Last Flight from Ardeley

By Peter Alexander

This is a factually based story about a German woman, Helle Koch, who suddenly arrives at Ardeley, a village deep in the midst of Norfolk on a mission to find the remains of her GrandFather, Luftwaffe Oberleutnant Erich Koch who allegedly crashed his ME160 nearby in April 1943. However no record nor evidence exists whatsoever of his demise.
Here she meets Richard Manners a recently retired British Airways long haul pilot who has recently bought a cottage close to Royal Airforce Station Ardeley now a totally abandoned and rather sinister World War 2 airfield. A romantic relationship develops between them. Mysterious neighbours, an old and highly reticent villager as well as a phantom RAF Officer combine to increase the tension to further dramatic levels. Now supported by a cast of paranormal academics drawn from the University of East Anglia (UEA) by the events at Ardeley including an American sensitive, Dr Polly Brown and Prof Des Harris Head of Paranormal Studies at the UEA.
In Helle’s pursuit of the truth she meets with Police and later Home Office obstinacy but in DS Wilson she finds empathy but his position forces him to secretly work on the case. As they progress towards the truth emergent violent evil forces make themselves known in the cottage as well as the airfield environs.
Erich Koch’s demise is discovered and a mysterious invitation to a strange coastal hotel provides the team with closure and so contriving a deadly battle between good and evil. The fight for good is led by an enigmatic lapsed priest who heads up a highly secretive international operation to ultimately eliminate Satan and his earthly consorts.
The end of the book realises the truth behind the demise of Erich Koch, the ostensible death of one of the combatants and the great power of love that governs us all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Alexander
• Release date: Jan 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739849917

Book preview

LFFA_BCover.jpg

Copyright © Peter Alexander in 2021

Published by WayToGo Publishing

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-7398499-0-0

eBook ISBN-13: 978-1-7398499-1-7

Printed in the United Kingdom

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Cover design and layout by www.spiffingcovers.com

Contents

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Epilogue

Author’s Note

Whilst this is a largely fictitious story, some of the events depicted in this book are factually based. The locations, dates, details and the names of the characters have been changed to preserve the integrity of those good people and the organisations that they then represented.

This story was inspired by and dedicated to Flight Lieutenant Philip Marriott DSM RAFVR and to all those from Bomber Command who never came back.

Peter Alexander

Cambridge July 2020

Chapter 1

Richard Manners hadn’t planned to be doing this – driving his Jag through deepest East Anglia, looking out and about for the back of beyond. No, he had officially retired from British Airways, and had had some admittedly exciting but half-baked idea about going to spend some serious time in Canada (Vancouver to be exact – a place that had always appealed) to angle for fighting fish, drink cold beer and partake of good North American wine, do some sailing too and importantly find time to start to write that book. Then an abrupt change of mind came about – exactly why, he wasn’t sure – thinking that wandering around County Kerry and Southern Ireland, looking up his antecedents would be a better idea. This last plan wasn’t so far from the ridiculous since he was riddled with Irish blood but most of his Irish antecedents, as a far as he could ascertain, were either dead or lost – it was possibly a venture too far. But still, just wandering around the west of Ireland had really appealed.

Such plans as these and others too had been stimulated by his recent separation from Jane, his wife of 30 years, coming as it did with his recent retirement. But about the conclusion of their marriage, yes, it was a marital end – true – but amicable as befitting two middle-aged people who still had the time, a bit of money and importantly their health to dip into their bucket list and so were able to do their own thing whilst they could. It was good too that both sons, Ryan and James had remained indifferent to the separation, with little interference and, to both parent’s astonishment, even some apparent blessing.

All that was six months ago and now here he was alone, a sixty-something bloke driving his Jaguar XF down some small country road somewhere well to the north of Norwich. The radio signal, driven by some local radio station, had started to break down some miles back and had got a lot worse since. This became doubly annoying as the mangled sounds of a favourite song, namely America’s ‘A horse with no name’ struggled to survive over the loud radio crackle. The song suited, particularly the lyrics, being that here he was driving his Jag into the deepest and widest expanse of the Anglian Fens. But the interference quickly became victorious and he thumped the off-switch in mild petulance. It was a nice early October afternoon, little clouds allowed the sun virtually free rein and road conditions were good despite the narrowness of the plain lanes. The small trees, still very leafy, often gave way to terrific views of the local countryside, mostly flat Fens with some small straight rivers and fields full of fat sugar beets and early, mostly unloved, sprouts destined for the Christmas table. Little trees and even smaller hedgerows lined the road, many bent backwards by the prevailing easterly winds. Gangs of juvenile, petulant crows occasionally rose up into the air, taking advantage of the occasional gusty wind; a few others sat perched on roadside walls and gates, others on the trees eyeing Richard indifferently but he passed them by without so much as a glance in their direction.

