September

By Len Cooke

Calum Lachlan, a 40-year-old bachelor, landowner and hero of World War Two, is driving along a lonely Lakeland road when he is flagged down by a highly distressed young woman who appears to have been the victim of a violent attack. The stranger merely introduces herself as September and will say nothing about how she came to be where she is, where she is going to or from whence she came. It is raining and late on a Sunday evening and, reluctantly, Calum feels it incumbent upon himself to offer the woman food and shelter for the night.

Thus commences a journey which, whilst beginning in good faith and charity, rapidly moves the reader through many of the fraught emotions and behaviours which, sadly, so often define human life – loneliness, decency, love, romance and even adultery. Then, as this darker side of human nature manifests itself, raw evil, and cynical treachery combine to create the dire but often inevitable corollary of such an unholy pairing – brutal, pre-meditated, cold-blooded murder!

Now incarcerated in the dark reaches of the 12th century castle prison at Lancaster, abandoned by the wife who so successfully and comprehensively framed him and in the long, threatening, and sinister shadow of the gallows and the hangman’s noose; Calum waits. Waits with only the company of the spectre of someone from the shadowy reaches of his violent past to comfort him, waits to learn about his own, very uncertain future; or perhaps more accurately, if he is to be allowed to have one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Len Cooke
• Release date: Mar 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476072272

Len Cooke

As with many writers, Len regards the art as being very much part of his DNA. After taking early retirement from his work on nuclear submarines, his passion for justice and decency led him to work as a volunteer in one of Her Majesty's Prisons and that collective experience, together with his travels to many parts of the world, has given him an unrivalled maturity, and at times, wicked sense of humour that can often be seen in his work.  

Book preview

SEPTEMBER

Len Cooke

Published by Red Panda Press at Smashwords, Edn 2, 2013

Copyright 1996/2013 Len Cooke

Also by Len Cooke

The Illusionists

The Time Travellers’ Guide to Total Chaos

Or

Harry Sandy and the Zandron

The Extraordinary Adventures of Charlie Frank

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any events, persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are fictitious products of the author’s imagination

Dedication

This novel is for all those who have ever fought for love, decency and that ultimate and always elusive goal mankind has strived for since the dawn of time – freedom.

SEPTEMBER

Genre/s: Historical, supernatural, thriller, romance

Set in the England of the 1950’s, September is a period love story with a strong element of the supernatural.

Start time – 1950. Location – The English Lake District.

Calum Lachlan, a 40-year-old bachelor, landowner and hero of World War Two, is driving along a lonely Lakeland road when he is flagged down by a highly distressed young woman who appears to have been the victim of a violent attack. The stranger merely introduces herself as September and will say nothing about how she came to be where she is, where she is going or from whence she came. It is raining and late on a Sunday evening and, reluctantly, Calum feels it incumbent upon himself to offer the woman food and shelter for the night.

Thus commences a journey which, whilst beginning in good faith and charity, rapidly moves the reader through many of the fraught emotions and behaviours which, sadly, so often define human life – loneliness, decency, love, romance and even adultery. Then, as this darker side of human nature manifests itself, raw evil, and cynical treachery combine to create the dire but often inevitable corollary of such an unholy pairing – brutal, pre-meditated, cold-blooded murder!

Finally incarcerated in the dark reaches of the 12th century castle prison at Lancaster, abandoned by the wife who so successfully and comprehensively framed him and in the long, threatening, and sinister shadow of the gallows and the hangman’s noose; Calum waits. Waits with only the company of the spectre of someone from the shadowy reaches of his violent past to comfort him, waits to learn about his own, very uncertain future; or perhaps more accurately, if he is to be allowed to have one.

