The Chursleigh Chronicles Volume 1: The Planemakers, #1

By Dave Black

It's the mid '40s and war in Europe is over. They're beating the swords into ploughshares.. Cutler (too young to go to war) has worked out his wartime days on the Chursleigh Estates, as it fell on hard times. But the Consortium he joined have prospered beyond their wildest dreams and plan to move-on. Great opportunity beckons now hostilities have ended and they've amassed a fair old pile of loot. Cutler is hellbent on keeping his pals together, so they have no need to go cap in hand to the bankers in pursuit of success. The Chursleigh Estates are all but skint, but Cutler's associates Bellringer & Beccles-Todd have dreamed up a scheme that leaves the Bull's Head consortium as they prefer to be known, with a sizeable chunk of the Chursleigh Estate. It's been a WWII Bomber Station, now released by the War Office The Consortium buy it up, in settlement of the Estate's wartime liabilities as Bellringer's National Provincial Bank kept it afloat.

Beset by outside influences however the consortium proves to be a marriage made in hell and comes apart at the seams. They carve it up and go their separate ways as Cutler & Syd Johnson the Bull's Head Landlord join forces, realising the folly of going it alone, with Beccles-Todd tagging along, while Bellringer chooses independence.

But the Shard family fortunes execute a swift about turn, when son and heir Ben Shard, thought to be missing in action, in the Burmese Jungle turns up. He's survived and sets about sorting out what went on in his absence. It's too late to regain control of the assets, now owned by the Consortium, but nevertheless, there's more ways than one to 'skin a cat'. He plots a re-run and the plot unfolds in a whirlwind of deals and trade-offs as Sir Godfrey Bright of the Bright Aero Company calls him in. He's bidding to be a major player in the postwar world of civil airliners

Bright Aeros new Chief Exec sets about the task with vigour,.as opportunity beckons. Howard Silver of Silver-Dancer Airways St Louis, USA, turns up looking for new aircraft, for his fledgling airline. He's out to build a trans-Atlantic competitor to Pan American and TWA or so the story goes?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dave Black
• Release date: Mar 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999756581

Dave Black

Dave Black grew up farming in a small village in rural Derbyshire and went on to travel the world as an Aero Service Engineer on Fighters, Freighters and  Passenger Jets for worldwide airlines and corporate operators, most of this self poublished scribbling was accomplished in the seclusion of hotels and digs from the fringes of the Artic Circle to the Deserts of the Middle East and the Jungles of the Far East over several decades - Enjoy    

Book preview

Copyright Dave Black Freelance

The right of Dave Black to be identified

as the author of this work is asserted

by him, in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.

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This novel is a work of fiction. Names,

characters, places and incidents are either

the product of the author's imagination or

are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events, or

locales, is entirely coincidental.

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ePub Edition

Edited & Prepared by

Dave Black Publishers

London - Paris - New York

St Louis - Los Angeles - Derby

Dedications

To anyone who might read this book?

To those I’ve met, those who’ve gone,

and those I’ve yet to meet.

Disclaimer

The characters and plots, described in these pages

and others yet to come, are mostly true to life.

No doubt you’ve come across a lot of them yourself,

sometime or other - someplace or other.

The Players

Jack Cutler:-

Son of the late gamekeeper on the Chursleigh Estate too young to go to war he helps to run the Estate. Ensnared by a bunch of locals, he gets roped-in to distribute surplus produce in short supply during wartime. Knowledge of the private roads on the Chursleigh Estate and ready access to a tractor, trailer and fuel coupons enable him to make deliveries in the dead of night. As war ends they set up a consortium to exploit opportunities that come their way.

The Consortium:-

Syd Johnson, Landlord of the Bull's Head, Austin Bellringer, manager of the village bank, Beccles-Todd, the village Brief and Cutler.

The Chursleighs:-

The Lord Chursleigh and Lady Helen Shard are in residence at the Chursleigh Manor Estate. Their children Ben and Angel Shard are at war as peacetime prevails and their return is anxiously awaited, to get the Estate can get back on its feet. Lord Chursleigh is incapacitated by illness, as the Bank accepts the mothballed RAF Bomber Station returned in peacetime, to pay off the overdraft and square the account.

George Rankin:-Owner and operator of Rankin Aggregates, he’s out to corner the market in road building materials across south east postwar England.

Sir Godfrey Bright:-

Is the power behind the Bright Aeroplane Company. He’s been making bombers since WWI.  But its peacetime now post WWII and he’s moving on. He’s ambitious to make new passenger jets, as UK Plc., goes head to head with the US and Whitehall in a who rules the skies battle,  for the airways of the free world.

Neil Lambert:-

Wing commander Ben Shard's CO in Burma, who comes to offer commiserations for his former charge still posted missing, when peace is declared. Lambert was an accountant pre-war and is roped in by Angel to sort out the financial affairs of the Estate. Quickly latching on to the consortium’s shenanigans, he vies for a slice of the action, to subsidise his obsession with Downhill Ski-Racing. As a pre-war Olympic contender, he’s set on resurrecting his career, but needs a sponsor and the local scene offers rich picking, of sorts.