He occasionally mustered a peek at his satnav but paid equally if not slightly more attention to the aged country signposts that loomed into view from time to time. There was for him that inner battle as to whether the satnav was waffling along on a track of its own, choosing to pick a ridiculously out-of-the-way scenic route, which in turn argued with his deeply held and rather silly suspicion that some road signs had been uprooted by local yobs who had mischievously turned them all in the other direction.

Certainly, no signpost he had encountered had wholly agreed with his satnav, but he sensed that between them both he was going in the right direction, albeit consuming far more diesel than was necessary. As they had many, many times before, his thoughts then turned to why there was so little to account for the peculiar anticipation of – or perhaps better said this attraction to – a place called Ardeley. It was as if he was being drawn to the location by some sort of magnetic attraction, to which could, as far as Manners was concerned, have equally been somewhere in the Lake District.

He had to put it down to the fact that this was actually a great adventure, with little impact on his time and money, but if he had a sixth sense and even paid any attention to it then maybe he might have wished that the local yobs had indeed vandalised the signs and so caused him to lose direction and permanently abandon this impractical and seemingly senseless vocation. That the attractions of West Canada and Ireland had been rejected for some godforsaken property in East Anglia had been lost on almost everyone he knew. But it was to be, and all were quite unable to see the mixture of events that would change a man in his later middle age so completely. And so almost from the start, events were gently unfolding around him.

Weak thoughts continued to wander around his head as he drove through the occasional lengthy and sometimes terribly small roads; he wasn’t too far it seemed from his destination, just a mile or so from a village called Ardeley. It had been strangely difficult to talk to his family and friends about the planned destination, The Bell House, particularly once it was understood that he was serious. Jane had just shaken her head in that maddening way of hers and one of his sons, James, thought he had lost it completely when he told him of his plans. They had all thought incorrectly that a finca in Spain or a small chateau in the Dordogne was where he would likely end up.

Manners had first come across the place whilst waiting at the dentist in his small town in Hertfordshire. The wait was, as per usual, a long one but there were the usual customary mags to read and given the overlong wait, he had got stuck into one of them called The East Anglian Country Life. He had in the space of ten minutes been completely drawn to a small but detailed advertisement featuring a cottage which would have totally stretched his budget, but it had quite grabbed his attention. There was nothing obviously special about the place, there was virtually no garden, three bedrooms, one very small, and a barn which in estate agent speak could offer great potential as a workplace, possibly more.

The asking price was very high – close to ridiculous – which excited Manners into thinking that there was much more to this place than met the eye. There existed an undoubted mesmerising appeal which ended up with him tearing out the page in question and stuffing it into his jacket pocket, much to the later annoyance of the dental receptionist. That was three weeks ago and now he was driving to Ardeley to meet a chap called Starr from the estate agency involved. He was now only a matter of minutes away.

It was getting a little late but he was nearly there, that much was obvious; even the satnav and the road signs agreed. He arrived at Ardeley, at just after six. It was indeed a very small village and could not have been confused with anything else other than an old and not too attractive hamlet.

The main road which one might have kindly called the ‘High Street’ was about, he guessed, two or maybe three hundred yards long. It seemed in definite need of repair as he conjured up small clouds of dust which followed him as he travelled slowly along. It was just a little wider than the erstwhile country kind and would just about accommodate – tightly mind, if the need arose – several vehicles going down the road at the same time but in different directions. It clearly lacked shops; a dilapidated dirty looking Shell petrol station appeared on the right, next to what might have been once a tea shop but was now only a sad memory of what had been. Next came a small shop selling newspapers, the only thing that looked as if it was commercially alive. After a quick second glance by Manners, he noticed that it also deputised as the village post office, at least according to a sorry looking sign next to the front door. All of these were nestled in between clumps of small, unremarkable, old dwellings. Manners doubted that there were more than ten houses. Not even a curtain twitched, nor pedestrian seen. For a second, Manners thought he had stumbled into a bygone age where ploughmen rather than tractors might have been at large.

He had been told to go the northern end of the village, some two or three hundred yards away which he did. He arrived to see a suited middle-aged man leaning against an Audi, tapping furiously on his Galaxy. Seeing Manners arrive he paused, stuffed the mobile phone into his top pocket then, sensing his prospect had come into view, parked and exited his car.

