The Dominafuhrer - THE GODMOTHER

Episode 21 - To The Top Of The Hill

“Es ist er, Ich erkläre Ihnen!”  Kelly and I both stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at each other. We were used to hearing our mistress speak in German but that was not her voice and we had no idea where it came from. Nor did we have any idea who the mysterious ‘Him’ was that that the female had identified or whom she was telling. I looked over the balcony and could see that the door of the telephone booth directly beneath us had swung open. Obviously, that was where the speaker was and we both leaned over further to hear and possibly see more.

“Ich töte ihn!” There was no doubt about that, she was going to kill ‘Him’. Then, whoever it was in the phone booth must noticed the open door because a slim bare arm appeared, grasped the inside handle, and closed the door with a sharp bang.

We were going to wait to see who came out of the booth but, a door opened behind us and Bradshaw emerged from his corner bedroom. He looked surprised to see us and then immediately suspicious, probably thinking that we were eavesdropping on him or up to some other mischief. We tried to look innocent but Bradshaw scowled at us and waited at the top of the stairs until we retreated down the passage to our own room. We quickly changed our shoes and grabbed coats and scarves but, by the time we scurried back downstairs to the hall, the phone booth was empty. Our curiosity unsatisfied, we set out on our walk.

Spalding was right on both counts; it was blustery up on the headland, but it was a wonderful view of the coast. The twenty minute stroll from the back of the house had ended in a steeper climb than we expected and even the engineers who had built the battery must have had problems getting their construction vehicles and the guns up by the estate road that came round the eastern side of the woods and approached the emplacement at a less precipitous angle. But, as I said, it was worth it as this was probably the highest point along the coast for miles. Below and to our left, sailing craft and fishing boats bobbed in a sheltered harbour; across from us was a long low island covered in marsh and scrub, with more masts rising and falling in an another anchorage at the far end. Behind us, to the east, was a similar vista of creeks, marshes and tiny islands with chimney smoke indicating human habitation. Finally, to our right, were the slate grey waters of the North Sea, broken up by the white crests of the wind driven waves.

“Lovely, but can we go inside now?” Kelly asked as another gust of wind drove rain drops against our faces. I shivered, agreed and we dashed for the concrete steps that led down into the shelter of the pill box. It was actually the top of the gun control tower, the roof inlaid with rusting metal bases of the ranging instruments for the both the anti-aircraft and the coastal guns and, once inside, there were thick glass windows instead of open slits looking out over the sea. Broken ended cables trailed from the ceilings and walls which also had lighter patches and little holes where maps or boards had been hung and there was a thin layer of dust on the floor but at least we were out of the wind. There was a low ledge on the wall under the window and when we stepped up onto it, we could look down on the abandoned coastal gun battery; a semi-circular concrete shelf with low iron railings around the edge, two raised circular bases and bricked up arches in the rear wall which probably led to gun crew shelters and empty magazines deep beneath us. A small steamer appeared from our left, thrusting its bow into the grey rollers and shipping sea and spray back over the foredeck as far as the base of tiny bridge. Puffs of brown smoke emerged from the tall funnel as the ships engine strained to keep it going forward against the forces of nature.

I sang softly to myself:

                                  “Dirty British coaster, with a salt-caked smoke stack,

                                   butting through the Channel in the mad March days.”

“What’s that?” Kelly asked, giving me a curious look.

“It’s a poem by John Masefield; Cargoes”, I replied. ” You must know it. Didn’t you do English Literature at school? I could study it in Nazi Germany; providing that the authors were suitably Aryan.” 

Kelly was staring glumly out of the window and just grunted, so I jested with her a bit more. “You can’t have studied Canadian Literature; there isn’t any. Can you name me some famous Canadian authors?”

Kelly pursed her lips as she thought. “There’s Mazo De la Roche, Grey Owl and Robert Service!” The last one came out as a shout of inspiration but I was not impressed. “Tales of a family of neurotics; a bogus redskin from Hastings and David would argue that Service was a Scots poet”. Indeed he would, having embarrassed me so many times with his drunken recitation of ‘The shooting of Dan McGrew’.

Kelly still looked troubled and I tried one more time. “Come on, aren’t you proud of your English heritage? Did you know that Nelson was born a couple of miles away from here?”

Kelly smiled sadly, stepped down off the ledge, spread her scarf on the concrete and then sat down on it. As I spread my own scarf and sat down beside her, she suddenly clutched my hand, twisting her fingers round mine.

She turned her face towards me, tears welling in her eyes. “I know about Nelson,” she said in a choked voice. “My Grandfather told me”.

With my free hand, I got cigarettes for us both out my handbag, lit them and passed one to Kelly. “Ingrid, its time I told about me and my family.” Nervously puffing at her cigarette and flicking the ash off the end, Kelly began her story.

To continue this story, click Kelly's Chronicle

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