Mission Accomplished

By Sheila Kendall

When government cutbacks leave RAF pilot Steve Wilson without a job, he decides to invest his redundancy money in a family-run museum. But Steve has an ulterior motive: a mission that leads him to a remote Yorkshire Dales village to fulfil a lifelong ambition, unaware of the repercussions his actions will have on the villagers and his own family...once long-buried secrets come to the surface.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaten Track Publishing
• Release date: Apr 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786450401

Sheila Kendall

I was born and bred in Yorkshire, close to the Dales, and now live in Leeds. I am married and have two sons and a soon-to-be daughter-in-law.I’ve been writing for most of my life. It’s what keeps me sane, although I have to admit it isn’t always easy, helped as I invariably am by our two gangster cats, aptly named Bonnie and Clyde.Most of my inspiration comes from life, although not necessarily mine. I’m well past the heroine stage now! Like many other writers, one of my favourite pastimes is people watching, so, if you ever see a strange woman sitting scribbling in a café, beware! It could be me...

Book preview

Mission Accomplished

by Sheila Kendall

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

Copyright 2016 Sheila Kendall at Smashwords.

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/sheilakendall

Cover Design: Decorous Anarchy Studios

decorousanarchystudios.wordpress.com

Beaten Track Publishing

www.beatentrackpublishing.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * * * *

This novel is a work of fiction and the characters and events in it exist only in its pages and in the author’s imagination.

* * * * *

When government cutbacks leave RAF pilot Steve Wilson without a job, he decides to invest his redundancy money in a family-run museum.

But Steve has an ulterior motive: a mission that leads him to a remote Yorkshire Dales village to fulfil a lifelong ambition, unaware of the repercussions his actions will have on the villagers and his own family…

…once long-buried secrets come to the surface.

* * * * *

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four 1940

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

About Sheila Kendall

Beaten Track Publishing

* * * * *

Prologue

Steve Wilson hated driving in rain. He wanted the top down on the car and the sun warming him. Or rather he needed the sun to warm him, to take away the coldness of the last few months, the near despair he’d felt at times, the sense of rejection that had dogged him—still dogged him. He sighed as the windscreen wipers struggled against the downpour and wondered if it was really worth him carrying on or whether he should stop in Leyburn for some food and let the rain ease off a bit. A particularly deep puddle in the road, which had the suspension on the MG protesting, made his mind up for him, and he parked in the marketplace, making a dash for the nearest pub.

He sat in a corner with his sandwich and pint of beer, hoping for some distraction but getting none as the bar remained stubbornly empty. He’d wanted to escape from his thoughts for a long time now, but today, facing a whole new start, he gave in and allowed his memories free reign.

Steve had believed his career lay with the RAF and had never expected it to end, but government cutbacks had put paid to his ambitions, his life. His redundancy cheque was small consolation when he left the base, unsure what to do with the rest of his life. Twenty-eight years old and suddenly unemployed. He was a pilot, and he wanted to do nothing other than fly. He was suddenly being forced into rethinking his entire future, and on that day it had felt hopeless. He’d spent weeks sitting in his parents’ house, staring at the walls, doing nothing, dimly aware in the still logical part of his brain that he was depressed but unable to do a thing about it. Newspapers lay untouched around him; he had no interest in life, let alone the media.

In the end, it was his father who threw him the lifeline he needed, bringing a newspaper article to his attention, sitting beside him as he read it, smiling when he saw the interest flare in his son’s face as he read again the article.

It’s the Spitfire, all right, his father said.

And this museum that’s got the salvage rights. Where is it?

No idea. You’d have to find it for yourself. I assume you’ll be thinking of going in with them on this?

I reckon I just might be, providing I can do a deal with them.

That was the moment when Steve began to come out of his depression. Now, at last, his life had a purpose again, a goal he could pursue. It didn’t take him long to locate the museum’s whereabouts and in the space of a few days, his parents saw the son they thought they’d lost coming back to them, albeit packing for a trip up to Yorkshire.