Hello there, it’s Mr Manners, yes? I’m George Starr.

Manners found it difficult to ignore the grateful element in Starr’s voice, probably belying countless numbers of ‘no shows’ during his years in real estate. He wasn’t a tall man, at least an inch or two shorter than Manners who was a good six feet in his socks. He had a crop of salt and pepper hair slicked back and a thin grey moustache housed over the upper lip; he sported the trusted estate agents’ suit, waistcoat and pinstripe although this one had seen a good number of years, Manners couldn’t help observe. His face told of someone who hadn’t seen the last of a few gins or perhaps warming cognacs to stave off a typical Fen winter.

Good journey down? Starr enquired in his strong East Anglian brogue.

Manners nodded and was about to add something to his answer, but Starr departed, doggedly intent on completing the business in hand. Manners followed him towards the cottage gate but Starr just seconds later abruptly stopped.

Not much of a front, I’m afraid. In fact, there’s nothing at all, he said waving a large hand around in an honest appreciation of what was before them.

Manners was bound to agree. There was hardly room for a rose bush let alone a cabbage patch. It allowed Manners however to inspect the cottage at close quarters. It could not be described as the chocolate box variety, it being more oblong than square and totally devoid of features that might liken it to the description ‘quaint’. The whitish brickwork was solid enough, it had however obviously suffered the wrath of the East Anglian elements over its many years, Manners guessing that the property was certainly a hundred and fifty years old, probably a lot more. The large strong looking wooden front door which was no more than a yard from the pavement might have been white at one point but had now achieved a brownish hue, this was to the right of one large window and two smaller windows on the other. They were all uncurtained except some brief nets to the front windows upstairs.

Manners saw no need to say anything about the absence of a front garden so just nodded. Starr took this as his cue to continue, and they both moved accordingly towards the front door. Starr, with surprising alacrity, produced a large key which he plunged into the keyhole. Despite its age, the door surrendered easily, apart from a creak or two, and in they both went.

The sight that greeted Manners was totally unexpected. The cottage might have been a dwelling place in recent times but was, to all intents and purposes, no more than a poorly disguised and aged public house. The bar counter was still in place, poorly masquerading as a sort of large tabletop, and the paved floor was marked with deep indentations, a testimonial to the many past and ancient drinkers that had frequently meandered throughout the place.

Aha! laughed Starr weakly. Seeing Manners’ look of amusement and wishing to pre-empt a potential objection, he quickly added, Yes, yes it was a pub for a great many years. The pub was called… erm… Here he looked at the small file he was carrying and quickly turned over several pages. Ah, yes here we are. The Bell, he announced as if it was the critical point of sale.

I see, answered Manners looking around. There was certainly something about the place which strangely grabbed at him. He looked around again and again, trying to seek some sort of solution to this attraction, but nothing obvious existed which came even close to the cause of his peculiar interest. Starr was anxious to continue his tour and Manners had no option other than to follow. Starr waved a cursory arm towards what might be described as the kitchen muttering in passing that there was plenty of space ‘for creative development’.

They sped on to another reception room which Manners surmised was possibly the lounge bar but nothing from Starr was to confirm that assumption. Not so much as a bar counter but a kind of large opening built into the wall from which mine host could dispense beer and possibly harder liquor at higher prices. The room itself was quite square and a little smaller than the main room. It would do very well as extra space to any kitchen redevelopment.

This the lounge bar? persisted Manners, looking towards Starr but the man either didn’t know or cared even less.

There’s three rooms upstairs, large bedrooms that is apart from the central one, could be a single room possibly a study, we’ll take a look shortly, he continued. But then he went quiet in the interim, probably because the man had arrived at that point when it was difficult to hide the fact that there was no upstairs bathroom and WC. He turned back to the main room clutching his file for comfort. He turned another page.

Oh, of course, there’s the bathroom and a WC somewhere here, stated Starr with misplaced confidence. This prompted another search through his papers but only resulted in a shake of the head. Manners couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that there was usually a close correlation between drinkers of beer and its likely consequence, naturally a need for those that have to go to go very locally and sometimes quickly. Starr must have unconsciously heeded this point and marched to a nearby brown door, in a corner behind the bar which had previously gone unnoticed. He opened it quickly and they entered.

