‘I thought that was because 2006 was a particularly hot summer,’ says Judy. Father Tom appears not to hear this.
‘I should be retired by now,’ he says, placing two steaming mugs on a packing case marked ‘Palms’. ‘But vicars are thin on the ground these days.’
‘Do you remember hearing stories about the war years in Broughton?’ asks Nelson, putting aside a magazine that seems to consist only of recipes for powdered egg.
‘Some stories,’ says the vicar carefully. ‘They’re close around these parts, don’t talk much to outsiders.’ He laughs. ‘And after fifty odd years I’m still an outsider.’
‘“Sea’s End House commandeered by the army,”’ reads Nelson. ‘“Buster Hastings, Captain of the Local Defence Volunteers, confirmed that his house was to be used for secret war work.” Do you know what all that was about? The Local Defence Volunteers, they became the Home Guard, right?’
‘That’s right. Buster Hastings was in charge of the Home Guard. A bit of a martinet by all accounts. I’m not sure about the secret war work but I think I remember hearing that the house was used for surveillance, watching the sea. The lighthouse was in use then, of course, and they had a system of warning lights. And, of course, there was the listening post at Beeston Bump.’
‘Beeston Bump?’ Judy tries, not very successfully, to stifle a giggle.
‘Great name, isn’t it?’ Father Tom smiles, showing long yellow teeth. ‘It’s a hill outside Sheringham. It’s where the Y station was, the listening post. Beautiful spot. We have open air church services there at Easter.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ says Nelson. ‘How well do you know the Hastings family?’
‘Quite well,’ says Tom Weston, taking a sip of coffee. Nelson tries his; it’s quite disgusting. ‘Buster wasn’t much of a churchgoer but his wife Irene was a stalwart of the parish for years. She still does the flowers.’ Judy stores this nugget away.
‘What about Jack Hastings?’ asks Nelson.
‘He always supports our fundraisers. We need a new roof for the tower. It leaks dreadfully. We’ve been collecting for years but we’re no nearer to reaching our total. Oh well, God doesn’t give up easily. Jack doesn’t come to services much, but his wife Stella is a regular communicant. She’s a good woman.’
Nelson senses that this is high praise from Father Tom. It seems that Hastings men delegated churchgoing to their wives.
‘What about Archie Whitcliffe?’ he asks. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Archie?’ Father Tom’s face softens. ‘A grand old chap. He used to be one of the bellringers here. When we could still use the belfry, that is. I was sad to hear that he’d been taken.’
Been taken. It seems an odd phrase to use, even for a vicar.
‘How did you know?’ asked Nelson.
‘His grandson rang me. Wanted me to conduct the funeral, but I understand that there’s been some sort of delay.’
His eyes move from Nelson to Judy, who is still reading about wartime dances and keeping a pig in your back garden. Despite his years, and Father Tom must be at least eighty, his gaze is remarkably shrewd.
‘Yes,’ says Nelson straightening up. ‘Can we take the rest of these magazines away with us?’
In the churchyard, Judy remembers to check Buster Hastings’ grave. The roses have gone but now there is a bunch of spring flowers, tied in a straw bow. Clearly someone in the village still remembers the martinet with affection. Nelson and Father Tom have stopped in front of the war memorial. Nelson scans the names; many from the First World War, fewer from the second. One of the latter names, Geoffrey Austin, rings a slight bell. Didn’t one of the Home Guard have a son who was killed at Dunkirk?
‘I’m campaigning to have a new name added,’ says Father Tom. ‘One of the local boys who died in Afghanistan. The War Graves Commission isn’t keen but I think we’ll win through in the end.’
Nelson does not doubt Father Tom’s ability to defeat the War Graves Commission. He has a feeling that Father Tom, like God, does not give up easily.
Judy comments on the tree, whose dark branches still make her feel slightly uneasy.
‘It’s a yew,’ says Father Tom. ‘They’re traditionally found in graveyards. This one has been here for hundreds of years, since medieval times.’
‘Why are they found in graveyards?’ asks Judy, wrapping her coat around her. The sun is higher now but it’s still very cold.
‘They’re evergreens, linked to immortality. There’s an old superstition that at midnight, the witching hour you know, the yew provides a kind of conduit for the dead to rise.’
Complete bollocks, thinks Nelson. But where has he heard that phrase recently? The witching hour?
‘The yew’s a sacred tree for druids,’ Father Tom is saying. ‘If you know of any druids, that is.’ He laughs heartily.
‘We know one,’ says Nelson.
They walk back to the car park in silence, each carrying a box of magazines. Nelson is thinking of Operation Lucifer, the sea in flames. There is nothing in the dull parish newsletters to suggest anything so terrifying or so memorable. According to the Broughton and Rockham Parish News the war years had been one long round of dances and rabbit shows (Flesh and Fur Fancy: Beat the Nazis by eating coney pie). But something had happened in this quiet village and Archie’s last word had been ‘Lucifer’. He really must have a good look through Hugh Anselm’s papers.
Judy, for no reason at all, is thinking about Cathbad and yew trees.
They have come in Judy’s car because Nelson’s is in for its MOT. Judy, in the face of much teasing, drives a four-by-four, a flashy jeep with wheels like a tractor. As Nelson climbs into the passenger seat, he says, ‘This car’s too big for you.’
‘It suits me fine.’
‘What does Darren drive?’
‘A Ford Ka.’
Nelson grunts as if his worst fears have been confirmed.
They drive along the coast road, Nelson trying not to tell Judy when to change gear (in fact, she’s a far better driver than he is).
‘Johnson!’
‘What?’ Judy brakes.
‘Let’s go to Sheringham. Have a look at this listening post thing.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just want to have a look at it.’
As Judy does a U-turn she considers that the boss is getting really hung up on this war business. It’s true that whoever killed Archie Whitcliffe and Hugh Anselm (not to mention Dieter Eckhart) probably knew about Operation Lucifer but, in Judy’s personal opinion, the truth must lie closer to home and to the present day. Don’t overcomplicate; that’s what Nelson himself usually says.
Beeston Bump turns out to be a long walk. A stunning one too, if you like that sort of thing, which Nelson doesn’t. But Judy enjoys striding over the short, aromatic grass, the wide blue sky above and the sea thundering away below. It’s a long haul, though, and they’re both panting by the time they reach the top. The view, as Father Tom promised, is spectacular. The flat plains of Norfolk lie behind them, they can even see the church tower at Broughton and Sea’s End House perched on the end of its promontory. In front of them is the sea, calm and clear.
All that remains of the listening post is an octagonal concrete base. Hard to imagine a building here, on this exposed point. A tower, Stella Hastings had said. Nelson looks out over the sea, sparkling innocently in the sun. How crowded it must have been seventy years ago – German E-boats, tankers stuffed full of petrol ready to ignite, Captain Hastings and his crew patrolling in their little dinghy. And, of course, the six Germans who died at Broughton Sea’s End. What happened to their boat, he wonders. Father Tom had shown them a map of the East Norfolk coast. It was studded with little crosses. ‘What are these?’ Nelson had asked. ‘Shipwrecks,’ answered Father Tom. ‘The coast is full of them. It’s treacherous, this coastline, lots of dangerous rocks, shallow sandbanks. That’s why we had the sea light at Broughton. You can’t land a boat on some beaches because of all the submerged wrecks.’ So, even under the sea, it’s crowded.