Werner Best:-

A Swiss bank official and ski fanatic who becomes embroiled with Neil Lambert and uses him to launder some ill-gotten gains stashed in the vaults of his Swiss bank, as he bids to become a ‘bigtime boy’.

Howard Silver:-

Co-founder of Silver-Dancer Airways, a US interstate mail carrier with passenger carrying ambitions. He comes to England hoping to buy Sir Godfrey’s new passenger plane, but quickly runs into problems when his finances come under scrutiny and novel solutions develop, as he picks his way out of the minefield.

Bo Dancer:-

Silver’s partner in an airmail contract out of St. Charles Airport, St Louis, Missouri. All he wants is the quiet life and to stay in the background; as he tries to restrain the wilder excesses of a partner. Ready to trample roughshod over anyone who stands in his way; as he scrambles to build an airline presence in the skies of post-war USA.

Ed Brakus:-

Is a Wall St., banker out to make his name in the shark infested waters of high-finance as he bankrolls Silver to the point of no return as the Bigboys move in and everything goes to pot. When he learns how Silver has crossed him; he sets out to retrieve his position and is not too fussy, how he goes about it.

Chursleigh Volume I

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It’s the mid nineteen-forties, war in Europe is over and they’re beating the swords into ploughshares, as attention turns to what comes next. It’s a whole new world; Cutler and the Consortium have prospered beyond their wildest dreams as they plan on moving ahead. Great opportunity beckons with the end of hostilities; the a pile they’ve amassed from wartime exploits needs to be exploited on the new opportunities of peacetime activity. Cutler is hellbent on keeping them all together so they have no need to go cap in hand; to the bankers, in pursuit of further success.

The Shard family, on whose Chursleigh Estate, Cutler has worked out the wartime days, has fallen on hard times with no one to run it as his lordship’s health declined. While Cutler delivering surplus produce, from neighbouring farms due to the exigencies of war in a scheme dreamed up by local bigwigs; Beccles-Todd, Bellringer and Syd, landlord of the Bull’s Head. They formed a consortium of sorts; to ease the pangs of wartime rationing; for the local villages around Boosley Welham.

It leaves this war time band of brothers with a sizeable fund; to move in other directions as hostilities end. So when Bellringer the banker; calls in the Estate’s wartime overdraft. Thy use it to pay off this debt to the bank in exchange for the freehold of a former wartime airfield returned to the Chursleigh Estate as hostilities end. They’re intending to develop its potential; but beset by outside influences, the deal proves to be a marriage, made in hell. It comes apart at the seams and they carve it up, to go their separate ways, as Bellringer panics and scarpers.

The Shard family fortunes execute a swift about turn; when son and heir Ben Shard, turns up. Thought to be missing in action somewhere in the Burmese jungles; he’s survived to return and he sets about sorting out, what transpired in his absence. But it's too late to regain control of the assets; now owned by this band of brothers known as the Consortium.

Preface

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‘Show me where to sign, show me where to sign,’ breezed Silver, his mind racing. Suddenly it was all so clear to him, he was American Airlines, TWA and Pan Am, everything he’d ever dreamed of rolled into one. But now for sure, he was talking big bucks, serious money. The kind of money you don’t come by so easily... based on his previous.

Sir Godfrey hadn’t mentioned money up to this point, for he had no fears, Silver had produced the goods before. He could rely on him to do the same again. But he’d need a ‘rabbit out of the hat’ they were playing hardball now. It was no time for vacillation, ‘faint heart never made fat belly’ would be his mantra this time around. Sir Godfrey was out to stuff it to the Yanks, in a battle for the airways and it needed a few bold moves. Moves to send them reeling; with no chance to come back at him, regardless of the bucketfuls of IoU’s they’re ever ready to pitch in with.

Prologue - Let’s get it all Together

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Soft wall lights lit the shabby back room at the Bull’s Head boozer. A cloud of pungent smoke drifted upwards, infused by shafts of crimson-hued light that filtered through splits in the tatty shades. Beccles-Todd, the local Brief, a tall flaccid man approaching middle age had the floor. He was pacing up and down the threadbare carpet, in the backroom at the Bull’s Head boozer; a carpet even the boyos from the back room of the Bull’s Head, gathered here tonight would have trouble replacing.

It was well past closing time; another late night, after hour’s session of the likely lads, was in progress. World War II was all but over. The Füehrer was on his last legs; as Allied Forces advanced on Berlin, the Germans were about to throw in the towel.

‘We have to be ready,’ crowed Beccles-Todd, in authoritive legal tones. Captive audience they may be, but he was seducing them to absorb every syllable. The members of the consortium; were ranged side by side, along a bench seat occupying the far wall. Nearest to Beccles-Todd on the end of the bench sat Jack Cutler.

Cutler - a local Jack the Lad, had been fixer au-necessaire to the gang, when it came to deliveries. Only son of the late gamekeeper at the Chursleigh Estate he’d been kept on after his father died. Farm labour was scarce in wartime and young Cutler knew the estate like the back of his hand. This ambitious son of a gun was too young, to be called-up for the military service at the outset and just as anxious, to avoid it now the war was over. He could see no reason; to let unnecessary complications, hamper the future development of his business career.

