CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 65, Issue 195, 31 May 1945, Page 7

CLOUD OVER CORATON.

Serial Story.

v (Copyright). Wartime Rural England.

BY T. C. BRIDGES.

CHAPTER IV. JERRY TAKES TOLL. “Better have a drink. Peter.” “Thanks,” said Peter. His red eyebrows rose as he looked at the bottle. “Pre-war Scotch. This is a treat.” He drank and set down his glass. "Ever had this sort of thing before, Derek?” “Not. shooting. But some queer noise has brought me up about every other night.”. “And all the night long there was rattling of bones, all along, out along, down along lea,” quoted Peter. Derek smiled faintly. “No, not bones or chains. Usually a queer humming sound. Sometimes it makes the whole house vibrate. I’ve searched every room but found nothing to account for it. It’s getting me down, Peter.” “Obviously that’s what it’s meant for,” replied Peter, “the more so as you’re a bit high-strung. My advice is to sit tight. Noises can’t hurt anyone.. And I’ll back you all I can.”

“You can’t think what a comfort it is to have you here,” said Derek with unusual earnestness. “I’m free to admit I was getting windy.” Peter laughed. “What —after Dunkirk? Get to bed again, old son. We’re going to be busy to-morrow.”

The rest of the night was peaceful and another day of brilliant sun was good both for the last of the hay and for their spirits.

“Market day to-morrow,” said Derek as they sat clown to supper that night. “Will you come, Peter?” “Not unless you want me. I’ll be glad of a * quiet day. I have some letters to write and in the evening I might try for a trout in your brook. I see you have a rod.” “And flies, but the casts are old You’ll have to soak and test them.” “I’ll manage,” said Peter. For the rest of the evening he kept talking away from Derek’s troubles and that night passed without disturbance.

The back of Derek’s little car was piled with baskets of eggs and early strawberries, and in a trailer he had new potatoes, lettuces, and other greenstuff. Prices were so high and transport so difficult that he carried all lie' could. Coraton, lying in a valley sheltered from cold winds, produced early crops; Derek was making money, and saw prospect of doing even better in the future.

He had always loved the land, so much that his father, a Nigerian Commissioner, had allowed him to go to Yearsett Agricultural College straight from school. He had spent two happy years there, working hard on soil chemistry and modern crop production before his course was cut short by the sudden death of his father and mother, both killed in a moment by lightning in one of those fierce tropical storms which scourge West Africa. There was no money left, Derek had no near relations. If the war had not come just then he would have been obliged to take work as a gardener or agricultural labourer.

With his big load and trailer Derek had to drive slowly and carefully over the rough hilly road. It was still line, but not so bright as the past two days. Great fluffy cumulus clouds drifted slowly out of the south-west. A solitary Spitfire came in high overhead making in the direction of Exeter. There was hardly any traffic until Derek reached the main road. The town was full. Queues stood outside the confectioners and fishmongers. Derek parked his car in the market square and went about his business. There was no difficulty in findingcustomers. All he had was snapped up at once. A dealer named Purvis whom he knew slightly, buttonholed him and asked if he had any rabbits. The price he offered surprised Derek. Derek told him there was a good many on his land, but lie had no time or men to trap them. “I’ll find a trapper,” said Purvis. I-Ie glanced up at the big clock on the church tower. “It’s nearly one,” lie went on. “Come and have dinner with me at the Feathers. We’ll talk it over.” Purvis was a big, bluff, genial fellow, and Derek accepted his invitation. The two left the market and were on their way up to Brook Street to the famous old Prince of Wales’s Feathers when the air vibrated to the harsh scream of the siren. At once the crowds dispersed for shelter. Some ran, but most moved quietly into the many nairow yards and alleys which ran off on both sides of the street. Derek and 1 uivis had no refuge near. They faced up against the nearest wall. Befoie the siren had ceased sounding theie came a rapid crackle of machine-gius then a thunderous crash, followe?T almost instantly by a second much louder and nearer. Derek held his breath. When was the third coming?” There was no third. “There her goes!” shouted a man on the other side of the street. ‘There baint but one on ’em.” “Thai ast bomb was on the station or near it,” said Purvis. “Reckon we might lend a hand.” Derek nodded, and the two hurried up the hill and turned into Tor Street. I’he station stood above the main part of the town. '

“Yes, right on the station,” Purvis went on pointing to a cloud of dust yards ahead. Men were running. Derek could not run, yet made good speed, and Purvis stayed beside him. “Hell, they got a train!’ Purvis said sharply. A train had been standing in the station. The bomb had not hit it. It had struck the station buildingon the far side of the line and brought down the wreckage across the rails and the train. Smoke was rising ominously but already men were running hose from a static tank close by. Home Guards were keeping back the crowd. Purvis was a Plome Guard. They let him through. “I’m an old soldier—Dunkirk,” Derek told the sergeant, and he, too, was allowed to pass. The sergeant knew his job. His orders came quick and sharp. Picks and spades appeared as if by magic, and every man allowed inside the cordon was put to his job. The locomotive, which was only partly covered was released and hauled away. The tender, which was afire, was drenched with water. The driver and fireman, both hurt, were carried

