IN THE WIND: The Loves and Adventures of Henri Watson

By Bruce W Walker

Complicated romantic entanglements, calculating women, intriguing mystery and breathtaking excitements; it’s all here in Bruce Walker’s latest page-turning adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Apr 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9798369495780

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Copyright © 2024 by Bruce W Walker.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/01/2024

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Part I

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Part II

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Epilogue

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Professor Stephen Marcus’ scholarly work The Other Victorians provided early inspiration for this story.

My thanks to our friend John Graf who first read an early draft of the story and suggested that it was publishable. Thanks also to my friend Peter Hedges who made use of his Masters Degree in English Literature giving useful suggestions and advice as well as being enthusiastic that the story should be published. Thanks are also due to my English teaching daughter Jane who wrote the blurb. Lastly thanks to Cynthia, my wife of many years, for her efforts in finding mistakes and making suggestions to improve the story. She has always supported my many projects and stood by me.

Bruce Walker.

Legendary Hollywood Film Director, D.W.Griffith once said that all the best stories have a guy with a gun and a girl. In preparing the fiction that follows I have been mindful of this.

Bruce Walker.

PART I

PROLOGUE

I lay awake. The gusts of wind rattled the windows and wooed in the eaves. Outside all was sound and movement in contrast to my room where only the rhythmic breathing of my wife was audible. With my eyes shut I could hear the distant roar and rumble of waves beating themselves on the beach, grinding and jostling shale, shingle and cobbles.

This afternoon, when the storm was at its height, I’d stood on the seawall and leaned into the wind and felt the sting of salt spray on my face. The sea was alive. It didn’t seem to be doing anything but throwing itself into great heaps and making hollows between. It was all bluster and business-like with dirty white capped yellow grey waves in motion. The skin of the earth wrinkled and angry, yet fascinating. I turned and with shoulders hunched to shield my neck from further exposure to the icy blow, strode homeward, nodding to the Home Guard fellows sheltering behind their striped pillbox as I passed through the barbed wire barriers. The war and Nazi aggression were a long way off at that moment as the weather buffeted my person. Again, the forces of nature were reminding man of his place and insignificance.

CHAPTER ONE

I was a boy at school during the First War. For us the war was a great adventure. The games we played always involved the dashing deeds of war and we spoke of little else. We wouldn’t see the suffering and the horrors. Those stories washed over us. Wounds were earned like medals. The agony and grief of those who were confronted with a son, brother or father with missing limbs and dreadful wounds, or their death in some distant muddy field, escaped us. Unless it was in our own family. Youth believes it is immortal. We envied our older brothers and parents who were over there in France having all the excitement. Perhaps we read too much of the literature glorifying heroism and war. When the war ended we felt somehow cheated. We’d missed out on the Great Adventure.

It seemed that the rest of my life would be insignificant. Like the faceless millions, I’d probably spend my whole life living just a few miles from where I was born. Nothing would happen in my life. There would be no excitement. I’d work, marry, have children and die. That would be it, the sum total of it all. My passing would be recorded in a tedious register in some dreary office and on a dull tombstone in some boring churchyard. At some stage I realised that if you’re not one of the lucky ones who is swept onto the roller coaster, then you will have to seek out adventure yourself. Mind you, for some, no matter how hard they pursue it, it positively eludes them. Fortunately, I’m not one of them.

When the Hitler affair started in September 1939, with the dreams of youth still not forgotten, I was one of the first to offer my services to the military. A commission seemed likely, but you can imagine my disappointment, when I was rejected. They gave three reasons: my age, my weight and fitness, and my job at Whitehall. Not satisfied, I headed down to the navy recruiting office. I had had some sea experience sailing with my old friend Charles Lyons and hoped that I could talk my way into something. My employment at Whitehall was quickly uncovered and I was rejected again. While there was still a threat of invasion, I was advised to try the Home Guard - Dad’s Army, but that was later. As I plodded slowly back to face the humdrum of my office after the Navy rejection, with eyes locked to the pavement, I remembered the wonderful boating and sailing experiences which I’d shared with Charles. They were just the kind of adventure to make life worth living, and in old age, tell the grandchildren about. Since then hardly a day passes when I don’t think back to the twenties and the exciting days Charles and I spent together. Given my life over, that’s the bit I’d never change.