Lady Luck had been with him these few years past. Farmers who worked the estate farms were only too pleased; to have someone who’d grown up amongst them, to act as a go between. Known to them as a friendly agent, Cutler had access to a tractor, a trailer and the odd tank of surplus tractor fuel. Well equipped to ferry a bit of surplus produce, for a fistful of ‘readies’. It turned out to be just the job for Cutler, as he became the hub of a local transport network, with a finger in everyone’s pie.

Over the last few years; his associates had salted away every penny, that came their way. They reckoned when the war was over; opportunities would be boundless, coming thick and fast. It was a feeling he had in his bones, every waking moment. Though whether he was confusing rich and famous with notorious, wasn’t exactly clear.

Next to him sat Austin Bellringer - manager of the local Provincial Bank, totally enraptured by the man who held the floor. Bellringer was always enraptured, when anyone as authoritative as Beccles-Todd, issued forth on his favourite subject, piling up the booty. A rotund balding man with a dodgy hip; he could forget the pain, when his mind was befuddled by a wad of nelsons.

The fourth member of this infamous cabal was Syd Johnson - landlord of the Bull’s Head boozer. A tall, slim, cadaverous figure of a man, with a ready eye for the main chance; always ready to accommodate these after hour’s soirées, in the backroom of his boozer. He’d profited well from the war years; brewing his own ale.  It was a local tradition that went back a couple of centuries; as he acted as a go-between for his associates.

He just happened to be in the right place at the time, when certain commodities commanded a premium, to act as a de facto clearing house. While Cutler, ferried the deliveries far and wide with his tractor and trailer, fulfilling orders taken over the bar, for ration free top-ups.

So enraptured were the motley crew, by Beccles-Todd’s fascinating presentation; that a sudden hammering on the outside door, took them by surprise. They looked round at each other, faces mirrored in guilty looks of uncertainty, startled by the aggressive interruption.

‘Open up in the name of the law.’

It was P.C. Joe Billings, the Village Bobby. The drinks disappeared as if by magic, as a pack of cards was produced. Bellringer the local banker proceeded to deal out hands round the baize topped card table.

‘Ere, ’ere, ’angon,’ grunted Landlord Syd, taking his time down the passage to the side door, the object of P.C. Billings’ attention.

‘Yer floodlightin’ the Village Green,’ snorted Billings, as Syd pulled back the bolts and opened up for him.

‘Cum off it,’ grinned Syd, ‘Gerry’s about as likely to bomb the village tonight, as you are to catch England’s most wanted crook.’

With nothing better to do on his late night beat, he had as usual, been looking for an excuse to call at the boozer. Mostly, it resulted in a swift pint to smooth ruffled feathers, as he turned a blind eye to the odd after-hours drink session.

Seeing the light filtering down the passage from the backroom, he made his way pint in hand, to see what was going on. Sergeant Billings loved to create a little turbulence now and then; it added a sense of purpose, to his mundane existence. In a way; it was food and drink to him, as casting a suspicious eye over the unlikely looking card-school, he jumped in with both feet. In reality it was nothing less than was expected of him, on the odd occasion he caught them all together.

‘There’ll be a few changes round ’ere afore long,’ observed P.C Billings, pausing to let these words of infinite wisdom sink-in. He was grinning widely, he liked to get old Bellringer wound up, for he was probably the one amongst them with the most too lose. He’d be retiring soon to a life of luxury, on the usual handsome banker’s pension. There was no way Bellringer could afford to be publicly associated with a gang of local chancers.

It wasn’t that the chaps in the backroom at the Bull’s Head were without respect for the law, but these were unusual times and certain remedies were called for. The service they provided made life tolerable for everyone.

‘If you’re as smart as you like to think you are,’ interrupted Beccles-Todd, annoyed by the interruption, just as P.C. Plod was hitting top gear and into his stride, get-lost!

Typically for a man of legal training, he could be quite excitable at times and expressed annoyance at the unnecessary disruption to normal business.

‘Ere, ’ere,’ chimed in the constable.

But Beccles-Todd was having none of it. Turning on him, with all pretence of diplomatic nicety abandoned, he let rip. ‘Why don’t you just sod off and look for gypsies in the wood.’

P.C. Billings at his unflappable best just ignored him and carried on undeterred. Nodding his head sagely, he shrugged dismissively and repeated his statement of a few moments ago. ‘There’ll be a few changes around ’ere; afore too long,’ he grinned smugly. He’d be happy to see things get back to normal; to enjoy a bit of the long overdue respect, he reckoned he was entitled to. When the war was over; they could all look forward to P.C. Joe Billings putting himself about a bit more readily. So he was posting due notice, here and now.

Beccles-Todd nevertheless, was concerned only to be rid of the tiresome busy-body, soon as possible. He didn’t like being interrupted in full flow at the best of times. Especially when he was about to expand on plans for the future, with no way he could do so, as P.C. Plod stood over him. Beccles-Todd fixed him with the same glare of disapproval that he used to unsettle him in the courtroom. P.C. Billings squirmed uncomfortably, shuffling awkwardly from one foot to the other, as four pairs of eyes bored into him, all thoughts of card games abandoned.

‘Anyway,’ grunted P.C. Billings. ‘Mek sure you don’t ’ave no lights showin’, if yer insists on ’aving these little get tergethers,’ P.C. Joe Billings could almost taste the flavour of conspiracy in the air as he turned to go.