SEPTEMBER

Chapter 1

The English Lake District, September 1950

It had been unusually warm for September and as Calum drove the Land Rover along the winding valley road he marvelled, as always, at the unrivalled beauty of the Lakeland countryside surrounding him. The leaves, of the many larch and other deciduous trees that dominated the lower fell sides, were beginning to change colour and with that glorious change, alter, fundamentally, the very nature of the landscape. To his right, and above the low tree line, the bracken was also undergoing a metamorphosis, transforming itself from a brilliant summer green to a dull, lifeless, autumn brown. However, one glance at the menacing, cloud-filled, and threatening sky, told the countryman that, imminently, the south-westerly would begin to blow and with it would come the rain, rain that would fall possibly for days, if not weeks. In the Lake District county of Westmorland they had enjoyed a relatively weather-balanced summer, for farmers a kind and gentle summer, but now, very nearly at the end of September, it was payback time.

He had just, noisily, passed over one of the many cattle grids the valley road contained, when he saw the solitary figure. She was about one hundred yards ahead of him and standing quite still in the middle of the road. He frowned, for despite all his local knowledge, collected over a lifetime, he did not recognise the red-haired woman.

Slowly, he drew alongside her and as he did so she turned her gaze from the fellside, with which she had seemingly been preoccupied and looked directly at him. Curious and perhaps a little concerned for her safety, Calum brought the Land Rover to a halt. He put her age at around twenty, some twenty years younger than himself. Her fine, trim figure was clothed in a cheap looking and no longer fashionable, pale summer frock, her white, thin-ankled legs, naked down to her shoeless feet. As she approached him, wiping her eyes with ring-less fingers, Calum knew she had, only recently, been crying.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, gently. ‘Need any help?’

As the woman stopped at the open driver’s window, she nodded, albeit half-heartedly. Now he could see the cause of her distress, the whole of the right-hand side of her face was red and, even as he watched, slowly discolouring to an unpleasant and angry shade of blue.

‘Who’s done that to you?’ he asked; the disapproval in his voice more than evident.

‘No one,’ she assured, with a half-smile. ‘Silly me, I tripped over one of those damned stupid cattle grids. Caught my face on the gatepost, you know where the horses and livestock are led through?’

Calum considered the woman to be distressed and, seemingly, not a little embarrassed at finding herself questioned about her personal life by a complete stranger, especially when she must have been feeling vulnerable, isolated, and lonely.

She drew herself upright, trying valiantly, but with little success, to give the appearance of being in control. ‘Could you tell me where I am?’ she managed, matter-of-factly.

Calum thought he detected a slight accent but her English was so good it was barely discernible. ‘Certainly, you’re in the Rowan Valley, near a hamlet called Beckton. This road leads to Dalethwaite, over that mountain lies Coniston and,’ he glanced towards the fells on his left, ‘that way, over yonder fells, you’ll find Wasdale, Great Gable and Sca Fell Pike, the highest mountain in England.’

‘How far is it to the nearest railway station?’ she asked, seemingly quite uninterested in the geography lesson.

‘Far enough, especially barefoot; it’s at Briarfield, but there’ll be no trains at this time on a Sunday.’

‘What about a bus then?’

Calum chuckled. ‘You’re a real townie, aren’t you? He said, immediately feeling guilty as the woman appeared to be about to burst into tears at his insensitivity. ‘I’m sorry,’ he continued, this time sounding more concerned. ‘Look, can I offer you a lift anywhere? There’s absolutely no chance of a bus until the morning. How’s about I take you to some friends, do you have any living nearby?’

Suddenly, the woman’s eyes became even sadder and she shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m afraid there’s no one.’

‘So what are you doing here?’ he asked, gently.

She straightened her back, trying hard, despite her circumstances, to appear in at least partial control of her life. ‘I’d rather not talk about that – if you don’t mind.’

Calum, convinced she had been on a day trip with a man friend and that for some reason they had fallen out and had a fight, eyed her sympathetically. Yes, he thought, a fight that had resulted in her being dumped, quite cruelly and unceremoniously, at the side of the road. He had seen it happen often enough with pets. After Christmas unwanted cats and dogs were frequently discarded in the valley by their callous, town-dwelling owners, but to-date, to-date he had never seen it happen to a human being; at least, not in post-war England.

