The Book Group Chapter 27
employment
Norwegian coast. June 1943.
Just before dawn.
Paul let the tide bring the small launch onto the western end of Brusand beach. He clambered out and stashed it between a high dune and a concrete anti-tank obstacle. Hitler’s teeth, the Norwegians called them, placed there to thwart allied tanks, should they decide to invade Norway. So far, they hadn’t. But Paul had, temporarily. He’d hitched a ride from a piratical bunch of marines who were pretending to be fishermen from Fraserburgh, then he’d set off alone in the launch, twenty-five miles from the shore, coasting on the tide for the last two miles until he beached.
He lifted the bike from the boat, propped it against one the of the concrete teeth, slotted the long gun in its case onto the clips beneath the crossbar, and then the bucket of fish the disguised Marines had kindly donated. He walked to the waters edge and added a little water to the bucket. He looked around but there was no-one nearby, so he pushed the bike onto the dirt road and cycled the mile to a small copse where he laid up for the rest of the day.
Towards dusk he pushed the bike back to the track, mounted, and began cycling. There was a guard post at the southern end of the beach and he slowed to a stop. The guards, a fat old German and a young Norwegian with frightened blue eyes stared at him, unshouldering their rifles, and he raised his hands. ‘You’re not going to shoot a man for doing some fishing?’
The German approached. ‘Papers?’
Paul took out his papers and the German checked them briefly. Then he looked in the bucket to see two fish lying there. ‘What’s the rifle for?’
‘Reindeer.’
‘Find any?’
‘No.’
The guard ignored this answer and slid the rifle from its case. An old straight-pull Krag Jorgenson. He sniffed it to see if it had been fired recently. He opened the magazine to see how many rounds it contained and saw there only three. He tipped the brass-jacketed rounds into his hand and turned, ‘Got a licence for…?’
Paul shot him in the head with the supressed .45. he’d drawn from the small of his back. He turned and looked at the young Norwegian who shouted out in fear as he raised the pistol towards his face…
‘Paul.’
Paul!’
He focused on the room. It was Penny. ‘Yes?’
‘We’re all ready to go.’
‘Right. I’ll see you all at eight?’
‘Quarter to. Taxis are booked, mine will pick you up on the way, the table is booked for eight.’
‘Thanks for making the arrangements Penny.’
She smiled back at him. ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ she said.
He stood and followed her into the shop, watched Penny and Vivien leave with a cheery ‘Bye!’ as he stood at the counter. The shop was quiet, two weeks before Christmas, the sky was dark, threatening rain, and not many were out and about. He’d agreed to work solo, giving the girls an extra hour to do some shopping, get home and ready themselves for the staff Christmas meal. Both girls were bringing a beau, and Paul was happy with that, any feelings he might have had for Penny were crushed beneath his concern that she should never see into his private world, so Penny bringing her latest young man would put distance between them, which he felt was a good thing. How Penny felt, he did not think to imagine. A taxi was booked to pick up Sid, Mrs. Bickers and Vivien from the East End. Another taxi was booked to pick up Penny and then him. The table at The Cross Keys in Chelsea was booked. It had been a pub for two hundred years but recently had turned into a restaurant. Penny and Vivien were eager to try it out. The bell rang as the shop door opened. ‘Afternoon Terrence,’ Paul said, looking up.
‘Where’s the ladies gone?’ came the reply.
‘Home, to get ready for the staff Christmas meal.’
‘Where’s my invite?’
‘You’re not staff. Besides, I can’t keep you out late at night.’
‘What time do you think I go home?’
‘Six, seven?’
Terrence snorted. ‘And the rest. ‘Ma has her gentlemen friends most evenings. If I’m not out, I’m stuck in my room all bloody evenin’.’
‘Hence the books,’ Paul said.
‘’Ence the bleedin’ books.’
‘Well, my shop is at your disposal.’
Terrence stalked off towards the used book shelves.
Apart from a couple of browsers, there was little business. Terrence sat in the corner, devouring a dog-eared first edition of CS Forester’s Mr. Midshipman Hornblower. The threatened rain arrived, first coating the windows in drops, then streaming rivulets as it became heavier. At one pm prompt Paul locked the door, turned the sign to Closed, and walked over to Terrence. ‘I have to go and get ready.’
‘Carry on, guv,’ Terrence said.
Paul took a deep breath. ‘Haven’t you got somewhere else to go?’
‘Nope.’
‘Gentlemen friends?’ Paul inquired.
‘Indeed.’
‘I’m going upstairs. Want me to bring you some toast and a cuppa down?’
Terrence looked up. ‘That would be very kind of you, guv.’
‘Paul. Or Mr Carter,’ Paul said.
‘Mr. Carter,’ Terrence said, turning back to his book.
After making himself and Terrence a lunch of cheese on toast and a mug of tea each, Paul spent the afternoon doing the books, which were looking up. Attlee’s taxes were punishing, but they might just survive long enough to see the shop’s first birthday, plus he had his store of… he pushed that thought away. He’d decided not to think of his Swiss bank account until the situation with Sir Timothy Taes was resolved.
As he entered the receipts into the ledger he decided that he wasn’t sure what other plans Penny had for the future but so long as it mostly remained a bookshop he was happy to let her work her magic. The coffee and the tables by the window had doubled their footfall, the unofficial mums and kiddies’ group had added more, and most of the mums and coffee drinkers seemed inclined to buy books on their way in, or out. Penny even came in early to put out the newspapers for sale. Paul thought for a moment, put down his pencil, stood and walked out into the shop. He found Terrence where he’d left him. ‘Want a job?’
‘Doing what?’
‘Newspaper deliveries.’
‘How much?’
‘Standard rate.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Standard rate it is,’ Terrence said. ‘When do you want me to start?’
‘When do you turn eleven.’
‘I am eleven.’
‘When did you turn eleven?’ Paul asked.
‘October thirty-first.’
‘Hallowe’en.’
‘I’m a warlock, I can cast spells and allsorts.’
‘A belated happy birthday to you, Terrence the Warlock. Did you get any good presents?’
‘Oh, loads.’
‘Ok then. Monday next week? It’s an early start.’
‘Righto gu.. Mr. Carter.’
‘Oh, and one more thing. You work for me, now,’ Paul said, ‘So keep your nose clean.’
‘Wodjer mean?’
Paul noticed that Terrence’s accent grew stronger depending on the circumstance. He pointed at the small pile of jelly sweets that lay on the table beside Terrence. ‘No thieving from the sweet shop. You pay your way from now on.’
Terrence looked aggrieved for a moment, then he smiled. ‘I’m a man of means,’ he said with pride. ‘I pay me way.’ He looked up at Paul, ‘Can I have an advance?’
‘No.’
‘Righto.’ He turned back to his book.
At six, Paul left the office and walked to where Terrence was sitting, gave him a sixpence.
‘What’s this for?’
‘Early Christmas bonus. Go and buy yourself some fish and chips.’
‘You’re kicking me aht?’
‘You can read until I go, but after that, scoot.’
‘Don’t you trust me?’
‘I do, actually, but I’m not insured for eleven-year-olds to stay unattended in my shop.’
