Letters to Mrs Hernandez Read online

  “That's a distinct possibility, laddie, but I've got something else that you might want to think about,” said James as he reached back in to his attaché case and pulled out a letter. He then winked at Ben and grinned.

  “I have in my hand a piece of paper!”

  Liza bit her tongue at James' joke – the quote from Neville Chamberlain, who famously brandished Hitler's signed promise of peace, now rang hollow in many British ears.

  “Well, I hope it's got more about it than the last time someone said that!” said Ben.

  “Indeed, it might just have. Do you remember me talking about my travels abroad?”

  “I've heard little else for the last four years, Mr Carruthers!”

  “Then you'll know what a time of it I had for myself in The Argentine? This here letter is from the Buenos Aires Great Southern Railway – they sent it to Glasgow, thinking I was still there, and it's been sent down here to Derby.

  “I went there after the Great War . . .” James looked at Liza and felt no more need to elucidate before Ben, “We wanted to get away from Glasgow for a while . . . and the North British Locomotive Company had built a lot of engines for the Argentinians. I was offered a contract to work there for a year, overseeing the engine sheds and it was a wonderful place – beautiful country, lovely hot weather and blue skies. A man can do well for himself, there.

  “Now, Ben, this letter is asking me to go back and do another six months, but I'm a wee bit too long in the tooth for all of that and I don't travel as well as I used to. But you, Ben . . . I think you should take this contract.”

  “The Argentine? That's near China, isn't it?” Spluttered Liza.

  “No, Mam, it's in . . . er . . . where is it?”

  “South America, Mrs Hutchinson, a neutral country a long, long way from the war, here, there, or frankly anywhere.” said James, reassuringly. “You would be one of the main engineers at the works in Buenos Aires, and the pay's good, Ben – three times what you're on right now.”

  “But . . . I don't know the first thing about The Argentine, Mr Carruthers. How would I fit in . . . I don't even speak the language . . . what language do they speak?”

  “Spanish, my boy, but that's the locals – there is a huge British colony out there – thousands of them – and they just speak English. Aye, you'd need a wee bit of Spanish to help you get by with the natives, but for the most part, I didn'ae mix with them all that much. Don't worry – you'd be in safe hands, there.”

  Ben looked intrigued but also baffled. “So I'd be doing work that I know, surrounded by English speakers . . . but I'd be in The Argentine? What about when I turn twenty one and get called up?”

  “You'll be doing a reserved occupation – you can worry about your call up when you're twenty one. Before then, I urge you to take this chance to travel, see the world and all of what's out there. Besides, this job is bringing money in to the country, so you're really doing it for Britain, laddie! How's that for the war effort?”

  Ben suddenly realized that there really were other places that he could be and was caught in in the euphoria of the moment. Trust his mother to bring him down to earth, though.

  “Well, that's all fine and dandy, but where is he going to stay? Who's going to cook his meals for him? Never mind wash his shirts for him!”

  “The company provides accommodation, cleaners and three square meals a day in their canteen, Mrs Hutchinson. Let the boy see a bit of the world.” James' voice had an air of passion and desperation in his final sentence – the tone he used with his own son all those years ago. The emotion was not lost on Liza and there was a hushed pause at the table.

  “So . . .” Liza slowly started, “He'll be living in a company house?”

  “Yes,” confirmed James with assuredness.

  “He'll get three square meals a day?”

  “Prime steak from the Pampas. None of that rationing and powdered egg muck, that's for sure!”

  “And he'll have his laundry done, every week?”

  “He'll be starched up to his eyeballs and bright as a new pin, every day.”

  Liza turned to her son and gave him one of her trademark firm looks.

  “And he'll write to his mother, every week, without fail?”

  “I wouldn't do anything less, Mam.”

  “And you'll stay away from loose girls?”

  “ . . . I'll be as pure as the driven snow, Mam . . .”

  James tipped his head towards Ben and gave him a knowing look. “Just let her believe that for now, boy!”