‘Just remember I got mi beady eyes on the lot of you, cus if’n yer finks I swallow this card playing guff, fink agen,’ was his parting shot.

Whilst Landlord Syd; scurried along behind him, to lock the outer door.

Cutler was having difficulty controlling convulsions, ‘I think P.C. Plod was trying to give us a warning’, he chortled.

‘Look,’ grunted Beccles-Todd. ‘Think he’s just a bird-brained Village Bobby, but he can cause a lot of unnecessary problems, if you rub him up the wrong way and we can all get by without too much of that.’

Then; as the village Bobby left, he took a pace back, as he resumed where he’d left off.

‘We need to discuss what moves we intend to take; to keep things moving in the right direction, when the Nazis give up and we need to do it, before all the troops are demobbed. There’ll be a fair few likely lads about then, intent on carving themselves a slice of the action,’ he counselled, as they nodded in unison. ‘Besides which - there’s a pile of spare cash in the kitty,’ he continued, revelling in his role as the main treasurer.

He’d been stashing all the surplus funds in the client account at his practice. So; apart from the fact that it was in essence, the ultimate money laundering operation. It served to keep the situation remote from the attention, of busybodies like P.C. Joe Billings. Though he wasn’t alone when it came to persons out there, who might first become curious, then try to do something about it. The dosh was out of sight, out of mind and accruing interest on the overnight money market. It was piling up and he needed to move it on; before it became an embarrassment, to the Practice.

‘It’s time to decide whether to have a share out and go our separate ways,’ crooned the Lawyer or form a consortium. To take advantage of the many opportunities; that are bound to turn up, when the war is over and things get back to normal.’

Cutler was hanging on every word, especially the ones like opportunities and consortium. Grinning inwardly he fought to conceal his glee; what Beccles-Todd was proposing, sounded like music to his ears. He had difficulty containing himself; nevertheless, he needed to stay cool.  He had to be sure the others didn’t get wind of his ideas, in case it scared them off.

Jack Cutler had no wish; to see them scuttling off into the sunset, just yet. They had to be tied into some kind of loose alliance, for he wasn’t yet ready, to strike out alone. It needed more time for things to settle; no point in jumping, before the die was cast.

If nothing else; pooling their assets would be an immediate boost, to available funds.  It would avoid the need to go cap in hand to the likes of Bellringer for a loan or a bale out. He was out to avoid situations which involved borrowing from the bank. They had to find a way to stay undeclared, as borrowing cash from the bank incurred interest charges, a punitive additional tax. Better their combined kitty was used for some of the many schemes that would crop-up post war. Cutler was convinced it would be much simpler if all the stuff bubbling away in the back of his head was backed by the four of them, as a consortium.

He’d need to keep a duplicate set of books; like he’d done from the day Syd Johnson first approached him, to use the tractor for distributing the surplus produce. At all cost they needed to avoid a bevy of hangers-on, fancy suited City-slickers, accountants and the like, pulling strokes on them as situations developed. Cutler was well able to look after any funds himself, with Landlord Syd as an ally and back up; he’d realised they could be on a roll, once peace was declared.

Being the youngest member was tough, but Cutler was smart enough to realise he had to stand back a bit and let them think they were playing him, as they made the all running. So long as they thought he was just along for the ride; with no big ideas of his own, he could pick the time and place to make his move. It would need patience; the kind he’d developed outsmarting the redoubtable local bobby P.C. Billings.

He’d no doubt of late, that P. C. Billings had redoubled his efforts, to catch him out. A couple of times recently, as he moved the excess produce from farm to customer, he’d narrowly avoided P.C Billings on patrol in Chursleigh Woods.

The fact that he’d managed to come out on top, probably owed as much to Lady Luck, as to his intimate knowledge of the estate. It was a luck he’d ridden for all it was worth, in his bid for a tilt at the bigtime. Helped along no doubt by the fact he’d grown up on the estate; knowing every road and track through the woods and common beyond, like it was the back of his hand. He could travel a radius of ten miles from the Manor House, in the dead of night, without showing a light or using a major road.

Fortunately, for Cutler the exuberance of youth was on his side, while P.C. Billings in his constant and sustained quest to nail him was reduced to lying in wait, in the undergrowth. Short of canvassing Tom Sheppard the Estate Manager to drop him in it. Happily, with the luck of the devil on his side; Cutler had managed to push it, for all he was worth. Purely by chance, the last time P.C. Billings managed to stop him, he’d just dropped off his last consignment and was able to tell him, that he’d been sent on patrol to look for poachers.

‘Tough,’ quipped Cutler. ‘The local crooks have no idea our Village Bobby is patrolling the woods in the dead of night. It could have saved us both a lot of time and trouble.’ There could be no doubt Cutler’s charmed life; had P.C. Plod boiling over at times.  At this very moment; he was on the case, as Cutler went on his way.

Quickly hiding his bike behind the phone box on the Village Green, he doubled back behind the pub and tip-toed through the rear gate. Dodging swiftly and stealthily along the back wall, he’d crept up to the window of the room he’d just left, for he knew damned well were up to something, and he was out to nobble them, in the act. Whatever devious little plot they were hatching he’d be on to them. With an ear pressed up to the window; he managed to catch brief snatches, of their clandestine tête-à-tête.