***

It didn’t matter that the sun was shining in a clear blue sky. It didn’t even matter that the trees had burst into life and the birds were joyously greeting this first sign of spring. None of it mattered when Steve pulled into the entrance of the museum and drew to a halt beside the dilapidated gatehouse, his heart sinking like a stone. Was he seriously thinking of investing a large chunk of his redundancy money in this place? He must be out of his mind!

A bored-looking teenager thrust her head out of the window, shifting a lump of chewing gum to the other side of her mouth. Yes?

One adult, please.

You want to go in, then? It’s £3.50 you know.

That’s fine, he gritted, handing her a five-pound note.

You’ll be wanting some change.

I think you’ll find it’s £1.50.

His brief attempt at sarcasm was obviously lost on her as she rooted about in an old tin box for his change.

Do you have a guide book? he asked, guessing what the answer would be but prepared to try anyway.

Nobody’s ever asked for one of them.

Briefly, he wondered how many people dared to enter the museum at all when they’d been faced with this girl.

The car park had never been tarmacked, and Steve winced as his car bottomed on a pothole. Maybe his money would be better used repairing his vehicle than investing in this place. First glance showed a couple of run-down hangars and an ancient control tower—not exactly an inspiring welcome. Judging by the noises coming from one of the hangars, however, there was some sort of restoration work going on, and he headed in that direction, anxious to find someone with more authority than the teenager.

He stopped short when he entered the hangar and saw the work going on in there. Hope was restored. Something was happening, some effort being made to make this into a going concern. He stood for a while, unnoticed, admiring the bomber, which took up a vast amount of the space inside the hangar, and wondering just how long they’d been working on this one ’plane for.

No admittance to the public here.

Steve turned to find the teenager behind him, looking even more belligerent, if that were possible.

Actually, I was hoping to speak to one of the owners.

But you’re not allowed in here, she reiterated, obviously pre-programmed not to hear what was said to her.

Steve was dangerously on the verge of losing his temper when a young man jumped down from the ’plane and came across to join them.

Okay, Leanne. You get back to the gate, I’ll take over here.

Instantly her attitude changed. Now she was more than eager to please, almost touching her forelock to him, and Steve guessed he’d found one of the people he was looking for.

Right then, as Leanne said, no members of the public in here. Sorry.

You haven’t got a sign up, though, have you?

We shouldn’t need one. It’s fairly obvious there’s work going on in here, isn’t it? Most people would realise they should keep away.

I’m not most people. I’m here on business.

Business? Who with?

The owner.

Well, you’ve found one of the owners, although I doubt if I can help you. Whatever it is you’re trying to sell, we’re not interested. As you can see, we’re busy enough as it is without—

Actually, I’m hoping I can help you. Or, at least, be allowed to put an interesting proposition to you, Steve interrupted. And don’t worry, I’m not trying to sell you anything.

Suspicion flared in the other man’s eyes, and Steve offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Look, we can’t talk here. Do you have a meeting room or…

It’s a museum, Mr…?

Wilson. Steve Wilson.

Right. Well, as I say, this is a museum, Mr Wilson, not a fancy office complex. He relented slightly. Oh, look, I could do with a break anyway. Let’s go over to the café, and you can tell me what this proposition of yours is. But I have to warn you, Mr Wilson, many people have tried to buy us out over the past few months, but this museum is not for sale.

I’m not here to buy you out. I doubt if I could afford to anyway. Shall we go?

* * * * *

Chapter One

Stan Brown sighed as he carefully knotted his black tie in front of the hall mirror. Funerals. He hated them, had begun to see them as a sign of his own mortality these days. Why couldn’t things just stay as they were? The seasons following on from each other, the village unchanging, its occupants living happily side by side, untroubled by outside forces. Stan couldn’t do with change. He had his daily routines, and he was happy with them, didn’t want them disrupting. He heard the church bell beginning its mournful tolling, drawing him out of his cottage at the same time as his neighbour.