‘Look,’ he began, ‘Mrs Robinson does bed and breakfast for the ramblers; I’m sure she’ll have a room free. I could take you there for the evening, if you wish. Then, tomorrow, we’ll make arrangements to get you to the railway station.’

For the first time since their meeting she managed a proper smile, but even so it was bereft of real humour, more one of irony. ‘I don’t have any money for a bed and breakfast,’ she replied, shaking her head helplessly and in the manner of a little girl who had lost her parents in a crowded department store.

‘But...well...how did you expect to pay for the train?’ he asked.

‘I would tell the ticket-collector it was an emergency and give him my name and address.’ Speaking quietly, she looked him in the eye, her hazel own enquiring but still beautiful, despite their angry redness. ‘I’ve heard it’s been done before you see,’ she sighed. ‘Apparently it does work, if you give them a good enough sob-story.’

He nodded with understanding; he had no doubt that what she had said was true. Despite the obvious lies she had told him earlier, in a rather childlike attempt to hide her shame, there was now an honest conviction in her voice which demanded belief. ‘Then, I suppose you’d better come home with me.’ Even as he spoke the words he was grimacing visibly and he knew the woman could not fail but see the lack of enthusiasm in his face or hear it in his voice. The result was predictable and she immediately backed away from the car.

‘No – no – I couldn’t possibly, you’ve...you’re very kind but – well – no thank you.’

Inwardly, Calum was cursing himself for his lack of diplomacy. The woman was obviously in distress and desperately in need of support from a friendly Samaritan. He had offered her that support but with an attitude that any normal person would have perceived as half-hearted at the very least. ‘Listen,’ he began again, this time sounding far more sympathetic, if not apologetic. ‘I’m sorry for sounding less than enthusiastic but...well...it’s been a long day, I also live alone and in a remote place like this tongues can___’

‘Wag?’ she helped, for the second time allowing the merest hint of a smile to brighten her tragedy-filled face.

‘Exactly,’ he agreed, ‘around these parts, faster than Sir Malcolm Campbell can drive a car.’

‘Sir who?’ she asked.

Calum grinned. ‘Sir Malcolm Campbell died in ‘forty-eight, he was famous for driving racing cars at breakneck speed, usually, but not always, in America.’ As he spoke, the first splash of rain hit the Land Rover windscreen. Within seconds the single droplet turned into a mini deluge and soon her dress began to darken as the rain drenched the paper-thin cotton. He leant across the passenger seat and opened the door. ‘Come on,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll be wet through in no time, I think God has given us a sign that he approves of the arrangement. At least – I hope he does.’

Now she needed no second bidding, quickly joining him in the Land Rover’s cab. ‘Are you a religious man?’ she asked, pulling the door to as Calum started the engine.

Briefly, he struggled with the reluctant gear change then, as they began moving slowly forward, turned to look at her. Her dress was already soaked and as such was hugging the soft, youthful, curves of her body. Momentarily he could not help but admire the outline of her breasts, small but firmly erect and proud. Flushing with embarrassment as she caught his eye, he turned his gaze back towards the road. ‘No more than most,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘but I was brought up a Christian and I…well…yes I am.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Calum, Calum Lachlan.’

‘Nice name – Calum,’ she replied, thoughtfully. ‘It’s Irish for dove you know, reputedly brought over to Scotland by Saint Columba.’

Now it was Calum’s turn to be confused. ‘Saint who?’

She laughed, dryly. ‘I thought you said you were a Christian. Anyway, your surname is very contradictory with your given name.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’

‘It’s Gaelic, it means warlike, I don’t think I’ve ever met a warlike dove before.’

‘My father was descended from Scottish blood; maybe he just liked the name Calum; or maybe he never bothered to look up what it meant, I mean, how many parents do? Anyway, what about your name?’ She was thoughtful for just a moment, but long enough for Calum to consider whether he should accept what she was about to tell him as the truth.