Manners saw what might be unkindly and generally referred to as a latrine. Not much had changed from what it might have been when frequented all those years ago by its commercial patrons. But the facilities seemed tidy if not quite clean and fit for basic service. An enamel bath had been added to the resources at some time in the past; it seemed ridiculously out of place and looked to Manners like it hadn’t been frequently used either, given its discoloured and quite decrepit state as well as the abnormally large number of long dead and emaciated spiders that had accumulated there. There was an off-white Shanks toilet in the corner; it needed apparent attention and was about as much as Manners could come to terms with. That and the bath equalled what might be regarded as the most rudimentary inventory of what a bathroom might contain.

The tour upstairs was again unremarkable and rather too quick for Manners’ liking as his host sped about the place. It seemed to Manners that Starr had gone up a gear or two in the presentation of the upstairs part of the house. But there again Manners reasoned there was very little to really take in except that two rooms were very big, the other quite small. They had arrived back at their start point in only a few minutes, the so-called public bar. Starr had by now resumed his kind of deadpan expression of one resigned to yet another no sale, yet there was a hint of nervousness too. He was breathing a little heavily, his slightly agitated style suggesting some apprehension. Manners sensed that there existed an aspect of uneasiness exhibited by the man but this could easily be explained by the agent desperately wanting to sell the property and get it off the books. Starr made for the door, but it was at this point that Manners saw the clock. It was, to be exact, a grandfather clock and stood imperiously tucked in between the two windows to the left of the door.

It was a long case clock, tall and freestanding at almost seven feet. Manners, who knew a thing or two about clocks, saw that it was pendulum driven and would have been very accurate in its heyday but alas from where Manners was standing it had stopped working and for how long, he could only guess. He stared at the object. It had a compelling quality not unlike a classy yacht anchored in a swamp.

Starr had been clearly waiting, even hoping for some sort of positive facial response from his prospect. Manners’ reaction to the clock was what he sought.

Ah, yes the clock Mr Manners, been here for a long time, well as long I can remember. He added, Not worth anything if that’s what you’re thinking. But it adds something to the property, don’t you think?

Yes, admitted Manners honestly. True but it’s worth very little, I am surprised that no one has, shall we say, removed it in the interim.

It doesn’t work, it’s never worked as far as I can see. Well, since I’ve been involved and that’s been a while, not that I’m the regular agent for this property he sighed. The statement begged the question.

So how long has the property been on the market then? asked Manners, walking over to the object. He knelt down and opened the front of the unit. He was quite taken aback by what he saw, so much so that Starr reacted to his condition.

You OK, Mr Manners?

Yes, yes I’m good. It’s just that the clock parts look new to me, it looks as if it’s in perfect working order but it’s quite true it isn’t working! I’ve just moved the pendulums, someone’s recently wound it up but still it’s quite dead. There’s no good reason why it shouldn’t work, after all it’s only mechanical, he complained. Manners was clearly quite perplexed.

Starr cleared his throat and looked again at his papers and at his watch. The property has been on our books for a number of years, he answered, but quickly added, There’s nothing substantially wrong with it of course. It’s a fine property, stoutly built. He looked up at Manners and edged closer. His voice dropped an octave, perhaps two.

The property passed to the daughter Enid on her father’s passing, I believe. She has totally ignored our advice on the valuation – dreamt up one of her own which is why it’s been on our books for so long.

Starr put his papers on the bar counter and shoved his right hand into his pocket, pulled out a large handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. She won’t even listen to anything that is close to her valuation, he added morosely. And how many idiots are there out there wanting to buy at the asking amount?

Manners was mostly engrossed in the grandfather clock with its parts seemingly in full working order. He had spent a large part of his leisure time repairing clocks of all shapes and sizes so knew that in this chap there was an enigma. He looked away from the clock.

Well, yes the property’s very overpriced in my view, stated Manners looking around. There’s a lot of work to be done, some of it cosmetic I grant you, but there’s no bathroom upstairs, the one down here is, well, not fit for purpose and there are other things that need doing, the kitchen for example. No one’s going to pay £490k. Well certainly not me There was clearly some frustration in his voice.

The early evening light was quickly departing from the room which only added to the general gloom slowly descending on them both. Starr coughed in the ‘clearing one’s throat’ sort of way and again made for the door. He was clearly anxious to leave.

Well Mr Manners, where are we going with this? he asked pointedly as he began to exit the property.

Humm, responded Manners, somewhat surprised at the man’s candour. Well, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested but my view of the property value is miles away from the seller’s, so is there any point?