Morning, Ada, he greeted her. Bit of a rum do this, isn’t it?

Aye, well it weren’t unexpected. Be a blesséd release for poor Jean, after all her suffering.

Stan blinked at her. He’d had no idea that Jean Marshall was even ill, let alone suffering. Frank had never mentioned illnesses to him. So far as he knew, her death was totally unexpected, to say nothing of being sudden.

If you’re thinking that that husband of hers said nowt about it, you’d be right. Seemed to think if he ignored it, it’d just go away. Silly man. Ada smiled sadly, the moment of softness gone. Should have been spending her last months with her, not drinking in the King’s Arms every night and leaving his granddaughter to nurse his wife.

So what were up with her, then? Stan asked.

Ada’s voice automatically dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. Cancer, it were. Poor woman. Terrible way to go.

Now look, Ada, are you really sure about all this? Stan knew, from his own experience, her penchant for gossip.

You don’t lose the weight she did for any other reason. It were cancer, all right. Told me herself, she did.

They fell into step together automatically, although not speaking to each other; just needing to be beside another living, breathing, human being today. Stan was at a loss for words for once, as he struggled to come to terms with Ada’s revelation.

Now he understood why Frank had gruffly declared that it was a blessing his wife had died. At the time, Stan had been furious with him, had said it was never a blessing when someone died, but then, of course, he hadn’t known the full facts, and Frank still hadn’t seen fit to tell him. But why? They were supposed to be mates, weren’t they? Surely mates should be confiding in each other?

Now what’s up with you, Stan Brown? Ada demanded as he sighed again.

I wish Frank had told me, you know. I’ve said some terrible things to him since she died.

Aye, well you weren’t to know, were you? Folk deal with things in their own way, and if Frank felt he couldn’t tell anyone what were wrong with her, then that’s his business. And as for me telling you, well you just think on and don’t tell him I’ve told you, she added.

Of course I won’t say owt. Not daft, am I, woman? he growled.

***

Jeannie Marshall looked anxiously at her grandfather as he stood at the kitchen window, not sure how to deal with him when he was so quiet. Frank Marshall was a man who stomped and banged his way through life, and this sudden calmness was unnerving. It was almost as though he had no feelings at all about his wife’s death, had cared so little about her that he could coast his way through the funeral before getting on with the rest of his life. It was unnatural, not the attitude of a man who’d been married for almost sixty years. Unless, of course, it was the only way he could cope with his grief.

A knock on the front door heralded the arrival of the undertaker, and Frank turned and nodded to her. You ready, lass? he asked.

We should wait for Mum and Dad…

No need to hold things up for them. If they can’t be bothered to come, that’s their lookout.

It was the first display of his usual anger and, in a strange way, it was reassuring. This was the man Jeannie had known all her life, the man who railed at life, the grandfather she loved for all his faults.

And he was quite right about his son and daughter-in-law. They should have been here hours ago to support him, to support their daughter, but there was no sign of them. Yet again, it was left to Jeannie to take his arm, as they left the house, and nod to the neighbours who had gathered outside the church to pay their last respects to Jean Marshall.

***

The service had already begun when Robert and Celia Marshall eventually made their appearance, Robert clearly embarrassed as they walked up the aisle to join Frank and Jeannie, unlike his wife, who was as coolly composed as ever. Jeannie flung them a disgusted look, furious that they couldn’t have got here in time.

Sorry we’re a bit late, darling. My meeting went on far longer than I expected, Celia whispered as they stood for the first hymn.

You could have waited outside until everyone was singing, Jeannie whispered back, not insisted on making such a grand entrance.

What? Wait outside in the pouring rain? I don’t think so. It would have ruined my outfit.

Blissfully unaware of the selfishness of that comment, Celia joined in the singing, and Jeannie found she couldn’t get a single note past the lump in her throat.