‘You can call me…September,’ she said, quietly.

‘September, but that’s the name of a month, in fact it’s the name of this month.’

‘Yes, it also happens to be my name.’

‘Is that it,’ he persisted, ‘just – September?’

When she replied her tone was teasing rather than angry. ‘Just?’

Calum winced, clearly September, or whoever she really was, wanted to remain anonymous. Why had he been so insensitive to her needs not to see that? ‘Sorry, I’m being nosy. I have another Christian name,’ he continued, defensively. ‘As you’re such an expert you may know what that means as well.’

‘Try me.’

‘It’s Alastair, I told you my father was very influenced by our ancestors.’

‘Interesting, Alastair is derived from Alexander the Great. I think it means – defender of men. I suppose that in the middle of dove and warlike the name does make some sort of sense.’

Further conversation was denied them as, suddenly, he swung the Land Rover off the road onto a pothole riddled, dirt track. For five minutes neither of them spoke as the vehicle wound and splashed its way along the bumpy lane, rain lashing against the windscreen, the now, almost gale-force wind, howling through gaps in the ill-fitting canvas hood and its windows. At length they entered the cobbled yard of a large and ancient farmhouse. Initially the place seemed deserted but as Calum brought the vehicle to a halt and switched off the engine, the sound of a dog, barking a welcome to its returning master, could clearly be heard.

‘You have a dog?’ said September. It was a rhetorical question but for the first time Calum detected a certain nervousness in his guest.

Calum nodded. ‘A Border collie, she’s called Meg. ‘Don’t worry – her bark’s far worse than her bite. You’ll soon be the best of friends.’

September smiled, grimly, and reaching for the door handle prepared to step down onto the rain-swept and pitch-black farmyard.The building was old, very old and clearly in sad need of repair. It was also cold and draughty and as she entered the ancient hallway, she shivered, involuntarily.

‘You’re cold’ he said, switching on the light. ‘You must get out of those wet clothes, immediately.’

‘It’s not that easy,’ she complained. ‘As you know, I don’t have anything to replace them with.’

‘That’s not the problem you think it is, my sister and her husband live in London but they often come and stay, for the walking you see. She’s around your height, although a little broader, there are some of her clothes and shoes in one of the spare bedrooms, get yourself into a hot tub and I’ll leave them outside the bathroom door.’

‘You have hot water?’

From the surprise in her voice, Calum considered she may equally well have been asking him if he hailed from the planet Mars. He grinned. ‘I have an Aga; therefore I always have hot water.’

***

Over half an hour later she found him in the vast kitchen. Calum was stood in front of the Aga, studiously sticking a knife into a pan of steaming potatoes. As she entered the room, Meg leapt out of her basket and ran towards her, tail wagging excitedly. However, as the bitch neared the guest she stopped short, the wagging tail lowering before disappearing completely between her back legs. Simultaneously the unhappy animal froze, before beginning to whine as if, suddenly and inexplicably, she was in great pain.

‘Meg!’ Calum bawled at her, his face initially creased with annoyance and concern, then, as the animal continued to howl, embarrassment, and even anger. ‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’ Quickly he came across the kitchen and placed a restraining hand on the bitch’s collar. ‘What’s all this about?’ he continued, gently. ‘Behave yourself in front of our guest and get in your basket.’

As, obediently, the collie skulked to the far corner of the room and the sanctuary of her bed, Calum looked at his guest and grinned. ‘Sorry about that, I don’t know what’s got into her.’

September shook her head, ringlets of flaming red hair falling about her face as she did so. ‘Don’t worry about it, she must be wondering who I am, suddenly appearing in your sister’s clothes and yet, not being your sister.’

Calum accepted the logic of the explanation. ‘I suppose so,’ he conceded, then, smiling. ‘I don’t know if your explanation is correct, however – one thing I do know – green tweed skirts do very little for you.’