Unfortunately it came and went, like someone standing by a radio, turning the volume up and down, as Beccles-Todd paraded up and down the threadbare carpet. Perched precariously on the rockery his ear pressed against the window, he suddenly jumped back in alarm, as the top sash was pulled down a bit, to let out a cloud of cigar smoke and he was forced to flatten himself against the side of the building. The Bobbies helmet hit the ground with a clatter; rolling to and fro, along the edge of the path, for several seconds.

Luckily the curtains were still drawn and the cloud of stale tobacco smoke just wafted past his nose. If nothing else, it served to alert him to the fact that the village shop had been out of tobacco for weeks; yet here they were chuffing away like puffin-billies’.

Shaking his head thoughtfully, he resolved to poke his nose behind the counter, the next time he had cause to call at the shop. Easing away from the wall he realised he could see directly into the room, through a chink in the curtains and suddenly he could hear every word they uttered, as clearly as if he was in the room.

Hi-fallutin’ Beccles-Todd the village Brief had the floor again and was pacing up and down, as he delivered a lecture on mutual co-operation. P.C. Billings was not impressed, ‘Den of Thieves’ he mumbled under his breath, for he had little faith in his fellow men. Especially the four he was watching so closely, at this particular moment. All he wanted to do was nobble ’em and the sooner the better.

For the moment though, all he could hope for was this business of mutual co-operation he’d just heard about, coming apart at the seams. In some ways, it was a pity he’d not come on duty sooner. He’d have been a helluva lot wiser than he was now, for the meeting was almost over. The window was shoved up and locked with a clatter, as the lights went out and the retreating Bobby picked his way carefully across the rockery. The meeting was over it was time to wend his way home.

‘Wait till the war’s over,’ he kept mumbling to himself, as he made his way back to retrieve his bike. One way or another he was determined to nab that Beccles-Todd. He probably detested the village Brief more than any of them. Mainly it might be said, due to his superior legal tactics and the fact that he’d bested the village copper more than once, in open court.  The Briefs rapier like tongue was more than P.C. Billings could cope with, even on his best day. ‘Every dog has its day’, he mumbled contenting his himself with the thought that all it needed was a bit of time and patience.

Patience it might be said, if nothing else, was possessed in good measure by the plodding Village Bobby. So P.C. Joe Billings was at peace with himself, as whistling a kind of dirge that might just have qualified as a Beccles-Todd lament, he swung his leg over the crossbar and pedalled off into the night

Chapter 1 - It’s History baby, History

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T

he Chursleighs had controlled the Boosley Welham Estate since the mid-fifteen hundreds, five hundred years, give or take a few. Much of this past was pretty obscure, unless you had sight of the family archives. The last ninety odd years had been riven with neglect as profits went into freefall, during after the American Civil War. The plantations in Virginia and Alabama, had never fully recovered. They’d lain derelict though the freeholds still held good, despite the efforts of carpetbaggers and related upheaval for the Chursleighs.

The years rolled by and circumstance conspired to make it highly unlikely they’d ever be revived. Financing plantations in distant realms, never figured highly in the pecking order when it came to a final tally. They were out of sight, out of mind and suffered accordingly. Chursleigh Holdings in the Americas were derelict, as things stood - a story without an ending.

This apart, it could still be argued that if a previous generation of Chursleighs, had picked the right side in the American Civil War; things might have turned out better. But they didn’t and the sequence of mishap and misfortune that dogged the family in recent years looked terminal. All this, together with the debilitating condition of the present Lord Chursleigh conspired to produce a spiral of neglect.

Cutler’s imagination had been fired by this ever since he read of it in the family archives. He harboured dismay at the way things had worked out. Someday, somehow at a different time and place, he might take a hand by way of putting things to rights. Though in present circumstances, nothing much was feasible. Lord Chursleigh had been bedridden throughout the latter years of WWII. Nothing much would change; until peace reigned supreme and Wing Commander Ben Shard, the Chursleigh son and heir was demobbed.

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Wing Commander Ben Shard, Marquis of Chislebury and heir apparent to the Chursleigh Estates would be coming home any day soon. He was presently overseas, with a frontline Spitfire Squadron of the Royal Air Force, last known destination Rangoon, Burma. Little had been heard of him in recent times, lines of communication were practically non-existent as most of the country had been over-run by the Imperial Japanese Army.

Ben Shard’s sister Lady Angel Shard was caught up in the war too, serving with the Women’s Royal Ambulance Corps, in France. A slip of a girl, barely eighteen, she went on D-day, driving her ambulance to the front lines. Whilst Lady Helen Shard was left behind, nursing her husband and trying as best she could, to hold things together, until hostilities ceased.

Oblivious to anything but the task in hand, Lady Helen, the matriarch, was at this very moment pre-occupied at a desk in the library. Busily scribbling away, she was keeping the family chronicles up-to-date. Something she’d done meticulously, while the family was temporarily separated. Five hundred odd years of Chursleigh family history, cluttered the shelves in front of her and had to be kept up to date.