  Liza sat for a moment like a high court judge, deep in deliberation. She then gave her verdict:

  “Well, don't just sit there, my lad! Get yourself back to that library and find a book on learning Spanish . . . and whilst your at it, get me 'Gone With the Wind' anyway – I don't care if the last page is missing – I only want to read the bits with Clark Gable in 'em!”

   

   

  Chapter Seven - November 1942

  “Is your journey really necessary?” Ben met the gaze of the quizzical army squaddie who peered out from the propaganda poster. A gaggle of young boys wandered past. With their short-back-and-sides haircuts, school caps, overcoats, short trousers, long socks and sensible brogue shoes, they were as uniformly clad as the group of soldiers who stood nearby. But these young troopers were armed with nothing more sinister than notebooks, which they held at the ready with pencils sharpened to write down the numbers of the Midland Railway's finest steam engines as they passed through Derby Midland Railway Station, en route to all corners of the country, ferrying those whose journeys were truly necessary.

  “Of course your journey is necessary, son,” mused Liza as she joined Ben by the poster. “But take no notice, all the same. You're going on quite an adventure – think of all the places you're going to see, the people you'll meet and the things you'll do that so few of us will ever dream of. And because of that, the journey is a necessary one.”

  “You could, of course, stick around here, Ben,” chuckled James, looking skywards. “After all, it's such a lovely day!”

  All three of them looked to the gloomy heavens and took in the dreary greyness of a most typical English November day: a sheen of unbroken, overcast cloud which ran to all points of the horizon and goodness knows how much farther. The pallid complexion from on high showed no encouragement to those below, but there was an understanding between both parties that rain was a distinct possibility.

  The trio stood awaiting the train for London, which would then carry Ben to Southampton, to his ship. All were clad in long overcoats in their standard shades of dull grey and brown, sported by all on the platform and perhaps the entire country on that day. Ben held on to his cardboard suitcase – he had cleaned it up as best as he could and there was a particularly well polished patch on the top right hand corner of the lid, where Ben had vigorously removed the pawnbroker's thickly-pencilled price tag of three shillings and ninepence.

  Liza began to well up with emotion.

  “Och, Mrs Hutchinson, don't you upset yourself so,” said James with heartfelt empathy. “Here, now, the train doesn'ae leave for a while, yet. Hurry yourself to the rest-room and give your face a wee powdering, eh? It'll no do to send your wee lad away with the sound of his mothers sobs in his ears.”

  Liza nodded in agreement and hurried herself to the ladies' room. James's tall stature and avuncular strength suddenly gave way to a singular air of shiftiness.

  “Here, laddie,” James uttered to Ben in a hushed and secretive rasp as he whipped a brown paper parcel from his attache case. “Put this package in your suitcase . . . hurry boy, quickly now, so as your mother doesn'ae see.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Liza was still out of sight, then his attention darted back to Ben, who had dutifully stashed away the offending article in his case with all the speed and slight of hand of a superior spiv. James pulled Ben near and put his face close. In what had now become a desperate whisper, he issued a firm order:r />
  “You can open that once you're on your way. That's just between you and me, eh? Not a word, now!” A long index finger prodded the point home. Ben nodded in bewildered agreement.

  “Och, here she comes . . . act normal, now!”

  “And what are you two boys talking about?” Inquired Liza with a newly recovered grin.

  “Oh, Mam . . . he was just doing your job and making sure that I've got enough clean underwear for the journey!” Lied Ben, confident that such a line would put his mother off the scent and set her forth on a maternal lecture. She did not disappoint.

  “And quite right, too! What if you're in an accident and you've not got clean undies on? Think of what the doctors would say? I'd die of shame, I tell you!”

  A mother's pride in both her son's and her family's dignity were interrupted by a shrill whistle from the stationmaster. It was time to go.

  Ben shook hands with James and embraced his mother, who held him as tight as she dared. He then stepped aboard the second-class coach, placed his now bulging case in the overhead rack and made for the open window before anyone else in the compartment had the opportunity.