For the first time since he had met her, she laughed, really laughed, laughed until her body began to shake. ‘I didn’t like to say anything,’ she acknowledged. ‘You’ve been so kind and hospitable it would have been churlish. Now you mention it though, is your sister a schoolteacher by any chance?’

‘Was, and a much larger one than you by the looks of things, but how did you know?’

An impish grin crossed his visitor’s face and she glanced down at the over-sized skirt. ‘Do I really have to answer that question?’

Calum grinned. ‘Well, at least the baggy sweater fits, somewhere, and the shoes are the right size. Did you bring your dress down by the way?’

‘It’s here,’ she gave it to him and watched as he took it to a wooden maiden in front of the Aga.

‘Be dry in no time,’ he said, ‘meanwhile, we’ll eat.’

‘Smells good,’ she complimented. ‘Are you a good cook?’

‘For a bachelor, living alone, cooking is a necessary skill. I leave it to my infrequent guests to decide just how skilled I am.’

She crossed to an old and serially abused pine dining table, set in the middle of the kitchen, drew out an equally well-battered chair and sat. In the corner of the room the Border collie was still eyeing her suspiciously but after a brief glance in her direction, September averted her gaze from the dog’s unwinking and far from friendly stare.

‘I take it you like stewed beef?’ asked Calum. ‘It should be quite tender, it’s been cooking all afternoon.’

‘Nothing for me,’ she said, forcefully.

‘What about a drink?’ he asked. ‘Tea, coffee – some wine perhaps.’

‘No thank you.’

Calum frowned at her. ‘No? But surely just a little food?’

‘No thank you,’ she repeated, adamantly.

***

Carefully, Calum arranged his cutlery on the now empty plate and smiled at his visitor. ‘When did you last eat?’

She looked at him, awkwardly. ‘Before I left home.’

‘I?’

September frowned and Calum, once again embarrassed, bit his lip. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t prying, honestly.’

Her eyes, dark hazel and shrewd, studied his, carefully. ‘You were just interested – yes?’

‘What would you like to talk about?’ he asked, the anger he felt for himself more than apparent in his tone. ‘How’s your face by the way? It looks pretty angry, is it very painful?’

She sighed, Calum thinking the sigh more of a lament for something lost, something perhaps never to be found. ‘You could say that.’ She glanced around the huge kitchen, noting the ancient beamed ceiling and the vicious looking meat hooks that protruded from the two feet square, oaken main cross-member in the centre of the room.

‘Has your family always farmed here?’ she enquired.

‘The family, in various guises, have been here for about four hundred years,’ he replied. ‘Until I took over the spot, after my parents died, we farmed two thousand acres, mainly fellside.’

‘You sold it?’

‘Oh no, no, I lease it. I have about six farms on my land. I’m not a farmer, spent too long in the Army for that I’m afraid.’

‘You were a soldier – in the war?’

‘Before, during, and for some little time afterwards,’ he said, disinterestedly. He reached for a battered pipe, lying at the end of the table and began attacking the bowl with a penknife; then, as an afterthought. ‘Err...you don’t mind, do you?’

She shook her head, then, thoughtfully, ran her fingers around the rim of his empty wine glass. ‘My only claim to fame was six months with the ATS.’

‘Very impressive,’ joked Calum.

September appeared to think her host’s remark facetious. ‘I’ll have you know that I met, no, actually worked with Her Royal Highness Princess Elizabeth.’

‘Did you indeed? So can I tell my sister that a friend of our future monarch has actually worn her clothes then?’

September giggled. ‘You can tell her that but unfortunately it would not be the truth. Anyway – if you don’t farm, what do you do?’

Calum spent a moment lighting his pipe, the act, seemingly, making him even more thoughtful. ‘I write, or rather – I try to write.’

September pulled her chair closer to the table, her eyes wide, interested. ‘What do you write, Calum Lachlan?’