The archives ensured any future generations of the family, had the benefit of all this accumulated hindsight, even though early tomes read like they’d been written, in an alien tongue. Nevertheless, to have the benefit of all this perceived wisdom and experience was a truly outstanding legacy. It was pretty certain that every aspect of human endeavour, in all its naked passion was set out for scrutiny somewhere on the shelves before her. Vital information for whosoever might wish to indulge themselves and aspire to take things forward.

In view of Lord Chursleigh’s condition, it had fallen to Lady Helen to step into the breech. Chronicles of the present generation were routinely kept under lock and key, since it made for a full and frank record of all the relevant facts. It also avoided embarrassment that might lead to biased editing by persons present or past, vying to re- write the fact around certain contributions. Within these pages too were the records and copies, of the title deeds, to every property the family had ever owned?

Cutler spent many an idle hour when no one was about, looking through these tomes. He’d come across them by chance, when his odd-job talents were employed around the house. Often he would creep back on dark winter evenings to leaf through the pages, fascinated by what lay within. It was probably these chronicles, more than anything, which fired his imagination and inspired him to keep tugging at his bootstraps. Not for Cutler, the hum-drum life his father and grandfather had endured, farming the Chursleigh Estates.

Ambitions were manifold for the young Cutler, bordering slightly on fantasy - maybe. But the chronicles had led him to speculate, if one family could amass wealth and property on such a massive scale, in days of yore. It had to be possible here and now in the twentieth century A.D. as the dust settled across the English Channel, that opportunity would once again rise from the ashes as the swords were beaten into ploughshares.

His education at the hands of Beccles-Todd, Bellringer, and Syd the Bull’s Head landlord had also taught him much about the importance of capital. In the present situation capital was about all the consortium of which he was a part, had to show for their efforts. Profits accumulated on a daily basis, for there was little to spend it on.

Nor would there be until the war was over, and it became a necessary part of his forward planning. Everyone he came into contact with these days was predicting an end to hostilities. Sitting at the bar in the Bull’s Head Inn a heady buzz of optimism at the prospects ahead was apparent as Cutler dreamed of new beginnings. Ways he could persuade his associates, in this so-called consortium, to invest in the future together. Whilst the kitty they’d built up was quite substantial, divided amongst them wouldn’t support big new ideas that were rattling around in his bonce. Better by far if he could persuade them to stick together and use it in concert to open up all manner of new possibilities.

With his mind racing, he was going over everything, scheming and plotting to come up with a scheme, to fire the imagination of his mentors. But suddenly his train of thought was rudely interrupted, by a prodigious elbow in the ribs, by venerable local banker Austin Bellringer. So wrapped up was Cutler, in this train of thought that it looked for all the world, as if he’d nodded-off, sitting on the barstool.

‘Psst, there’s a meeting tonight sniffed Bellringer, as he hung around chatting idly, in anticipation Cutler might stand him a pint. It was about as likely as the redoubtable banker would be advancing interest free loans to him, across the counter of his local National Provincial Bank.

In the full flush of youthful exuberance and inspired by his success as a clandestine distributor of surplus farm produce, life looked relatively simple and straightforward. Cutler could, to a certain extent, be excused for thinking that life was going to be a ‘bowl of cherries’. He wasn’t by nature a man of devious mind, for it demanded a consistency of purpose and attention to detail, which delivered little more than repetitious boredom.

Cutler was inclined towards a certain faith in his fellow men, which bordered on naïvety or more likely inexperience. Whatever, the lesson it was poised to deliver, in the coming days and weeks would be etched on his psyche for years to come. Soon he’d become as devious, as those who sought to best him. Though he couldn’t be quite certain why the notion to record passing events, first occurred to him, maybe it came from his covert reading of the Chursleigh Chronicles.

Maybe it was to some extent a latent desire to be a writer. Whatever, write it all down he did, from the very first clandestine transaction he’d been invited to participate in. Who got what, why, where, when and for how much. It was a catalogue of intrigue that would tick away like a time bomb, for as long as he might ever have need of it.

‘Don’t forget the meeting,’ Bellringer was nudging him again with his empty beer glass, to little effect. Cutler turned, nodded briefly and moved away to mingle with the jostling mob around the bar. He’d no intention of satisfying the freeloading attentions, of the ubiquitous banker.

◊

The ready availability of Syd Johnson’s Home Brew had made the Bull’s Head a popular focus for boozers from miles around. In times of need it was the one place you could guarantee the beer would flow freely. To which the heaving mass of humanity, jostling at the bar was ample testimony. It brought together an unlikely assortment of misfits, entrepreneurs and lads of ‘derring-do’. Probably far more than its fair share, but it made for an atmosphere ripe with expectation and a special something was always in the air

It was well known locally that if you were looking for something in short supply, you placed an order across the bar and Landlord Syd would put someone in touch, for his usual percentage of course. But if he couldn’t fulfil your order, it was highly unlikely to be available elsewhere.

In addition to this particular service in harness with his pal Syd, they also made up the other half of a Bellringer, Beccles-Todd consortium. It wasn’t difficult to imagine there might be competition when basic commodities were in short supply, but competition there was and quite often with violent strong arm tactics, to back it up. This atmosphere, together with attention from the ever watchful Village Bobby on the lookout for a coup, meant all the ingredients for a Hell’s Broth of covert endeavour were fully in play.