Nothing ventured nothing gained, offered Starr, pulling a pen out of his top pocket in expectation of an offer. It was quite at that moment that a small but clear sound came swiftly to Manners’ attention. It sounded much like a low snarl, or was it a growl seemingly coming from the upper part of the house. Manners sharply cocked his head – a short but profound silence ensued, only broken by the sigh of a rising Fen wind.

Did you hear that, Starr? asked Manners pointedly. I’m sure it came from upstairs.

Starr looked up from his folder, a picture of total disinterest. Wind, I’m sure, it fair comes off the coast. Something you’ll have to get used to, Mr Manners, Starr sighed Manners faintly doubted that it was the cause, but his hearing wasn’t quite as good as it used to be. So, he had to accept that it was the wind which had, it was true, heightened appreciatively and couldn’t be ruled out. Still, it was a strange sound and left Manners just a little bit disturbed.

Manners looked for Starr, who by this time had left the property and was standing on the road outside, pen in one hand, Galaxy in the other. Manners, sensing that Starr’s tour had ended, took a final look around the inside of the property. His eyes alighted on the clock again. There was no doubt that it had a strange, almost spiritual attraction and it frankly bothered him.

Give me a minute, if you will. He didn’t wait for Starr to agree and walked out of the property away from the agent, stopping about ten yards away facing the front door on the opposite side of the road next to some large bushes.

Whilst the place wasn’t quaint, he reasoned, it did have bloody good potential and to be honest didn’t need much structural work doing to it to enable more than reasonable habitation. Manners had also noticed a largish construction to the rear of the place. It turned out to be a very old barn which looked very fragile and useless to any of his requirements. He had taken a quick but cautious look inside which was attended by a comment from Starr that it might allow for some future expansion. Manners made no comment, there was already a decent sum of money necessary to bring the place up to standard, let alone the destruction of a barn. Manners had already arrived at the maths yes, some substantial money had to be spent so it was vital that the sale price was substantially negotiable downwards! He was wrestling with these thoughts when Starr, who was loitering in the road near the front door, called him, Galaxy again in hand. Manners left the building and walked towards him.

Want to think about it some more, Mr Manners? Starr had somewhere else to go, obviously.

Yes, yes, I will, was the grateful response. Manners turned to look left at where the road – for want of a better name – carried on up into the countryside.

Is there much traffic? Manners nodded towards the track. Starr shook his head and so Manners continued. So where does this road go?

Starr joined Manners in staring up at the road which transformed itself as it stretched off into the distance, one maybe two hundred yards into a very rustic track. There was a copse to the left which hid the way forward since there was a bend to the left of the track.

It leads to the old RAF station, answered Starr briskly. And nowhere else. There was a sort of finality in his words.

Eh? retorted Manner. What, abandoned, you mean, as in the Second World War?

Yes, bombers I believe. RAF Barrington, although I think its commonly known as RAF Ardeley in these parts. There’s not much I can add really except that it’s been deserted for a very long time.

Oh, really. An old airfield, bombers you say? Manners was clearly intrigued.

You going to make an offer, then? Starr at the ready had his pen in his hand again.

Manners was about to answer when a movement caught his eye. Yes, there it was – about a good hundred yards down the tracked road. It was a man wearing some sort of uniform, RAF he guessed. The airman was standing impassively in the middle of the road, arms down by his side. He seemed to be staring down the road at the two of them. It was too far away to tell much more.

I thought you said the base was deserted? Manners asked.

It is, stated Starr stoutly. There’s nothing doing…

Well who’s that then? asked Manners, turning back to the road pointing to the airman.

Starr turned around and looked down the road.

Starr stared in the direction of Manners’ raised arm. No, sorry Mr Manners, there’s nothing there that I can see.

Manners stared and then squinted at the spot where the airman had been. Starr was right, there was no one there, yet seconds ago someone was standing there. He could hardly have disappeared so quickly.

The mystery however was seemingly lost on Starr.

I hate to push you Mr Manners. His tone was verging on pressing but still polite. I do need to be back in the office.

I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s alright. Manners was still looking down the road. Starr gave Manners a look which suggested he’d just been given the bum’s rush.

Cheerio, Mr Manners, I’ll call you then tomorrow then. And off he went, to shortly disappear up the street and back to his office in Barrington. Manners watched him go and then returned his gaze to the property. He stood there for a few moments, his thoughts not entirely to do with arriving at a valuation but more to do with a perfectly good clock that didn’t work and an apparently bashful airman wholly adept at vanishing at a second’s notice. Then he remembered the noise he heard which, to be truthful, was very likely as Starr had said to be the wind. As he turned to go, he caught sight of a sudden movement at the upper right-hand window, one of the old curtains, perhaps, had appeared to move. It had probably been caught in a draught but bloody stupid to leave a window or something open somewhere even half open. He would advise Starr in the morning.