  “Write as often as you can, love!” Blurted Liza. There was no chance of holding back her tears, now.

  “Believe you, me, Mrs H. I've given him no excuse on that count.” Said James with remarkable assuredness.

  Ben gave James a curious glance, “Of course I will, Mam. Er . . . they do have plenty of writing paper in Argentina, don't they? Mind you, I don't know where the post office will be . . .”

  A high-pitched gasp of whistling steam cut off Ben's naiveté and with plentiful bellows, the mighty engine at the front of the train began to glide away with its cargo of travellers in tow. The figures on the platform were washed in wafting waves of steam, which brought the greyness of the sky to Earth. It really was goodbye.

  There was nothing else to do but wave and smile. But this did not occur to James, who stood behind Liza, miming and gesticulating frantically about the recently deposited package, which of course was now safe from the prying eyes of mother. Liza turned around and gave James a queer look before she suddenly realized that her son was disappearing from view and she whirled back to her waving and doting.

  The train made its meandering way through Chaddesden Sidings in search of the main line to the south. Within moments the platform, the station, James and Liza were all hidden from view. Ben was alone and heading forward.

  He reached up and retrieved his case, lumbering it down on to his lap. Then he fished out the brown, paper package and looked inside.

  Most prominent among the contents was a bottle. It was unopened and contained a brownish-gold liquid. Ben slid the bottle out of the package and read the label: MacAllan's Single Malt Scotch Whiskey – Aged 16 years. Also in the package was a small, narrow cardboard box, about six inches long, a pad of writing paper and envelopes, as well as a single, sealed envelope, on which was written in gloriously cursive script, 'For the attention of Mister Benjamin Hutchinson, Esquire'. Ben opened the envelope and began to read the letter within.

   

  Dear Ben,

  Forgive me for insisting that you keep this package hidden from your mother, but I am quite sure that she would not have approved of its most wondrous liquid content.

  My heart told me that to give away this bottle of Scotland's finest was an act of madness, but my liver tells me that to keep it all to myself would be an act of alcoholism. I reckon that you might find yourself in need of a wee dram every once in a while on this adventure of yours – besides, one never knows when one will need some company or assistance and I find that nothing oils the wheels of bargaining with a stranger better than a good single malt.

  On a less inebriated note, I have also enclosed for you a new Conway-Stewart fountain pen, along with a good quality writing set. I noticed that you did not have something decent with which to write, so now you have no excuse when it comes to writing to your mother - or myself, I hope - to let us know that you are well and good so far from home.

  May God speed you to the arms of those who love you,

   

  Your boss, mentor and friend,

   

  James Carruthers

   

   

  Chapter Eight - All At Sea

  SS Mouzinho,

  Somewhere at sea

  November 15th, 1942

   

  Dear Mum,

  Well, I've been at sea for a day, now, and I've got a better pair of sea legs that I thought I'd have – this is my first time on a ship, after all.

  London was not how I remember it from our trip there, when I was little. Of course, the war has changed everything, but there is no colour and everyone is just enduring their predicament, just 'keeping on' because it's the only thing they can do. Thank goodness we don't get the daily air-raids that they have. Talking of which, I hope that you are well and not being harassed by Jerry bombers and the like.

  There are some things to do on the ship to keep us entertained, such as films in the evening, but mostly, I am 'taking in the sea air' and working on the paperwork that Mr Carruthers gave me (and trying to learn a bit of Spanish, too!)

  We are going to dock in Lisbon, today, so I will get this in the post. I don't know when it will reach you, but I will write again and send another letter from wherever we dock after Portugal – somewhere in Africa, I'm told, but that means little to me.

  I know that you have an address to write to in Buenos Aires, so I am sure we'll be able to keep in touch a little better once I'm there.

   

  Lots of Love,

  Ben

   

  The ship would not dock in Lisbon for long, so the passengers had been told. The longer a neutral ship lingered in port, the more opportunity there was for intrigue by agents from either side – and Lisbon was teeming with them. Cargoes could be surreptitiously stowed aboard, agents could get their wires crossed. Things could get complicated.