off. Two carriages were smothered under beams and masonry. Derek worked alongside Purvis. It was not his first experience of the kind, he knew what to do; so, too, did Purvis. Between them they tunnelled towards, the first carriage and, with the help of a couple of sturdy farm labourers, at last reached it. It was fiat on its side, but the roof: was stiil sound. Derek was dripping with sweat when at last he and his companions reached the door of the carriage. Timbers arched overhead, but they managed to wrench open the door. Two men, a farmer and a. commercial traveller, refused to come out until the women i were moved. First, came the dead woman. She was about fifty, stout, dark, foreign looking. She had no outward signs of injury. The. second was a girl, also dark but slim, with clean-cut features and a lovely skin. She had a head wound. The two were passed out through the tunnel. . Derek straightened his bent back aiid wiped the sweat that was streaming into his eyes. There was a. cracking sound overhead. “Look out!” cried Purvis. It was too late. A broken timber struck Derek’s skull, and he went flat. LOST LADY. ; Derek woke to find himself in bed in a strange room. He had. a bandage round his forohood and <i bit of n lieudache. Otherwise there did not seem to be much wrong with him. It took a minute or two to collect his senses and remember what had happened. Then it all flashed before him, clear as a photograph. “That girl,” he exclaimed. “The girl is here in the hospital.” A man with thick grey hair and keen but kindlv eyes rose from a chair by the bedside, 'and Derek recognised him as Dr. Pugh. “How do you feel, Mr Martyn?” “Not much the matter with me, replied Derek. “You’re lucky,” said the doctor. “Or perhaps I should say fit. Y'ou had a bad blow on the back of the head, you have been out for nearly an hour, and most men would have been feeling very poorly.” “Farm work keeps one fit, and 1 have a thick skull,” Derek smiled. “But tell me about the girl.” “Like you, she had a blow on the head, but a worse one than yours. She is still insensible.” “Will she recover?” “I hope so, but I should like to get into touch with her people.” “Can’t you?” . - “We have no means of identifying her.” “Didn’t she have a handbag?” “Yes, but no name or address in it. Just a purse, a handkerchief, powder compact, and her ticket.” “Where was she going—Plymouth?” “No,. She was coming here. She had a single from Waterloo to Taverton.”

.“Then she will have relatives here.” “I hope so. I have rung up the police station to ask them to make inquiries—you are interested in her?” the doctor added with a smile. “Naturally,” Derek answered frankly. “What about the dead woman?” ‘ “We have not identified her either. She is foreign, either Italian or Spanish.”

“The girl looked a hit foreign.” “ Yes, but we have no proof that the two had. anything to do with one another. I asked the men, but they only got in at Okehampton. They say that the elder woman was then asleep and that she remained asleep during the short run to Taverton. Indeed she was asleep when the bomb fell.” “You may find something in their luggage,” Derek persisted. '“We have to reach it. The luggage van was next the engine and is completely buried.” Tie paused. “Now drink this and go to sleep, and don’t worry your head about the injured girl, or anything else.” “But I want to go home,” returned Derek.

“Not to-day,” said the doctor with decision.

“But Peter—my friend, Peter Plews, will be anxious.” “No. I have already sent word to him by your neighbour Isaac Setters. Now sleep.” “You seem to have thought of everything. All right,” said Derek and lay hack, and closed his eyes. The doctor watched him for a few moments..

“The right sort,” lie said to himself as he closed the door softly. Derek slept till seven, when he was roused by a nurse with a tray.

“Supper,” she said smilingly. “Feel like it?”

“You bet.” grinned Derek, who was feeling much refreshed. “How’s the girl?” lie inqured. “Still insensible. She had a bad knock. But don’t worry about her, Mr Martyri. The doctor feels sure she will come round.” She left him and Derek ate the well cooked little meal and presently was asleep again. Next morning his headache had gone, and when the nurse came in with his breakfast he told her he felt as good as new. The doctor looked him over and agreed that he might go out, and once more Derek inquired about, the girl. “She has come round,” Dr. Pugh told him, “and her condition is fairly good. But there is a fresh complication. She can’t give her name or any account of herself. I am afraid she has lost her memory.” Derek’s eyes widened. “But won’t it come back?”

“It may or it may not. I don’t know yet whether the cause is shock or an injury to the brain itself. Fact, is we doctors know very little about these cases of amnesia. I remember a case in which a sailor fell down a hatchway and fractured his skull. He recoved completely, but had entirely lost all memory of the three days preceding his accident, which was distinctly awkward because he had been married during that period.” “But this girl has lost, all her memory?’ Derek queried. “No. She has not lost, power of speech, nor her nice manners, nor apparently powers of reading and writing. It is what you might call her personal memory that has gone.” “It’s a bad show,” said Derek gravely. “The one hope is that we may find something in her luggage, which will tell us who she is.”

“That is our best hope,” Pugh agreed. “Now I must say good-bye and get on with my job. Take care of yourself and go slow for a day of two. By the bye your car is outside. 1 ’phoned the garage to send it up.” ITo Be Continued;.

The cTiaracters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.’