14
With her heart thumping, Sophie quickly started to read through the newspaper article. It was shocking and provocative, going into great detail about how Vivienne had executed her plan of taking a high-ranking Nazi POW out of the hospital, seemingly intending to smuggle him back to Germany. It was very sparse on what had happened to Vivienne thereafter, but it talked about a local fisherman who had transported her over in a boat and how he’d been held at gunpoint by the German officer.
Sophie was shocked, but there was nothing else in the paper. She continued to look through the folders. As the older woman came back with a book, she saw the story and swallowed.
‘Of course, that awful woman would be a relative of yours. I hadn’t put two and two together until now. Most unfortunate, most unfortunate indeed. But don’t worry, it was a long time ago, and the rest of your family did great war work. They took care of a lot of people in that hospital. I think I’ve got something about it here.’
She handed Sophie another historical book, which documented all the hospitals converted from stately homes during the war and how they’d been transformed to take in prisoners and soldiers. Sophie read through it. It was indeed amazing to see the transformation the manor had gone through. There were about six pictures of the ballroom, which looked like a hospital ward. ‘Can I buy a copy of this?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ responded the woman. ‘That’ll be £19.99.’
Armed with her book, Sophie was just about to leave when an older man she imagined might be the Harold Westlake her auntie had mentioned came in through the door.
‘Well, hello there, did you enjoy the exhibition?’ he enquired, eyeing her quizzically.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m interested in the hospital at Hamilton Manor and the work that Cornwall was involved in during the war.’
The gentleman’s eyes lit up. This was undoubtedly a subject he liked to talk about.
‘Ah, we were very important,’ he stated loudly. ‘Our boats transported spies, you know.’
‘Really. Out of Helford?’ Sophie had wanted to leave, but he was now in the flow of his story and she didn’t want to appear rude.
‘Oh, yes,’ he continued with obvious pride.
He drew her attention to a wall with pictures of boats lined up. Past sea captains were smoking cigarettes, and trussed in knitted sweaters, heavy trousers and boots, posing on their decks, including his father, he informed her.
‘Can you imagine what it must’ve been like?’ he said with great admiration. He led her over to a photo, and pointed out two or three boats and sea captains. ‘This fellow, John Thompson, he made about thirty trips with different spies. They used a boat that was marked up like a French boat and he used to go over and mingle with the fishing boats in France, and then they would transport the spies to the shore. He did that early in the war. Even got into a near-lethal fight with an actual Nazi once.’
Sophie’s eyes flashed up at him. Was this another avenue for her to get more information about Vivienne? ‘Do you know much about that story?’
‘Oh yes, it’s well documented,’ he said, going away and pulling out an account in another leather-bound book about the Helford fishermen.
‘The Helford Flotilla, as it was known, had stopped transporting spies by that time in the war because it had become very dangerous. But somehow a nurse, the landowner’s daughter, no less, who worked at Hamilton Manor, talked him into making this one last trip. But unbeknownst to him she was helping a Nazi escape with her too. He suspected nothing because the woman was a local, he’d known her all her life. She’d dressed the Nazi in civilian clothes too. But halfway across the English Channel he began to think that something was up. The traitors came clean then and the Nazi held John up at gunpoint before he hit him over the head with the gun, afterwards sailing to France and leaving him unconscious on his boat. He was lucky he came around before it ran ashore.’
Sophie struggled to take in what he was saying and felt for the first time the guilt and shame her family had perhaps experienced over the years.
‘How can I find out more about this?’ she enquired.
‘I’m sure his grandson would love to tell the tale. You’ll meet Barney – we joke it’s short for Barnacle because he lives on his boat – down the street. He’s always in the Blue Anchor at lunchtime – end of the bar. You can’t miss him. If you want to know the whole story, you should catch him there this afternoon. Trust me, he’ll be there. Probably on about his third pint by now.’
He chuckled then, and she made her way out of the museum, wondering if she was doing all of this in vain. What if, instead of clearing Vivienne’s name, she found evidence to incriminate her?
When Sophie arrived at the Blue Anchor, ten minutes later, the smell of hops, the damp outside and fresh salted fish greeted her. Sophie realised straight away she was the only woman in the room, as all the heads swivelled to acknowledge her as she stepped through the glass door with the word ‘BAR’ engraved on it.
The bartender was drying a glass and nodded to her as she approached him. ‘Can I help you, love?’ he asked in a dry monotone.
‘Uh, a gin and tonic,’ she replied, not wishing to give away her real reason for being there. Walking into a rural pub and announcing you want to talk about the Nazis wasn’t exactly an easy conversation starter.
She peered down the row of men who were hugging the bar. Woollen skullcaps and thick jumpers, plus thick knee-length boots, hinted at their likely occupation in the fishing business.
When the bartender arrived back with her drink, she drew her head closer and asked him quietly, ‘Is there somebody here called Barney?’
He nodded to the end of the bar where a short man was nursing half a pint of ale and chatting to the person next to him. Feeling on her back foot as the only woman in the place, Sophie grabbed her drink and took her courage in her hands. She moved to the end of the bar where Barney had just said something raucous, and three of the men next to him burst out laughing.
She waited till the laughter died down before she smiled graciously, and asked, ‘Excuse me, are you Barney?’
He swivelled on his stool and looked her up and down. ‘Who’s asking?’ he snapped, his eyes full of suspicion.
She imagined she looked extremely out of place, with her south-eastern accent and designer clothes that would’ve been very common on the London streets but felt unusual here.
‘My name’s Sophie.’ She hesitated from telling him her last name. She was beginning to realise that it was possible that some people here might remember the negative connection to her family, and if Vivienne had indeed assaulted this man’s grandfather, it might not be in her best interests to let on right away who she was. ‘Someone from the museum told me I could find you here. I have an interest in a story that you may know about.’
‘Story?’ he asked as the other lads looked on. She could tell by their animated nudging and nodding that it wasn’t very often a young woman approached Barney in the bar. ‘Why don’t you pull up a stool? I’ve got thousands. Which one would you like?’
She did as he urged, awkwardly perching on the edge of the bar stool as she took a sip of her drink. She decided to tell him a white lie. ‘I’m down from London doing research on the work of the fishermen during World War Two.’