Wave That Didn't Break , livre ebook

Title Page
The Wave That Didn’t Break
Leonie Kirton



Publisher Information
Published in 2015 by
Arthur H. Stockwell Ltd
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe
Devon, EX34 8BA
www.ahstockwell.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2015 Leonie Kirton
The right of Leonie Kirton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Dedication
For my mother who served in the WAAF during the Second World War, my family, especially my son who produced the map and cover of the book, and the Cornish landscape which gave me so much inspiration during my walks.
I would also like to thank Bob Andrew whose History of RAF Perranporth 1941–1945 provided me with information for the ‘diary’ and Mark Thorn whose shop I have used in the story.



Map





Prologue
She nearly always dreamt of the past now. Those days of air raids and anxious hours in the ops room waiting for the call signs of the planes as they returned home. Of Simon she never dreamt, but often of happier days in Cornwall with Brett and days swimming in the cove with Jock looking on.
After her breakfast that morning she made a decision and called Air New Zealand to book a flight to England.



The Mysterious Stranger
It was the badgers that started it all. After much discussion it had been agreed that the boys were to be allowed to go and watch them late one evening just before the end of term. When Mum had been walking the dogs down into the combe she had noticed evidence of badgers everywhere, with trampled paths disappearing into the bank and masses of discarded bedding in the shape of twigs and leaves. Both the dogs had lingered there for ages absorbing the delightful smells from the departed black-and-white night prowlers.
With a great sense of anticipation Joe and Alex set off after tea. They crossed the main road, walking quickly up the grassy roadside verge until they came to the footpath which led down into the combe. The path wound its way between hedges thick with foxgloves then took a sharp turn descending steeply to the valley. It was just past this corner that the badgers’ setts were tucked into the bank so the boys hid themselves quietly in the hedge opposite which, as well as being downwind from the setts, also commanded a fine view of the path as it wound its way up from the town below. They settled themselves to wait for dusk and the possible emergence of the badgers, keeping as still as possible and not even daring to talk to one another for fear of frightening the badgers away.
However, just as the twilight deepened and the moon was clearly visible in the sky Joe poked Alex in the ribs and whispered, “I heard something like a twig cracking just then.”
Alex nodded and leant forward to get a better view. It wasn’t a badger that he saw but, further down the hill, emerging from where the path looked like a tunnel with the bushes meeting overhead he could just make out a man walking quickly and silently towards them. He nudged his brother and pointed, both boys drew back silently into the hedge so as not to be seen by this unwanted visitor. Hardly daring to breathe as the man went past they watched until he had passed by and turned the corner at the top of the path.


“Did you see who that was?” asked Joe nervously for it was now almost dark.
“Yeah,” replied his brother, “Reg the fisherman.”
Reg lived in the town and went out with his boat catching lobsters from his pots and selling them to local restaurants. The boys didn’t like him much as he was nearly always bad-tempered and shouted at them if ever they were near the lobster pots when they were out surfing.
“I bet he’s up to no good at this time of night,” said Joe as he stretched himself after crouching in the hedge for such a long time.
“It does seem an unlikely time to go and check his pots,” agreed his brother. “Shall we follow him and see what he’s up to? The badgers are never going to come out now after this interruption.”
“What about watching the football before going to bed?” suggested Joe. He was the less adventurous of the two.
“We can do that anytime,” said Alex. “We’ll never get a chance like this again, or are you scared?”
“No, of course not,” retorted Joe quickly. “I expect he’ll have crossed the road and taken the path on up to the old aerodrome and the cliffs, rather than going along the main road.”
Quickly and silently the boys set off in pursuit. As they came to the end of the footpath and crossed the road they could see the fisherman’s outline as it was silhouetted momentarily against the skyline before he branched off towards the old wartime aerodrome that ran parallel to the sea. The boys followed, passing an old hangar where gliders were now kept for the local club and an old stone building which served as the clubhouse silent in the darkness.
“Ugh, it’s spooky enough here without venturing on to the old aerodrome,” said Joe.
“Come on,” urged Alex. “Can’t you imagine how it was like with the planes taking off in the dead of night and flying stealthily over to Germany or France on bombing raids?”
“I don’t think they did much night flying from here during the war,” replied his matter-of-fact brother. “It was more training and daytime raids. That Spitfire that came down on the beach was on a training mission.”
The remains of an old wartime Spitfire were buried in the sand on the beach where the boys surfed and were clearly visible when there was a very low tide.
They walked on for another hundred yards till they were past the buildings and in the distance they could see the figure of the fisherman hurrying on over the runway.
“Hang on a minute,” whispered Alex. “It looks as if somebody is signalling at the other end of the runway.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Joe. “Next you will be saying you can see the Luftwaffe coming in to bomb us!”
“No, shush, silly, look there it is again.”
Sure enough a signal of one long flash followed by several short flashes was being repeated at the far end of the aerodrome.
“Perhaps it’s Mrs Rodgers bringing in stolen exam papers so we can all pass our SATs,” giggled Joe.
Mrs Rodgers, who was their teacher, lived in a small hamlet at the other end of the aerodrome near where the boys went to school.
“Don’t be stupid,” whispered Alex furiously. “Look, there’s a plane coming, keep quiet and get down behind this gorse bush.”
The plane came winging in quietly with no landing lights and bumped its way across the old tarmac airfield. The boys watched in excitement as, firstly they could make out the fisherman approaching the plane taxiing towards a halt, and then a car without headlights came from the direction of where the signalling had taken place and sped towards the now stationary plane. A figure appeared at the doorway of the aircraft and began passing several packages down to the fisherman who was joined by the driver of the car, a tall man with a ponytail and wearing a long coat. The packages were stored in the boot and something given to the pilot before he turned back to the controls and began to taxi up the runway. Meanwhile, Reg got in the car with the tall man and they passed not ten yards from the boys’ hiding place in the gorse bush. Both boys noted the registration number of the sleek grey car as it travelled quietly out to the main road.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” asked Alex.
“Some kind of smuggling I’d say,” replied Joe. “Anyway, whatever it was they didn’t want anyone to know they were there, even the car had doused lights.” He shivered in the night air. “Come on, let’s go home now.”
“OK,” agreed his brother.
Once they’d reached the safety of the field behind their home they discussed the events they had just witnessed.
“Perhaps we should tell the police?” suggested Joe.
“I don’t think they would believe us and they might think we were making it up, after all, it does sound rather fantastic,” responded his brother.
“What about asking Dad then? He would know what to do.”
“No,” said Alex. “I think we should keep quiet about it at the moment, because if we want to go out and try to see the badgers again they won’t let us if they think suspicious people are lurking about on the aerodrome.”
“Well?” asked Mum as the boys came in at the back door. “Did you see the badgers?”
“No, but we saw-” started Joe before Alex managed to dig him in the back as a warning sign.
“Saw what?” asked Dad as he came into the kitchen with Bosun, their big black Labrador, at his heels.
“Oh, just fisherman Reg,” muttered Joe as he bent down to pat Bosun’s silky ears.
Nell, Bosun’s elderly mother, looked up reproachfully from her basket, her big brown eyes beseeching one of the boys to come and make a fuss of her too. Alex immediately went over to pat her when he saw how Bosun was taking all the attention. He crouched down beside her and stroked her greying muzzle.
The difficult moment of explanation seemed to have passed, though Dad remarked tho