  Without a visa for Portugal, nor the money, time or the inclination to possibly become involved in an international incident, Ben chose to stay aboard the Mouzinho. He handed his letter to the ship's clerk, who promised to post it whilst he was ashore, along with all of the other mail with which he had been charged by other passengers.

  After only a couple of day's sailing, Ben was confronted with the sights of another world. With the Mouzinho now mooring, he could look upon Lisbon. This seaport was a far cry from the ones he had seen in England: the dull murk of brick and concrete with matching sky was all that home had to offer, but here was colour – vivid colour. The bluest of blue skies was without cloud, spreading itself over the undulating urban landscape of almost exclusively white-walled buildings, all offset with russet red tiled roofs. Standing atop a high peak was a beautiful, domed building - a church, perhaps? - in glorious yellow.

  All that remained to be done for now was to take in yet more sea air and watch the stevedores as they moved crate after crate to and from the hold of the Mouzinho. What was in the cases, Ben wondered? All that seemed to matter in England was the packaging and dispatching of goods for the war effort, but Portugal was neutral, so what was England sending here? Whatever it may be, Ben thought, we don't seem to be getting much in return!

  Whilst musing, Ben found himself staring with inappropriate fascination at some of the stevedores, who were African. These were the first non-European people on which Ben had ever set eyes, apart from actors in films - but those films were in black and white, anyway – so it was in the manner of a child's first encounter with a strutting peacock that Ben gazed on, until one of the men seemed to feel Ben's gaze and turned to meet it with a look that resented the scrutiny.

  Ben immediately recoiled and realized that he had been looking at people as if they were exhibits in a museum. The matter was made worse as the man began to laugh at Ben – he called to his colleagues, who, realizing that they were being viewed as a novelty, all gathered and
stared back, waving and pointing at Ben.

  Turning away with embarrassment, Ben took a wander to the other end of the promenade, to where the more affluent passengers were alighting on another gangplank. Coming from a Derbyshire coal mining town in which every person was of Anglo-Saxon or Viking heritage meant that Ben's perception of race and creed had been rather blinkered. It was enough to witness his first Africans in the flesh, but the Europeans now stepping aboard didn't look like him, either – they were a lot browner, too – but he reasoned that if the weather was like this all year long, then it was no wonder they all looked so tanned. The many different colours of the women's summer dresses made the gathering before him in to a rainbow in brownian motion. He decided to indulge in this culture shock and drink in all that it could give him – just so long as he could avoid detection as a peeping Tom.

  On the quayside, a large, black Citroen Traction Avant glided gently to rest near the moorings, with its frog-eyed head lamps blinking towards the ship. A chauffeur stepped out of the Citroen and made to open the left rear door, but the door opened before the chauffeur could reach it, as the occupant, a man, gently but authoritatively waved him away and gestured for him to get the cases from the car's boot. This man was dressed in a cream coloured double breasted suit – much more appropriate for the climate, thought Ben, whose thick, grey woollen suit from Montague Burtons was far too stifling for him in this Mediterranean heat. The man's hair was jet black, neatly coiffured and trimmed around the back and sides, thinning a little at the temples but longer on top and sleeked back with pomade. Ben could see that this man oozed confidence and esteem in the way that he reverently opened the other rear door.

  From within the rear seat gloom emerged a pair of slender, yet athletic legs, shod in the latest bright red raised heel shoes. These olive coloured legs moved as if setting themselves down on a cloud, and once on terra firma, their owner could make her full entrance: the view of the legs was curtailed at the knee by a white Summer dress festooned in red flowers, gathered at the waist by a red belt, which in turn served to accentuate the roundness of the hips and bosom on the hour-glass figure. The wide-lapelled open neck was offset with a red cravat, whilst white gloved hands elegantly put sunglasses and a white, wide brimmed hat on face and head, respectively.