I’d missed out on the first show by virtue of being too young. My older brother Reginald had served in France and received a battlefield commission. At home, we awaited his letters from the front with excitement and gathered around my mother to listen, as she read aloud of his exploits. These were never as exciting as I imagined in my mind that they would be. They always seemed to be about carrying artilliary shells up to the front along interminable duckboards and ended with pleading requests for more lice ointment and foot powder. I always felt that he had toned down things for the family and not mentioned the really thrilling moments. He left the army a major in 1919. He went up to Oxford and read arts, entered an engineering company and followed a successful career designing locomotives for railways.

I always envied him and the life he led. I went up to Oxford in the year following my brother. There was a chasm between our respective attitudes. He was a mature, battle wearied and hardened man of the world. Whereas I was a youth just out of school. My brother and I saw each other only rarely and I suspected he regarded me as shallow, feckless and irresponsible. And consequently, he was somewhat disapproving of me. I suppose my father despaired of me during the six years before taking my degree. I don’t think my brother reported to him on my late hours and general bad habits, although I know my father often consulted with my brother about me. I respected him for not telling our father what I was really like.

During my first year at university I enjoyed myself hugely discovering alcohol, girls and games, although not necessarily in that order. I took up rowing, although was too lax to earn a place in a good crew, dabbled in fencing, shooting with rifle, gun and pistol, mostly in smallbore competitions around the local clubs. I also got pretty good at bridge and could hold my own on the snooker and billiards tables. In my second year I fell in love with Cecilia Rhoda Carew. (Her father had worked in Africa and was a great fan of Cecil Rhodes.) Totally smitten, another sunny year slipped by with the only clouds being the anguished letters from home and the serious discussions with my professor about my future.

At the end of the academic year Cecilia told me she didn’t think we could make a go of it - something about my not being serious enough. Much later, I heard she’d married a solicitor from London and some mutual friends told me he was small, weedy and balding with thick glasses. (Some years ago I actually met him and couldn’t believe my eyes: he was really an Adonis type, good at games, especially rugby, and altogether thoroughly decent. I liked to console myself with the thought that he was probably boring.) It shows you can’t always believe what your friends tell you, although doubtless they were trying to be kind.

I returned to Oxford at the start of my third year with the dire warning from my father that it was to be my final one if I didn’t lift my game. My allowance was halved and I knew I’d have trouble even meeting my tailor’s bills. It was a something of a come-down having to wear store made clothing but the world was changing at the same time. I resolved to attend lectures and take a more serious approach to the future. At the first lecture of the year the Professor acknowledged my presence in a reasonably pleasant way, although everyone turned to cast an eye over me, as they would some shady kind of individual. Later, during a break in the lecture when the professor briefly left the hall, the fellow in front turned and introduced himself as Charles Lyons and we shook hands. He had come up to Oxford a year earlier having won a scholarship from some obscure Grammar School in the Midlands.

I’d never noticed him about the cloisters although he had a distinguished air about him. He was a handsome chap with a square jaw, piercing blue eyes and a shock of unruly fair hair. When he grinned his eyes seemed to laugh too. He was the sort of person whom strangers are drawn to and people immediately like. We discovered we shared a destitute way of life, both cut short on funds by our fathers, although for different reasons, and so had a lot in common, particularly our senses of humour. We spent a lot of time laughing about the absurdities we observed in the world around us and the various slings and arrows which fate directed at us. Consequently, we became firm friends.

The convention of the day required that chaps address each other by their surnames. At some stage early in our friendship, Charles suggested that we ignore such absurd social behaviour and that he would always call me Henry and that I should call him Charles. We allowed for exceptions when things were not going to plan and an expletive was in order.

Much later Charles confided in me that he was the fifth son of Lord G .... His father believed that one’s children should leam to take their place in society through hardship and suffering. Leading a pampered life would produce indolence and an inability to do anything for oneself. It was pretty radical thinking and I regarded it as an excuse for the old man to be penny-pinching. He could clearly have no regard for his offspring.

