Cometh the Hour (The Clifton Chronicles 6)

“When you’re an old soldier—”

“Not so old,” said Giles, taking a sip of his beer. “Don’t forget we both served in the last war,” he added, trying to put him at ease. “But tell me, how did you first meet your wife?”

“It was after the war when I was stationed with the British forces in Berlin. I was a corporal in the supply depot where Greta was a stacker. The only work she could get. It must have been love at first sight, because she couldn’t speak a word of English, and I couldn’t speak any German.” Giles smiled. “Bright though. She picked up my language much quicker than I got the hang of hers. Of course, I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be plain sailing. Not least because my mates thought any Kraut skirt was only good for one thing, but Greta wasn’t like that. By the time my tour of duty came to an end, I knew I wanted to marry her, whatever the consequences. That’s when my problems began. A leg over behind the Naafi canteen is one thing, but wanting to marry one of them was considered nothing less than fraternization, when neither side would trust you.

“When I told the orderly officer that I intended to marry Greta, even if it meant I had to stay in Berlin, they put every possible obstacle in my path. Within days I was handed my demob papers and told I would be shipped out within a week. I became desperate, even considered deserting, which would have meant years in the glasshouse if they’d caught me. And then a barrack room lawyer informed me they couldn’t stop me marrying Greta if she was pregnant. So that’s what I told them.”

“Then what happened?” asked Giles.

“All hell broke loose. My discharge papers arrived a few days later. Greta lost her job, and I couldn’t find any work. It didn’t help that a few weeks later she really was pregnant, with Karin.”

“I want to hear all about Karin, but not before I’ve ordered another round.” Giles picked up the two empty glasses and made his way over to the bar. “Same again please, but make them pints this time.”

Pengelly took a long draft before he continued with his story. “Karin made all the sacrifices bearable, even the suspicion and ridicule we’d both had to endure. If I adored Greta, I worshipped Karin. It must have been about a year later that my old duty officer at the depot asked me to fill in for someone who was on sick leave—time is a great healer—and I was invited to act as a civilian liaison officer between the British and German workers, because by then, thanks to Greta, my German was pretty fluent. The British have many fine qualities, but they’re lazy when it comes to learning someone else’s language, so I quickly made myself indispensable. The pay wasn’t great, but I spent every spare penny on Karin, and every spare moment with her. And like all women, she knew I was a sucker for a cuddle. It may be a cliché, but she had me wound around her little finger.”

Me too, thought Giles, taking another sip of his beer.

“To my delight,” said Pengelly, “the English school in Berlin allowed Karin to sit the entrance exam, and a few weeks later she was offered a place. Everyone assumed she was English. Even had my Cornish accent, as you may have noticed. So from then on, I never had to worry about her education. In fact, when she reached sixth form, there was even talk of her going to Oxford, but that was before the wall went up. Once that monstrosity had been erected, Karin had to settle for a place at the East German School of Languages, which frankly is nothing more than a Stasi recruitment center. The only surprise came when she chose to study Russian as her first language, but by then her English and German were already degree standard.

“When Karin graduated, the only serious offer she got as an interpreter came from the Stasi. It was them or be out of work, so she didn’t have much choice. Whenever she wrote she would say how much she enjoyed her work, especially the international conferences. It gave her the opportunity to meet so many interesting people from all four sectors of the city. In fact, two Americans and one West German proposed to her, but she told Greta that it wasn’t until she met you that she’d fallen in love. It amused her that you had picked up her accent straight away, although she’s never been outside Berlin.”

Giles smiled as he recalled the exchange.

“Despite several attempts to return to my family, the East German authorities won’t let me back, e

ven though Greta has recently become seriously ill. I think they distrust me even more than the British.”

“I’ll do everything I can to help,” said Giles.

“Karin writes regularly, but only a few of her letters get through. One that did said she’d met someone special but that it was a disaster because, not only was he married, he was English, and had only been in Berlin for a few days. And worst of all, she wasn’t even sure if he felt the same way as she did.”

“How wrong she was,” said Giles softly.

“She didn’t mention your name, of course, or why you were visiting the Russian sector, because she was only too aware that the authorities would be reading her letters. It wasn’t until you contacted me that I realized it must be you she’d been writing about.”

“But how did Alex Fisher become involved?”

“A few days after you’d resigned as a minister, he turned up in Truro unannounced. Once he’d tracked me down, he told me that you had publicly disowned Karin, implying that she was either a prostitute or a Stasi spy, and you’d made it clear to the Whips’ Office that you had no interest in ever seeing her again.”

“But I tried desperately to contact her, I even traveled to Berlin, but I was turned back at the border.”

“I know that now, but at the time…”

“Yes,” sighed Giles, “Fisher could be very persuasive.”

“Especially when he’s a major, and you’re just a two-stripe corporal,” said Pengelly. “Of course, I followed every day of Mrs. Clifton’s libel trial in the papers, and like everyone else, I read the letter Fisher wrote before committing suicide. If it would help, I’d be happy to tell anyone there was no truth in it.”

“That’s good of you, John, although I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

“But I heard on the radio only yesterday, Sir Giles, that you were still thinking about standing in the Bristol by-election.”

“Not any more. I’ve withdrawn my name. I can’t think of doing anything until I’ve seen Karin again.”

“Of course, as her father I think she’s worth it, but it’s still one hell of a sacrifice.”

“You’re worse than my agent,” said Giles, laughing for the first time. He took a sip of beer and they sat in silence for some time, before he asked, “Is Karin really pregnant?”

“No, she’s not. Which made me realize that everything else Fisher had said about you was a pack of lies, and his only interest was revenge.”