Manners had been told of a reasonably priced inn not too far from Ardeley which ran to a good steak and it was here that he started the end of his evening. The inn’s dining room suggested that sort of old-fashioned ambience that offered a combination of the age of fine dining with good country fare. Being as he virtually dined alone that evening, his waitress Anya was quite attentive but unfortunately her English was poor. But Manners had reasoned, whilst occasionally studying the girl in between courses, that it was her other qualities that had appealed to mine host rather than her grasp of English.

The sirloin steak didn’t quite live up to his expectations, but the cheese board did, and it was whilst he was digging again into a lump of stilton that he saw the picture on the wall directly in front of him. It wasn’t, to be accurate a picture, but a large aerial photograph, and on closer inspection Manners saw that it was to do with an airfield, RAF Barrington it said to be exact.

Manners saw that it was a class A airfield with three converging strips, to take account mostly of the prevailing wind directions. His experienced estimate told him that the photograph had been taken from no more than three thousand feet and it had in clear detail the runways, taxiways and hangars. He had by now walked over to the wall and saw that it had been taken in November 1948.

Unbeknown to Manners, an elderly man sitting in the bar was looking at him quizzically. He shouted at Manners across the room.

That there’s photos of Barrington airfield, it’s right next to Ardeley although why they called it after Barrington only God knows.

The old boy could have been at least 80, thought Manners, but his bright eyes, head of grey hair and strong voice suggested a slightly earlier age. The speaker slowly got to his feet, picked his tankard up and wandered over to where Manners was standing. He lost no time in explanations.

Was just a lad here when they started on the place, later it became busy, bloody noisy too. My old man had a farm just there, part of it became the airfield. The old boy pointed to a lower part of the photograph. We lived directly in the landing path, sometimes they missed our chimney by inches. He looked at his nearly empty glass. Well, seemed like that to us.

Manners knew a cadge when he saw one but still he was interested to know more.

Let me get you this, he offered.

The man did not need to be asked twice and thrust his tankard into Manners’ hand. Manners returned with glass refilled.

Decent of you, erm, Mr er…

Manners, returned his provider.

There was a moment of confusion, but the old boy had a story to tell. Yes, the place has been a long time gone as has many a young man based there too. He shook his head slowly. Young they were, just a bit older than me, I didn’t really know any of ’em to speak to but still many never came back. I remember afore I was called up, some nights were bad because of the aircraft they lost. You could always tell.

It’s not used at all, anymore? asked Manners, his mind still thinking about the airman seen earlier.

Oh no sir, my old man farmed up that way and so did I after him. It was all gone by ’46, just the hangars, control tower an’ the runways of course. There were a few landings after that they all but stopped. Mind you, the Ministry held on to it for ages, the buggers told us first that it was ’cos of the cold war, then Korea. Then there was some hush-hush stuff involving rockets and the suchlike, although I never saw nothin’. He took a large swig from his tankard. He quickly wiped his hand across his mouth and continued, My old man had owned a parcel of the airfield land, passed it to me so I was able to carry on working the place. He’d picked away over the years at the eastern end and gained enough good ground to make it worth his while. The so-called authorities didn’t like it much and told him and then me to bugger off more times than I’ve had hot dinners, but I put them in their place. It wasn’t until ’66 that hey let it finally go. That’s why the airfield is in such good nick. Then old man Vernon bought it, the bloody lot, and kicked us out.

Vernon? repeated Manners.

Yes, him. He was one of the COs here as I understand it during the war. Came back afterwards all guns blazing, offered us a pittance for what we had and sadly my old man took the money. Can’t blame him, I suppose. Perce looked up at the aerial photo.

Manners had listened to this tale of woe silently and after a decent moment moved the conversation forward.

Still strange though, muttered Manners.

Eh, what’s that you said? asked the old boy, his bushy eyebrows furrowing.

I saw an airman there this afternoon, well not actually on the airfield but on the road leading up to it.

Ah, well that’s the road from The Bell pub and that’ll be the Air Cadets from some University hereabouts. They use the place for gliding and the suchlike. They take it very seriously, he added, nodding his head again.

Ah, retorted Manners brightly. Yes, he did look quite young although I couldn’t really make him out too much.