Although I thought of my own father as intolerably hard and unreasoning, perhaps my life would have taken a different road had he been of the same mind as Charles’ father. Charles was a genuinely brilliant student who had a real flair for his studies. He was the most single-minded person, I’d ever met. He was both resolute and stubborn. Resolute when you agreed with him and stubborn when you disagreed with him. Yet his company and refreshing way of viewing things encouraged me no end. His political views were distinctly Marxist, although he was no Bolshevik. Leftish views are not uncommon amongst the upper classes and I enjoyed reminding him of this when I felt he was becoming too lyrical.

He enjoyed studying and had an attitude keen to learn. It became a habit to meet in the library and study at the same time. We didn’t study together but it was a kind of pact we made. When we weren’t in the library, we were out in the fields potting rabbits or just rambling. Charles took to rowing and swimming and won a few awards. Without a doubt it was the happiest period of my life at Oxford.

CHAPTER TWO

During the university breaks Charles usually left to visit his family as I did mine. In the last vacation before the summer break, when the weather was still distinctly cool, Charles asked if I cared for a few days camping. I drew his attention to the prevailing conditions but undeterred, Charles made some reference to my manlihood. I had tried camping, but generally preferred to stay in an inn and spend the days rambling, in the knowledge that I had some comforts to return to in the evening. A tent and wet grass and damp sleeping gear are not appealing. Heavy clouds overhead accompanied by the steady patter of rain and a fine spray of water, coming through canvas duck, drenching all my belongings, is not a memory I cherish.

Charles insisted our camping would be quite different and should be a new experience for me. I was unconvinced but swept along by my friend’s enthusiasm I reluctantly agreed to a week under canvas. He suggested I bring a stout hat and a waterproof mac. He told me he owned a tent which had an extra sheet called a fly which guaranteed dryness in all weathers. He also had waterproof groundsheets which he claimed would keep me dry in any conditions with the exception of sleeping in a creek or a watercourse.

Charles was hurt by my scepticism and dragged me to his quarters to demonstrate some of the equipment. He pushed some piles of books from the top of a wooden chest which lay against the wall near his bed.

This is the stove. It runs on methylated spirits and provided we have dry matches, it is perfect for boiling the kettle and cooking our food. You see, I also have a waterproof canister in which to keep the matches, so they will always be available for lighting the stove. Just in case you are still unconvinced, I have a spare canister for you to carry matches, if something happens to mine.

This stove won’t dry us out if we are soaked through.

No, but if that happens we’ll hole up in an inn. I promise.

Various other items of equipment were spread about his bed, including some canvas sacks with straps for carrying on one’s back.

Don’t bring too many changes of clothes. Charles cautioned. You won’t be able to carry it.

Charles, is this a hiking trip? My idea of camping is that you go to some scenic and preferrably deserted spot, pitch the tent and spend a few days there fishing or wandering about taking in the local flora and fauna. Perhaps climbing a small mountain or exploring a district is a possibility. The camping spot should have a village close by where supplies are obtainable and perhaps a public ale house which serves meals. I was warming to my vision of a perfect camping holiday.

It probably won’t be quite like that. Charles said mysteriously. Put yourself in my hands and trust that, weather gods willing, I will do my best to ensure you enjoy yourself.

Our friendship had blossomed in the months we had known each other. Any holiday in Charles’ company would be a success.

We arranged to meet on a Sunday afternoon at St. Pancras Station with all the necessary gear. I found him at the appointed time. His face was bright red from hauling heavy sacks and parcels.

I say, old chap, I hope you have a spare hand to help with this gear. A lot of it is for you. We’ll be sharing the tent so we should take turns carrying it. He pointed to a long cylindrical parcel at his feet. It had a rope shoulder sling. And I have food for a couple of days and a water canteen, too.

He stood puffing like an old locomotive for some time.

I hope you haven’t strained your heart, Charles. I expect I’ll be able to manage my share.

My own load was as small as I could make it. Aware of Charles’ warning about carrying things, in my packing, I’d laid everything out and holding each item had asked myself whether I could live for a week without it. It was a useful exercise because the reality is that most of the accoutrements of life are unnecessary. They make life easier and more comfortable but they aren’t necessary for survival. Each time I’d gone through my things I’d found more to leave behind.

I’m not carrying anything or taking a step further until you tell me where we are going. I don’t mind limited surprises, and for an outsider looking on, a mystery can be fun, but this is as far as I go. No more prevaricating, I want to know.