Her host flushed. ‘Don’t get too excited, I’ve yet to have anything published. I’m currently working on an idea that came to me during the war, something I felt then and indeed, still feel, that I have to do.’

Her eyes became shrewd again. ‘It’s about what happened to you – during the war?’

‘Only indirectly,’ he conceded. ‘It’s much more than that really, it’s about what happened to others, millions of others, during those six, desperate years and in some cases – before.’

‘The Jews?’

‘Mainly, but not entirely, it’s the story of one family but it represents tens of thousands of others; Jews, Gypsies, political dissidents, the insane and even those who were condemned to a living hell for reasons of pure, satanically inspired, personal vested interest.’

‘You saw what happened – in the Camps?’

He frowned, as though the question had evoked memories too traumatic for him to recall without pain. ‘I saw the consequences of what happened – at Bergen Belsen.’

‘I’ve heard of that awful place, it must have been terrible for you.’

‘As a fluent German speaker I was attached, at that time, to the Royal Artillery as a Wehrmacht liaison officer.

‘Sorry?’ said September.

‘I was a link between the surrendering German Army and the British; it was the Royal Artillery who found Bergen Belson. For those of us who liberated the place it was a picnic, at least compared to what the poor wretches who’d endured the conditions there went through.’

‘And the family you’re writing about, they were in Belsen? You liberated them?’

Calum shook his head, sadly. ‘I found the photograph of the family, on the emaciated corpse of an inmate. He’d written the names of everyone on it, on the back of the snap. Later, when we examined the camp records, I discovered that many of them had died there. The story I’m trying to write is fiction, but I’m using the photograph as a – well – as a kind of focal point for my thoughts. They’re my special family if you like and because I never really knew them, alive, I feel it gives me more freedom, more flexibility to tell their story. It also allows me to appease my guilt at being too late to save them. To ensure nice things happen to them, you know, before...’

September sighed with understanding. ‘Before they became a statistic of the Final Solution; how incredibly sad and in a way – sweet, to try and ensure they had, at least, some happiness before those Nazi barbarians got hold of them.’ She nodded her approval, vigorously.

‘You don’t think that what I’m attempting to do is – well – sick or anything, do you? You see, my sister disapproves of the project, she thinks I’m being morbid; that the past is past and should be buried, along with all those who perished in the war. She also feels that the story is more a form of penitence – to help ease my conscience.’

‘Because you were too late to save them in the real world?’

‘Yes.’

September looked into his grey, concerned and moistening eyes then smiled, warmly. ‘I think what you’re doing is very special, Calum; it’s also something you obviously need to do and I wish you luck with it.’

‘Thank you and you’re right, I do need to do it, at least if I’m to achieve relief from my overwhelming feeling of uselessness.’

‘Do you have the photograph? The one of the family you’re writing about?’ He nodded. ‘I’d like to see it – if you don’t mind.’

‘You’d like to see my adopted family?’ he asked, grinning with pleasure.

‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘yes, I’d love to – really I would.’

He rose to his feet, clearly pleased at her interest. ‘It’s in my study; I shan’t be a couple of seconds.’

He returned a few moments later, armed with a folder of papers and a buff-coloured, foolscap envelope. Carefully, he folded back the flap and drew out the battered and dog-eared photograph inside. After briefly glancing at it he placed it on the table in front of her. There were seven people, all smiling, and seemingly relaxing at a picnic in the countryside. Many of the faces were dappled by leaf shadow and although neither leaves nor trunk could be seen, it was clear that the group were sitting in the shade of a large tree. There were four adults, representing two generations and three children. The children’s ages, seemingly, ranging from about five to fifteen.

‘How do you know who’s who?’ she asked, glancing at the names written on the back of the print.

‘Well,’ began Calum, pointing with his pipe, ‘there’s only one female child, and therefore Rachel, brackets thirteen, must be the young girl. Similarly, Ben, brackets fifteen is the oldest boy and young Israel, brackets six the youngest sibling. With the exception of Rachel, they all died at Belsen.’

‘How do