They’re always fooling around up there, sometimes in the summer the sky’s full of their gliders. No engines see, not like the old bombers and not as noisy of course, chuckled the old ’un. He was draining his glass again which Manners saw as a useful point to return to his cheese board. The old boy wandered over to the bar in the certain knowledge that, as far as Manners was concerned, his free gratis ale had ended.

Manners had paid his dinner bill and was just about to go to his room when a thought struck him. He went back to the photograph and stared at it intently. Yes, there it was, tucked into the left-hand corner almost out of shot, The Bell public house beckoned, a piece of history. It was at that moment that Richard Manners decided to make a ridiculous offer for the place.

Chapter 2

Manners watched on as the Fiesta quickly disappeared down the street. It was his son Ryan driving really too fast, given the nature of the so-called ‘High Street’, with his partner Adele and Jane as well, leaving him for the drive back to Cambridge. It was Sunday, the day after he had taken the keys, and getting late and they had their jobs, things to do tomorrow. He knew that some of them had quietly shaken their heads about the place but still they had been very willing and helpful. They had set him up with all of life’s necessities which mercifully included a double bed with fresh bed linen, as well as some food stocks which included several decent bottles of Argentinian Malbec and some excellent cognac, his only happy companions for this and some other nights. Until he was able to start to get things together. He was left with his younger son James who had elected to sort the kitchen out and was busy doing exactly that.

He had indeed made a desultory offer for The Bell and was quite startled, given what he had been previously told, when Starr excitedly called him and told him that whilst his offer had been summarily rejected, the owner had hinted at a receptive fresh offer. Manners didn’t dither but upped it accordingly, not by that much but by a little more than he had wanted to. To his complete astonishment and Starr’s too the new offer was accepted. That was September and now it was the first week of November, just over five weeks later as befits a cash buyer. The surveyor’s report was largely benign but not without a few grumbles mainly to do with ‘weathering’ and the effects of that on the roof and attic but since it came with an overall thumbs-up it mattered little to Manners.

A crash startled him momentarily, it came from what had been designated his new kitchen. He looked up and saw the embarrassed face of James poking around the door.

I hope that you are not going to be entertaining soon, Dad, he said bashfully. I can’t be sure but there’s just about enough crockery left for a romantic dinner for two but anymore… I would book a table at some restaurant.

Manners went into the kitchen. James wasn’t wrong, it was a total crockery disaster. There were bits of plates everywhere. Manners shrugged, it was stuff that had been around for many years and he would be able to replace it anyway.

Sorry, Dad, James muttered remorsefully as he looked at his watch. Look, I should be on my way, I have to be back at halls by six this evening, meeting some mates. You know, uni stuff.

Manners looked at his watch. It was already gone past five and he didn’t want his son to leave late.

Thanks so much for your help, James, he said genuinely. You’ve been really great.

No probs, Dad. I’ll be down regularly to see you how you’re getting on. I’m not that far away. Erm, sorry about the crockery disaster. Sorry to leave you in such a mess.

Manners shrugged. In fact the crockery he had been gifted was old and hadn’t been used for a long time and he didn’t like it but bless her Jane had thought about potential future needs rather than throw it away.

Manners walked with him to his VW Beetle parked across the road. As they walked towards the car, Manners suddenly stopped. There he was once again – the figure of the airman on the airfield road – and despite the deepening gloom, James followed his gaze.

They’re at it late, commented Manners. It’s that Air Cadet officer again, I can’t see why they would want to be gliding so late. It will be totally dark soon.

James turned to see what Manners had seen but could only scan the area; he saw nothing that might have met his dad’s vision.

I see nothing from where I’m standing and besides you should know better, there’s little or no gliding at this time of year.

James poked his hand up at the gloomy sky as if to prove his point. Anyway I must be off, thanks Dad, I’ll be down again shortly. Ciao.

Oh, was all Manners could say. He looked away from his son back to where the airman had been but just like before he was gone. There was no time to say anything further since his son was in the car and seemingly anxious to be on his way. James was quite right, no one really glided at this time of year and Manners knew that too. This and the sighting again in the same place slightly agitated Manners and it was when he was about to clear the remaining mess in the kitchen that it occurred to him exactly what it was. The airman had moved closer down the track and nearer to the cottage which he found to be naturally disquieting.

It was a week later, and Manners was happy with the progress he had made. True, he wasn’t by any standards a handyman, but he had achieved a lot of satisfaction in the way things had fallen into place. It was also true what a lick of paint and the application of elbow grease could do – in places it wasn’t short of miraculous. He’d also worked hard on finding a builder who could sort out the things he wanted doing. Very fortunately there was local family building outfit in Barrington who had satisfied his requirements and were importantly happy to start straight away.