Why did she have to have such a dysfunctional family? Parents who’d farmed her off on her grandparents all her life, and now, when it was time to lay her grandmother to rest, her mother couldn’t forego one meeting to pay her respects. It didn’t matter that her mother was one of the partners in the law firm where she worked; as such, she should have been claiming compassionate leave for today. God knows, she knew what other people’s rights were and would fight tooth and nail for her clients, but not, it seemed, when it mattered for her own family.

Jeannie shivered as they emerged from the church. Celia had been right; the early morning promise of the day had gone on to be replaced by lowering clouds and a bitterly cold wind. The mourners huddled deeper into their coats as they followed the cortege to the graveside, Jeannie catching her breath on a sob when she saw the open maw in the ground waiting to receive her grandmother’s mortal remains. This was the moment she’d been dreading, and she felt Frank lay a hand on her arm in a rare gesture of support and immediately felt guilty. She should be the one supporting him through this, not the other way around.

Robert and Celia stood opposite them, making no move toward their daughter, and a bitter little smile twisted the old man’s lips. He shouldn’t have been surprised. They hadn’t supported her as a child, so why should they start now? It was always him and Jean who’d been there for her, and the girl had repaid that debt tenfold over the past few months. Without her he knew he couldn’t have coped with his wife’s illness.

A sudden breeze curled lovingly around them, caressing them with ice-cold fingers that sent a chill down Jeannie’s spine, and she moved a little closer to Frank. And then it began, slowly at first, just a slight rustling of the leaves in the trees, building gradually to a roaring crashing crescendo of noise as the coffin was lowered into the ground, as though nature itself were protesting in this final moment at a life lost. A woman too young to die like this. Jeannie would never know how the pall bearers remained calm, didn’t simply drop the coffin and run, as she herself wanted to run from that dreadful noise, which had almost become a wailing now. She glanced at Frank, but his face might have been set in stone, for all the reaction he showed. Celia had paled, clutching at Robert’s arm as though she feared she would follow her mother-in-law into the grave with the force of the wind at her back.

Ada sniffed and leaned towards Stan where he stood beside her. That’s a sign, that is, she muttered, and he shook his head at her.

Don’t be so daft, woman, it’s wind coming down off the moor, that’s all.

There’s things happen between heaven and earth, Stan Brown, that we know nowt about. This is one of them times, you mark my words.

Daft old bat, Stan muttered, turning deliberately away from her.

Thick-skinned as ever, Ada ignored the snub, continuing to mutter about signs and portents until Stan was forced to walk away altogether before he was reduced to unseemly laughter. It was only when he looked out at the lake that he felt the chill of fear for himself.

To his eyes, the tarn seemed to be boiling, the heaving black mass of water rising up towards him and, for a fanciful moment, he wondered if it was capable of flooding the entire village in its attempt to reach the graveyard, the grave. But then, as quickly as it had begun, it settled again, the wind dying down to a gentle sigh that barely rippled the leaves on the trees. Pale, shaking, shocked, Stan set off towards the pub, suddenly—desperately—in need of a drink. He forgot he’d meant to have a word with Frank after the committal, the need for alcohol more desperate than his erstwhile need for company.

***

Dave Jackson was actually having a good day, despite the fact that he was getting the pub ready for a wake. He hadn’t known Jean Marshall all that well but Frank was a regular customer and, for his sake, he was determined to do a good job. It wasn’t so much the extra income today’s do would generate that had cheered him up as the fact that he’d managed to secure a six-month let on Lane End Cottage. Now that really was the icing on the cake for Dave. Sometimes he thought that holiday cottage was more of a millstone round his neck than an investment but, just occasionally, it managed to pay for itself. He looked round the bar as the church bell tolled, and nodded.

Peggy had done a marvellous job, even going so far as to put flowers out on the windowsills, and bright ones at that—not the traditional lilies she could have chosen. He shuddered suddenly, remembering his mother’s funeral, where the wake had been