We’re going to Norfolk. Charles made the announcement.

Why all the mystery? Is Norfolk vitally interesting?

I wanted to surprise you with something you haven’t done before, that’s all.

Well, I haven’t been to Norfolk. I thought about doing my tertiary studies in Norwich, but I haven’t the faintest idea of what the countryside is like. Flat I think. Agricultural, I think.

They grow barley and Norfolk has the lowest rainfall in the British Isles. Some of the greatest landscape painters in England practised there, too. It is the fourth largest county and has lots of abbeys. It has pre-historic barrows, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Roman, Anglo-Saxon and Norman ruins.

That all sounds like something out of a guide book. Have you actually ever been there?

Charles grinned, annoyingly, again.

We boarded our train and with whistles blowing, rattled out of the city, through the suburbs and into the countryside. Charles opened the window of our compartment and I sniffed the unique smell of a coal fired steam train. There’s something about the smell of steam trains that s different to anything else.

Charles had organised rooms at our destined station and it was late when we finally fell into our beds..

We were up early the next morning and Charles led the way.

Do we have far to go? Should we get some transportation to take us to the camping area? Is it near here? Do we have to walk all the way?

My load was very heavy. Charles strode on ahead calling back No to each of my questions. Finally he tumed and said, The transportation is down here.

Ahead I could see the river. We turned the corner and the sign on the timber shed before us proclaimed:

Boatyard and Slipway.

R.T.Price and Sons.

All boat and yacht work undertaken.

Qualified Shipwrights.

Skiffs, Punts and Yachts for Hire.

See The Broads.

Day Tours arranged. Enquire within.

Charles put his baggage down and turned to face me.

I’ve hired a skiff. We’re going to do some exploration. This river is part of the waterways known as the Norfolk Broads. His face held a question.

It’s a ripping idea. Why didn’t you tell me days ago?

The last time I tried this was with a chap from school. He hated it. Told me he’d had a rotten time. Never spoke to me again and spread it around the school that I was miserable and cheap. I guess he thought that since my pater had some money, I would be treating him to some excursion with all the comforts.

Just because they have money doesn’t mean I have money. It is their money and not mine until, or if I inherit some of it. Some people fail to make that distinction. I’d saved for ages to take that chap on that trip.

Charles, I’m happy to be here. Besides I’m paying my own way, willingly. This sort of holiday would never have occurred to me. It’s a splendid idea.

Our craft was painted bright yellow and named Daisy. It had R.T.Price & Sons, HIRE BOATS No.7 painted in large black lettering on each side.

Have you done much rowing, sir? The hand who was showing us the boat asked.

Only in fours at University. I replied. He nodded.

Our telephone number is on a brass plate screwed above the locker door in the bow, should you get into trouble. I doubt that you will.

He helped us load our gear aboard.

Make sure you tie her up securely each night. Use a bowline in preference to a clove hitch. He recommended.

I’ll use both. Charles laughed.

He looked at Charles and grinned.

You do that, sir.

Bow or stroke position? Upstream or down? I asked Charles as we prepared to step aboard to take our positions.

I’ve been examining my map. There’s an island on which we might camp tonight, in the next broad upstream.

With youthful enthusiasm we leaned to our task. We were soon into a synchronised rhythm setting an easy pace which we would be able to keep up for a long period without tiring.

Although early in the season, more strictly, pre-season, there were quite a few boats out enjoying the clear weather.

This is a paradise for fauna. Charles had elected himself to the position of tour guide.

There are otters and pike, there are sedge warblers and bittems, although we may not spot any of them, and wild duck and geese.

"What’s a sedge warbler?

Really, Henry. Those little bells you hear are from reed pheasants. That’s their call. Nelson came from Norfolk, too.

I do know something about Norfolk. I said after a long silence when Charles had decided to let me fester in my ignorance.

They cut the reeds here for thatched houses.

In the distance, going our way I could see a tall single sail.

"Looks like some sort of sailing boat, Charles. Do you know what it is ‘?

No They’ll catch us soon. We’ll ask them when they pass.

On a long straight stretch of water the sailing boat came in sight. It was wide and low with a large cabin dominating the deck. It seemed to hardly make a wake as it overtook us. There were at least