Despite all these best endeavours his sleep was a little restless, his mind given over probably to the excitement he felt as he thought about his plans for The Bell’s future. He was naturally a good sleeper, as befits a long-haul retired BA pilot after years of snatching forty winks here and there in airfields, sometimes in terribly undesirable places. A series of late night and sometimes terrific thunderstorms rattled the house and charged through the Fens and did nothing for his slumbers.

The only negative arising from his efforts was the clock which continued to defy all of his efforts. He had given up on it after he had taken the thing mostly apart, checked everything and pronounced it entirely serviceable and then put it back together. But it still failed to minister to his practised tender loving care.

Today, he had given himself some time off from his labours and went to do what he had wanted to do from day one – that is to take a turn in his car around the airfield. The absence of any rain, despite the night’s electric storms in what was turning out to be a lengthy Indian summer, stirred up clouds of dust as he drove carefully down the track towards the old RAF station. It was exactly as he imagined, a desolate, totally abandoned and sad place which, whilst once of great strategic importance, was now consigned to a quiet and now long forgotten time and part of England when for some, regular death was part and parcel of daily existence.

The airfield grass had considerably thickened over time and had, where it could, crept over the concrete. The perimeter track was not in ‘surprisingly good nick’ at all, as quoted by the old boy at the inn, and Manners’ drive was near perilous as the holes and wholesale disintegration of the perimeter track threatened his Jag and his bad back as well.

But the airfield as a whole had somehow maintained its independent dignity and was as Manners quickly found, a place of unusual quietude, not dissimilar to that of an established war memorial to those that had been lost in similar ways with sad death and unfathomable loss. He saw no wildlife at all, no birds and no animals – this was slightly disconcerting since he had experienced the same feelings when only for a few minutes spent at Belsen-Bergen concentration camp. He couldn’t understand why this sensation should so strongly prevail here at Ardeley.

He passed the old red brooding brick control tower, more now the repository of ivy and creeping foliage but still standing old and proud in the way that it cast its conferred custody over the airfield. Three type T2 hangars still stood erect and visibly intact within the apron, rusty now and possibly dangerous to anyone attempting any entry, thought Manners. He was very tempted to stop and see whether a forgotten Wimpy or two were still hidden within its corroded structures. But he gave way to likely health and safety concerns and drove on. At last he came to the western end of the runway and here, Manners was bound to agree, the concrete as it stretched out as far as he could see was a great improvement.

So, here he was, as an ex British Airways long-haul captain, contemplating the view, not now from the height of a cosy cockpit of his 747, with its four great engines thunderingly ready for the off. But from the snug luxury of his Jag, Manners knew he couldn’t even begin to tap in or even try to imagine those feelings of young airmen, ready, able and willing to take the war to Germany. He was suddenly emotionally overwhelmed by the thought of his own sons had they lived in those times; it seemed at that moment that their participation in this murderous exercise was unthinkable, just young men and not long out of school. They were proud to call themselves airmen aboard planes, many of which would not be coming back.

He knew that there was no possible comparison as to what those young men were about to face, time and time again. The survival goal was, he remembered, thirty-two missions and if they managed that there was the likelihood of more later. They flew what were by comparison tin lizzies, loaded up to the hilt with high explosives, and not with the flying tools and devices that are part and parcel of today’s aircraft. Once again Manners shook his head at what they did with stoicism and sometimes dash.

He tried hard to visualise their fears and perhaps the exhilaration too of young men about to do their duty over Germany. Right here they would be waiting in line ready for the green ‘very’ light that usually signalled them to go, every one of them knowing but possibly unthinkingly too that it was very likely that this was a one-way ticket. The best that they could hope for was a POW camp and that too wasn’t a bed of roses.

Overtaken by the moment, Manners put his foot down and the Jag leapt forward, the three-litre engine grateful at last to be given the kind of freedom not to be found in public places. His release from flying three years ago became acutely evident as the thrill of the speed and ultimately that rise towards the heavens became real again. As the speed quickly increased, Manners found that all that glitters wasn’t gold as there were indeed severe shortcomings in the runway too. It was nothing like as bad as the perimeter track, the occasional break-up of the airstrip prevented a fast drive and so he did no more than drive sensibly to the end where he stopped, a little breathless at the exhilaration.

It was whilst he was quickly reversing to avoid a bad pothole that