she backed away, lips pouted. ‘Aren't you going to open it now, Granda?’

‘But it isn't Christmas yet.’ He pointed to the mantel clock. ‘A few hours to midnight, you see?’

‘Please, Granda,’ she pleaded, face slightly pulled.

‘Well... all right, but only if you promise to stop making faces.’

She stopped almost at once, changing her grimace into a mischievous smile.

Slowly and carefully he unwrapped the gift.

‘Hurry, Granda.’

It was an old boot-box. He lifted the lid and the sight took his breath away. Nestling amidst a bed of tissue paper was a brown trilby hat, its brim slightly bent so it would fit into the confines of the box.

‘Put it on, Granda!’

He swallowed hard but the lump in his throat persisted. Alan and Denise smiled.

Removing the hat reverently from the box, he knelt in front of her. ‘No, you put it on for me, Connie.’

She almost knocked him over as she dashed to do just that.

As it finally sat snuggly, a perfect fit, he held Connie at arm's-length and asked if she thought it suited him.

‘Oh, yes! You look just like a Granda. Really important.’

And they all laughed.

Then he suddenly lifted her high, almost touching her head to the ceiling. Connie shrieked happily.

Presently, he lowered her and kissed her flushed cheeks.

‘Well, merry Christmas, everybody,’ he wished them as he walked to the door with Connie's small hand in his. He carefully wrapped his long woolly scarf round his neck, criss-crossed his chest then buttoned up his great-coat. ‘I must go now, Connie.’

Denise opened the front door.

The cold air made them all gasp. The snow still fell silently, lending a bright peaceful glow to the otherwise drab street.

‘I'll keep this hat always. I promise,’ he said.

Connie's little chest swelled and her smile seemed to fill the doorway. Alan held his daughter back. ‘Merry Christmas, Granda!’ she said.

Shivering in the cold air, Denise whispered, ‘Is the hat all right, Dad?’ He nodded. She then whispered, ‘It was a gift to Alan from his poor Mum, but he doesn't like hats... We didn't know Connie'd planned this - ‘

‘It's all right, love. It's a smashing present. Now, go back in, it's cold out here. I'll see you tomorrow for Christmas dinner...’

Quickly he stepped onto the crisp snow. Flakes wisped onto his shoulders and the brim of his new hat. He waved. ‘Merry Christmas!’ His voice echoed through the snow-filled night.

Far-off could be heard the crump of bombs and ack-ack, but not here.

At that moment a whistle shrilled. An ARP warden came running up the street. ‘Put that light out!’ he called.

Turning, Alfred noticed the hall light on and his family silhouetted in the doorway. Hurriedly waving, they closed the door and the house darkened.

Further over to the east he spotted searchlights. The snow was like dust in a light-beam. Tracer and ack-ack blossomed, more reminiscent of Guy Fawkes than Christmas Eve.

He then took off his hat and wiped the snow-deposits away. It was a beautiful hat. Really good quality and hard-wearing. Yes, it would last for years.

The sudden whistling alerted him first. A terrible coldness clutched his heart. The bomb cluster was close and there wasn't an air-raid shelter near.

He froze fearfully to the spot, panic weakening his limbs.

Seconds later, the explosion's impact reached him, blinding yellow and red, the shock waves throwing him painfully to the sludge on the road.

All around stark blasts deafened him. Flashes of light and flames sprouted everywhere. Black smoke mush-roomed into the wintry night sky.

Still giddy, he regained his feet. A sickly knowing feeling in the pit of his stomach gave strength to his ageing legs. Ignoring the dull ache of a bruised hip and shoulder, he rushed back to the ruin.

An ARP warden and a couple of neighbours were already sifting through the rubble, even though the dust cloud hadn't settled yet.

Mercifully the houses on either side had been spared, only their windows shattered, a few roof slates dislodged.

Alfred stood, unable to move, and his mouth felt very dry. Somewhere a fire bell clanged, and another.

A fractured water-main gushed high, sparkling in the torch-light.

Hardly aware of what he was doing, Alfred knelt by the debris where the front of the house had been. ‘Here!’ he cried out to the frantic helpers. ‘They were here!’ And he started heaving bricks to one side, gashing his knees and hands in his haste, heedless of the cold.

The ARP warden who shouted the warning earlier was soon panting by his side. ‘They won't have known what happened, mate. It will've been over quick. A direct hit, you see?’

Two hours later Alfred collapsed, exhausted, after they unearthed the battered Christmas tree. Miraculously, the fairy survived intact. The ARP carried him to the doorstep next door. There, a kindly neighbour gave him a chipped metal mug of sweet tea.

Now, shakily, he got to his feet and shuffled over to identify them. His whole family, wiped out. He would never forget the joyous look on little Connie's face, he thought, gripping his trilby hat tight.

***

Paul Knight was on his way home when he heard scuffling in the dark. He flashed the beam of his torch across the nearby waste-land and relaxed. It was only a fox.

Then he picked out the shape of a battered hat and he recalled the incident earlier with old Alfred. Could this be his trilby? It looked the same colour. But it was so timeworn, and crumpled.

The hat felt dry though cold and it was reasonably clean. It hadn't been lying here long, then. The label was faded but he could just make out GRANDA and LOVE. Might as well call round on my way home, he decided, and tucked it inside his overcoat.

The dawn light was streaming down the deserted street as Paul walked up to the door. A few curtains twitched in the neighbouring terraced houses even at this hour. He rang once, his eyes drawn to the flaking paintwork.

The door opened. A musty smell greeted him, of untended dust, of age. Alfred stood shivering in his worsted trousers, shirt sleeves and braces. In the weak hall light Paul noticed a bruise under the old man's left eye. ‘You all right?’

Alfred nodded, eyes questioning.

‘I think I recognised those louts,’ Paul continued. ‘Would you come to an identity parade?’

Alfred's three remaining teeth shone as he smiled. ‘Yes, it'll be a bloody great pleasure.’ He hesitated on the doorstep. ‘It was good of you to call. Erm, come in.’

‘No, I can't stop. I'm expected home,’ Paul explained. He rummaged inside his coat. ‘Is this yours?’ he asked awkwardly, handing over the aged trilby hat.

The expression on Alfred's face had Paul worried for a moment. Then the old man seemed to collect himself. ‘You've made me very happy, constable.’ Tears gathered around his weak grey eyes.

Feeling uncomfortable all of a sudden, Paul backed away and bid Alfred good-morning.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Alfred called after him. ‘Merry Christmas.’

Paul waved.

He couldn't understand it. It was as though he had bestowed some wondrous gift on Alfred. Then he remembered the label in the hat. Granda and Love.

Indeed, it was sometimes easy to forget in this material world, Christmas was not only a time for giving but also a time for remembering.

‘Merry Christmas!’ Paul replied.