Chapter 10
The air-raid siren cut through the voices in the pub, and Cook felt a stab of disappointment.
At the war, for not letting a young lad have a couple of hours for his birthday party, but most of all at himself, for bringing Frankie here, into harm’s way.
No good blaming the boy for asking, it had been Cook’s responsibility to say no, and he’d failed.
‘It’ll be a false alarm,’ Gracie said, knocking back a shot of whisky.
Cook felt foolish at being spooked by the siren. Nobody else seemed the least bit interested.
‘What did you get him?’ Gracie asked.
Cook put the present on the bar. A cricket bat, wrapped in yesterday’s paper.
‘Snap,’ a man said, from next to Cook.
The man put his gift on the bar, next to Cook’s. Same approach to wrapping – yesterday’s paper, tied with string. A smaller gift, but a complement to Cook’s. The noise it made on the polished counter was distinctive. A heavy knock that could only have been made by a cricket ball.
‘Or should it be pair,’ the man said, with a smile. He nodded to Cook. ‘Great minds and all that,’ he said.
Cook nodded.
‘Beaumont,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘ARP warden.’
‘And a bit more than that,’ Gracie said.
Beaumont took the compliment with a good-natured smile. ‘Just doing my bit,’ he said.
Beaumont stood out, different from the rest of the crowd. His clothes spoke of a certain level of wealth. A tweed suit, well fitted. He looked at home in the pub, the way Cook imagined he’d look to a stranger who came into his local.
‘What do you think of the IPA?’
‘Had worse,’ Cook said. ‘Tastes better here than it does out there.’
‘You were in India?’ Beaumont asked.
‘Royal Sussex,’ Cook said. ‘North-West Frontier.’
Beaumont grimaced.
‘Heard it was a tough show.’
‘This is Frankie’s farmer, Mr Cook,’ Dottie, the barmaid, said.
‘How’s he doing?’ Beaumont asked.
‘He’s doing well,’ Cook answered. ‘We’ll make a farmer out of him yet.’
‘Where’s Ruby?’ Beaumont asked the barmaid, who looked over the crowd, checking to make sure.
‘Must have kept her late again,’ she replied.
There was a ripple in the crowd. People stepping back in a hurry. Hushed comments. In the centre of the disturbance, the eye of the storm, a man took off his cap and looked around, challenging someone to look at him.
He wore a heavy black coat, and he had a solidity to him, radiating a quiet anger. He stepped up to the bar, next to Cook, and nodded to Dottie, who jumped to it and pulled him a pint.
Cook held out his hand.
‘Cook,’ he said.
The man took his hand, squeezed. A powerful grip.
‘Reynolds,’ he said. ‘Frankie’s my boy.’
Cook met the pressure but didn’t push it. Didn’t seem right to pick a fight with Frankie’s father.
Reynolds released his grip, satisfied he’d asserted his dominance. A smile flicked across his face. He’d had his suspicions about farmers, and he’d proved himself right.
Gracie passed Reynolds a pint.
‘That’s your allowance,’ she said. ‘On account of the boy. Drink that up and be on your way.’
Reynolds drank thirstily. ‘Poor state of the world when a man can’t toast his own son,’ he said, an edge in his voice.
‘Frankie’s been telling us all about life in the country. You’ve been letting him drive the tractor!’ Dottie said.
‘He’s doing a fine job,’ Cook said.
‘Sounds like we should all get evacuated,’ Beaumont said.
‘About your style, isn’t it? Running away from the fight?’ This from Reynolds.
‘Didn’t see you at the recruiting office?’ Beaumont replied.
‘Got to keep the country fed,’ Reynolds said.
‘So pilfering’s a noble occupation now, is it?’ Beaumont said.
There was a quiet sound, almost inaudible. A snick of a well-oiled mechanism. A flick knife appeared in Reynolds’s hand.
‘You want to be careful,’ Reynolds said.
‘Oi,’ Grace snapped, from behind the bar. ‘None of that.’
Cook stepped in front of Beaumont, putting himself in harm’s way, keeping his eye on the knife that seemed to dance in front of his face.
Suddenly the pub was quiet. Cook realised he’d broken some kind of delicate social code. No matter. He’d never been much for following the rules.
Reynolds assessed Cook, as if seeing him for the first time. He took his time.
Cook knew the moment, he’d felt it often enough, in the trenches, and behind enemy lines. The moment enemy contact is made, each side assessing the other. A breath, before the fight.
There was a movement in the crowd and Frankie appeared in the space between the two men.
‘Dad, this is Mr Cook. He’s been looking after me. Doing a good job of it.’
Reynolds gave it a moment, deciding which way it would go. He smiled, closed the knife, handed it to the boy.
‘Brought you this,’ Reynolds said.
Frankie took the knife, eyes wide.
‘What do you say?’ Reynolds snapped.
‘Thanks,’ Frankie mumbled, flicking a glance up at Cook.
Reynolds winked at Cook.
There was a distant sound. A roll of thunder, muffled by the thick walls of the pub. If Cook had been out in the fields he’d have been able to judge the distance. The smell of the earth would have told him when to expect the downpour.
The threat of a fight gone, talking returned. Almost loud enough to cover the distant noise, but not quite.
More thunder. Cook felt it this time. Thunder, but not thunder. A tremor in the ground.