It wasn’t too surprising therefore, that Cutler always carried his trusty twelve bore alongside him, as he nipped to and fro on his regular delivery runs. Whilst for the second time in less than a week, the consortium hung around until the pub had cleared. Bellringer had dredged up some interesting facts and figures from the bank’s monthly report, which had set his mind racing. He’d come-up with a couple of new schemes; he wanted to put to the others.

‘What makes you think it’ll work,’ snorted Cutler, no doubt exhibiting his somewhat limited commercial experience. What he did know for sure, limited experience or not was he wanted no part of ‘airy-fairy’ schemes. The like of which Bellringer was trying to lumber him with, at the last little ‘tête à tête’. He’d never been a dreamer and the more he heard Bellringer and Beccles-Todd issuing forth, the more he began to wonder if they knew what they were talking about. Eventually, he came to realise the limits of their commercial experience. In essence, it was non-existent, for they lived a surreal existence in a surreal world.

Vast sums of money and contracts that required legal sanction, passed through their hands on a daily basis. So inevitably he concluded; they began to think, they knew what it was all about. On reflection, Cutler soon realised that all they’d ever done, was scrutinise what other people were involved in or planned to do. It was always done on someone else’s time and money. Quite possibly the only real decision either of them ever made involving real money, was how much they spent on their chosen mode of transport and household expenses.

While Bellringer’s latest scheme, turned out to be simple enough, and there was no way, it could fail to make money. The drawback for Cutler was that he’d be doing all the sorting. An opportunity occurred because the precious metal content of certain coins in circulation had suddenly exceeded their face value, by as much several times. So as Bellringer was the one man who could get his hands on coin in unlimited quantities, all it needed to make the scheme work was a sorter. Cutler knew there was only one answer to this and he’d be expected to do it in his own time, whenever he’d finished his rounds, delivering Landlord Syd’s daily order book.

It wasn’t long before it got to be too much, Beccles-Todd and Bellringer were ferrying in fresh bags of coins by the day. He was sitting up until the early hours, night after night, checking dates. No sooner did he get through one pile, than he was rewarded with another - by the car bootful. It was good to know they were making money, but it was playing havoc with his social life and not doing much for his other plans too.

Bellringer was jubilant, as Cutler rapidly became pissed-off. He began to wonder seriously, if the time had come to make a break from these intellectual deadbeats - time to go it alone. It was just the thought of trying to make things work, with the limited resources at his command, which held him back. At least he was making money this way and it didn’t involve running the gauntlet, with P.C. Billings, to show a profit. If Beccles-Todd and Bellringer came to rely on him, as they appeared to be at the moment, maybe he could cook something up with Landlord Syd, while they were looking the other way.

He reasoned that if the best Bellringer and Beccles-Todd could come up with was schemes like this; the future wasn’t looking quite as inviting - as he’d imagined. ‘We’re grovelling for peanuts,’ he complained. It was after hours again in the back room at the Bull’s Head, but the company was limited to just the two of them. Landlord Syd had cleared the decks and they were partaking of a nightcap, as they waited for Beccles-Todd and Bellringer to appear.

‘If that pair of pillocks come up with much more of this I’m reckon it will be time to dump ’em,’ he expostulated. ‘Time to ring the bell on Bellringer so to speak,’ he grinned, nudging the bell that Landlord Syd used to clear the bar at closing time. Frowning impulsively at Cutler’s rather hackneyed pun, Syd nodded agreement.

‘If they’re supposed to be the brains of the outfit, maybe it’s time we dreamed up a few wheezes which don’t need ’em,’ shrugged Syd. Cutler was taken aback by Syd’s readiness to suggest what he’d been thinking for quite a while.

‘You thinking what I’m thinking,’ grinned Cutler, more as a statement than a question.

‘Why not,’ replied Syd with a ‘nod and a wink’. ‘There’s no need to fall out with them, but it’s always best to be master of yer own destiny. Know what a mean, ya’ don’t get rich digging someone else’s ditch. We could call for a shareout, I put my share of the loot in with you and we shouldn’t be so short of funds that we’re forced to borrow.’ I’d hate to have to go knocking on Bellringer’s door for a loan

‘Maybe it would be for the best,’ Cutler smiled. ‘I don’t see myself carrying on like this, acting as some kind of buckshee whipping boy, for that pair of jerks; I’ll give it some thought.’

‘We’d need to get it right,’ pointed out Syd,

‘Hmm, it’s got to be better than carrying on like this,’ Cutler nodded. ‘I’m up to here with their screwball schemes,’ he grunted patting his forehead with the palm of his hand.

Bellringer of course being a banker recognised a few basic principles which might not have occurred to Cutler, as yet. He knew it was essential to have a cash generator, the means to cover day to day running expenses. It wasn’t always going to be possible, to hold down a job and run an operation like this on the side, using someone else’s equipment and facilities.

It was okay while attention was diverted by the exigencies of war, but it wouldn’t be this way forever. When hostilities would come to an end and the way things appeared to be moving, it could be sooner rather than later. Then everything would change, though for the moment, Bellringer and the village Brief were in their element. Oblivious to the fact that Cutler and his pal Syd might have ambitions - above and beyond the present scheme of things.

