N or M?

‘Brought down some golf clubs with you, didn’t you, Meadowes?’

Tommy pleaded guilty.

‘Ha! I can tell you, my eyes don’t miss much. Splendid. We must have a game together. Ever played on the links here?’

Tommy replied in the negative.

‘They’re not bad—not bad at all. Bit on the short side, perhaps, but lovely view over the sea and all that. And never very crowded. Look here, what about coming along with me this morning? We might have a game.’

‘Thanks very much. I’d like it.’

‘Must say I’m glad you’ve arrived,’ remarked Bletchley as they were trudging up the hill. ‘Too many women in that place. Gets on one’s nerves. Glad I’ve got another fellow to keep me in countenance. You can’t count Cayley—the man’s a kind of walking chemist’s shop. Talks of nothing but his health and the treatment he’s tried and the drugs he’s taking. If he threw away all his little pill-boxes and went out for a good ten-mile walk every day he’d be a different man. The only other male in the place is von Deinim, and to tell you the truth, Meadowes, I’m not too easy in my mind about him.’

‘No?’ said Tommy.

‘No. You take my word for it, this refugee business is dangerous. If I had my way I’d intern the lot of them. Safety first.’

‘A bit drastic, perhaps.’

‘Not at all. War’s war. And I’ve got my suspicions of Master Carl. For one thing he’s clearly not a Jew. Then he came over here just a month—only a month, mind you—before war broke out. That’s a bit suspicious.’

Tommy said invitingly:

‘Then you think—?’

‘Spying—that’s his little game!’

‘But surely there’s nothing of great military or naval importance hereabouts?’

‘Ah, old man, that’s where the artfulness comes in! If he were anywhere near Plymouth or Portsmouth he’d be under supervision. In a sleepy place like this, nobody bothers. But it’s on the coast, isn’t it? The truth of it is the Government is a great deal too easy with these enemy aliens. Anyone who cared could come over here and pull a long face and talk about their brothers in concentration camps. Look at that young man—arrogance in every line of him. He’s a Nazi—that’s what he is—a Nazi.’

‘What we really need in this country is a witch doctor or two,’ said Tommy pleasantly.

‘Eh, what’s that?’

‘To smell out the spies,’ Tommy explained gravely.

‘Ha, very good that—very good. Smell ’em out—yes, of course.’

Further conversation was brought to an end, for they had arrived at the clubhouse.

Tommy’s name was put down as a temporary member, he was introduced to the secretary, a vacant-looking elderly man, and the subscription duly paid. Tommy and the Major started on their round.

Tommy was a mediocre golfer. He was glad to find that his standard of play was just about right for his new friend. The Major won by two up and one to play, a very happy state of events.

‘Good match, Meadowes, very good match—you had bad luck with that mashie shot, just turned off at the last minute. We must have a game fairly often. Come along and I’ll introduce you to some of the fellows. Nice lot on the whole, some of them inclined to be rather old women, if you know what I mean? Ah, here’s Haydock—you’ll like Haydock. Retired naval wallah. Has that house on the cliff next door to us. He’s our local ARP warden.’

Commander Haydock was a big hearty man with a weather-beaten face, intensely blue eyes, and a habit of shouting most of his remarks.

He greeted Tommy with friendliness.

‘So you’re going to keep Bletchley countenance at Sans Souci? He’ll be glad of another man. Rather swamped by female society, eh, Bletchley?’

‘I’m not much of a ladies’ man,’ said Major Bletchley.

‘Nonsense,’ said Haydock. ‘Not your type of lady, my boy, that’s it. Old boarding-house pussies. Nothing to do but gossip and knit.’

‘You’re forgetting Miss Perenna,’ said Bletchley.

‘Ah, Sheila—she’s an attractive girl all right. Regular beauty if you ask me.’

‘I’m a bit worried about her,’ said Bletchley.

‘What do you mean? Have a drink, Meadowes? What’s yours, Major?’

The drinks ordered and the men settled on the veranda of the clubhouse, Haydock repeated his question.

Major Bletchley said with some violence:

‘That German chap. She’s seeing too much of him.’

‘Getting sweet on him, you mean? H’m, that’s bad. Of course he’s a good-looking young chap in his way. But it won’t do. It won’t do, Bletchley. We can’t have that sort of thing. Trading with the enemy, that’s what it amounts to. These girls—where’s their proper spirit? Plenty of decent young English fellows about.’

Bletchley said:

‘Sheila’s a queer girl—she gets odd sullen fits when she will hardly speak to anyone.’

‘Spanish blood,’ said the Commander. ‘Her father was half Spanish, wasn’t he?’

‘Don’t know. It’s a Spanish name, I should think.’

The Commander glanced at his watch.

‘About time for the news. We’d better go in and listen to it.’

The news was meagre that day, little more in it than had been already in the morning papers. After commenting with approval on the latest exploits of the Air Force—first-rate chaps, brave as lions—the Commander went on to develop his own pet theory—that sooner or later the Germans would attempt a landing at Leahampton itself—his argument being that it was such an unimportant spot.

‘Not even an anti-aircraft gun in the place! Disgraceful!’

The argument was not developed, for Tommy and the Major had to hurry back to lunch at Sans Souci. Haydock extended a cordial invitation to Tommy to come and see his little place, ‘Smugglers’ Rest’. ‘Marvellous view—my own beach—every kind of handy gadget in the house. Bring him along, Bletchley.’

It was settled that Tommy and Major Bletchley should come in for drinks on the evening of the following day.

After lunch was a peaceful time at Sans Souci. Mr Cayley went to have his ‘rest’ with the devoted Mrs Cayley in attendance. Mrs Blenkensop was conducted by Miss Minton to a depot to pack and address parcels for the Front.

Mr Meadowes strolled gently out into Leahampton and along the front. He bought a few cigarettes, stopped at Smith’s to purchase the latest number of Punch, then after a few minutes of apparent irresolution, he entered a bus bearing the legend, ‘OLD PIER’.

The old pier was at the extreme end of the promenade. That part of Leahampton was known to house agents as the least desirable end. It was West Leahampton and poorly thought of. Tommy paid 2d, and strolled up the pier. It was a flimsy and weather-worn affair, with a few moribund penny-in-the-slot machines placed at far distant intervals. There was no one on it but some children running up and down and screaming in voices that matched quite accurately the screaming of the gulls, and one solitary man sitting on the end fishing.