Chapter 2 - A rumble in the Jungle

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Rain was coming in everywhere and it was surprising it hadn’t managed to penetrate the tarpaulin, draped across the flimsy structure which covered the foxhole. The snub nose of a Browning nestled menacingly between the palm fronds that covered the sheet as a kind of camouflage. Wing Commander Ben Shard had unwittingly got caught in an early monsoon downpour, while inspecting one of his forward outposts. He was in a dugout guarding the periphery of a jungle strip a hundred or so miles northeast of Rangoon.

The place was Burma and the Japs he reckoned; had just about, shot their bolt. They appeared to be heading home by whatever means; bound for Tokyo via the China Coast Road, for Ben Shard, it had become a matter of survival. He was mopping-up odd pockets of resistance here and there, waiting for the monsoon season to end. Looking forward to a bit of the respite and luxury he’d enjoyed, before this damned war started.

The cosy weekend trips to the Mayfair club; days at the races and the relatively undemanding task, of running the family estates, were a distant memory. He was more than ready to wave goodbye to the steamy jungle heat and the blasted mosquitoes.

Nevertheless, it would be a few more weeks before they could get a kite in the air again. The constant rain had turned the jungle strip into a soggy ooze of sludge. One slight error and a plane could slide off the metal grids that comprised a makeshift runway. The undercarriage could sink in and snap off, like an overripe carrot. Months had gone by since the rains started.  In truth it was no more than a few weeks, though no one was sure how long it might last.

Ben Shard lay on the bunk in the tiny foxhole, mulling things over, wondering how they were getting-on back at the Chursleigh Estate. While the therapeutic effect of rain; drumming on the tarpaulin, nudged him to the Land of Nod. He felt so helpless lying around day after day; knowing the war had all but ended, waiting for the incessant downpour to stop.

Things back home would need attention by now. For one thing, the old boy hadn’t been so good in many a day.  If the shortwave broadcasts of the BBC were anything to go by Allied Forces were advancing rapidly across Europe. It shouldn’t be so long before it was all over.

Of course the Japs might not take a lot of notice at what was happening in Europe and quite likely they’d need to be convinced separately. The only thing of certainty for Ben Shard was spending time sitting things out. Uncertainty prevailed without reason or rhyme though, a few minutes later, explosions echoed in his ears.

More Jap movements were happening and it wasn’t so far away, close at hand he figured. This particular outstation appeared to be slap-bang in the middle of the Japanese army escape route. Every retreating company therefore, felt obliged to fight their way through it to wipe it off the map.

He rolled off the bunk and scrambled across to the slanted slats that served as a window, for signs he might be surrounded. The sound of a machine gun raking the undergrowth came to his ears; at least Pinky was on the ball. Pinky White kept watch over the kites hidden beneath their camouflage netting from a hideout in the jungle canopy. The sound of gunfire crashed back and forth and this particular bunch of ‘Nips’ seemed more determined. More often they legged it into the jungle, when they realised somebody had the drop on them from a height.

Wing Commander Shard dragged himself across the dugout on his belly to look out across the clearing, but even so it wasn’t too clear who was winning. Suddenly a dull oval shaped object crashed against the partly open door and rolled towards him across the floor. He realised immediately what it was and dived to slam the door in an effort to push it out of the dugout. It was probably the door that saved him from serious injury as the grenade exploded. Even so a day or so came and went, before he came round.

Not much was left of the base and the Japs had left. They must have decided he was dead, taken what they needed and gone on their way. He was conscious of a warm sticky feeling at the base of his neck; an excruciating pain too, whenever he tried to move his head. He raised a hand to feel a jagged splinter of wood protruding from his neck, level with his shoulder. It must have been the reason he was still alive and the Japs had left him for dead. There was a lot of dried blood around him where he lay and he must have a fair bit. Inching slowly across the duckboard floor of the dugout, he pulled himself up onto the bunk until he was in a sitting position n.

Grasping the end of the splinter, he gritted his teeth and tugged. It came out cleanly accompanied by a spurt of blood. It was probably the splinter that had staunched the flow and stopped him bleeding to death. He reached gingerly into his pocket; searching for a handkerchief and holding it to his neck, he tottered to his feet. Scrambling gingerly out of the dugout, he had looked around for any other sign of life.

There had to be a first aid kit about the base somewhere, for he needed a bandage to bind the handkerchief into place and staunch the wound in his neck. He had no way of knowing how long he had lain in the dugout, but everywhere was deserted. He wandered round the jungle base to weigh-up what was left. Everything of consequence appeared to have been wrecked by the retreating Japs. Pinky and the rest of the unit were goners and it looked like he was on his own. He made his way towards the radio shack to see if anything still worked. If not he’d need to cobble something together and send out an SOS. The sound of voices echoed down the jungle track and he was about to leap out and shout, ‘over here’, when he realised the jabbering was Jap and dived back swiftly into the undergrowth.

It was another damned party of Japs. They rooted around the base for a while making certain it was deserted and he had no option but to go deeper into the jungle. They posted lookouts at each end of the clearing as if they intended to settle down