The Secrets of Liam Treadway

The Secrets of Liam Treadway

By Ron Crouch

Published by Colbourne House

Ron Crouch Copyright 2022

Cover art by Chris Salewski

All publication rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events in the story are either a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To those that served in our hour of need. To those that continue to serve, we salute you. You will not be forgotten.

Chapter One

I am sitting rocking slowly back and forth on the front porch of my castle deep in thought, looking back over my long life, I suppose you’d call it reminiscing, the wooden runners on the old rocking chair creak under the moderate weight of my aging body as they roll over the large slate slabs. On the round-wooden table to my left a whiskey glass, cut crystal, expensive, half filled with single malt whiskey, not just any whiskey, Cornish Whiskey one hundred and eighty-five pounds for a five-hundred c.c. bottle, hence the crystal glass. I purposely left the bottle inside the cottage, if I’d put it on the table one glass would inevitably lead pleasantly to another and on my pension I can’t afford to keep buying whiskey at that price, no seniors’ discount there. Perhaps a little early in the day for a drop of the hard stuff, but as the song says, It’s five o’clock somewhere, and that’s good enough for me. In an effort to balance the negative health effects of whiskey, I open a bag of nori, Cornish seaweed, not that Japanese stuff. Even though I might not ever be accepted as a Cornishman, I like to look after the locals, or at least give the appearance of doing so.

I affectionately refer to my old fisherman’s cottage as The Castle; detached, two storey, built with Cornish stone, granite lintels and a traditional slate roof. A picture postcard, Wish I could live there domicile. Fell in love with it the first time I set eyes on the place when I saw it for sale on Blacksmith Street, Newlyn. Quite by chance, wasn’t even looking to move to Cornwall. I needed some peace and quiet to revaluate the changes in my life’s circumstances. The power of the estate agent’s board, he was still in the process of erecting it, not without some difficulty as I drove by. I made a quick U-turn, which I believe to this day was a wise decision, otherwise it would have been snapped up in no time, no doubt in my mind, probably by one of those rich yuppies from London looking for a country cottage getaway by the sea. I could still hear the agent hammering in the post as I parked my old 1981 Ford Cortina just around the corner out of sight. The Ford a 1.6 GL had served me well, even though I bought it privately second hand. It rarely let me down despite having been around the clock once and certainly didn’t deserve the acronym Found On Road Dead. It was starting to rust out though, so the original dark-brown paintwork was a good choice of colour. Owning a car and living by the sea is a real problem for anything made of steel, no matter how many coats of paint you put on it, like cancer it eats away from the inside, unseen until it’s too late. Same thing with my cottage’s old metal window frames, had to replace them all about ten years ago now, probably wouldn’t have bothered if my daughter Jacqueline hadn’t kept nagging me about the bitter winter draughts blasting through the buckled frames. You’ll get pneumonia Dad, they have to be replaced. Never had double glazing before, mind you I’m sure I’m more susceptible to the common cold now the place is warmer and more airtight. Never had a cold when the cottage was draughty and freezing during the winter months.

As I expected, as soon as I addressed the agent, he looked up at me scanning the road for my vehicle, like a car salesman looking for an angle. Once I’d finally extracted the asking price from him and mentally calculated I could actually afford it, I told him not to bother with the sign. Of course I wanted to take a look around the place first, I might be cabbage-looking but I’m not green, as the saying goes. Nice back garden, curved flower borders the way I like them, filled with foxgloves, delphiniums, lupins and hollyhocks. In the background, rhododendrons and azaleas. The owner was definitely a keen gardener like myself. With that much pride taken with the garden, it was no wonder the rest of the house was lovingly cared for. Growing up the front of the house, a beautiful pink climbing rose, had to be from the hardy Rugosa family to survive by the sea, it was well established and healthy looking. Not much, if anything to do in the house or gardens except to move right in, which I did. The rest as they say, is history. But that’s a long time ago now. I take another sip of amber nectar and look across to the other side of the road, my weary eyes taking in the low brick wall of Cornish stone with masses of buddleia shrubs in full bloom, their long-narrow tufts of flowers a variety of blueish hues. I sit watching the various species of butterflies flitting among the flowers, I couldn’t identify them all, but the old favourites of mine are still there, in depleted numbers sadly; the pale yellow brimstone, the peacock with large eye-like circles on its wings, the small tortoiseshell, apparently the large variety now considered extinct. I glanced a painted lady, at least I think it was a painted lady, the old eyes aren’t what they used to be and there, my favourite the red admiral.

I recalled as a boy hiking the South Downs bridle path between Lancing College and Cissbury Ring, stopping off at the chalk escarpment at the top of Mill Road marvelling at the clouds of butterflies flying all around me, hundreds of them flying above the thick buddleia bushes growing at the foot of the chalk pit. I took it all for granted back then, not realizing that what I was experiencing would sadly one day be a thing of the past; as my life begins to draw to a close these delicate, beautiful creatures have already started to disappear from the English landscape because of changes in farming practices, industrial development and urban sprawl, and of course a term not even coined when I was a boy; global warming. Back then, that must have been about 1938, before the war anyway, I could walk the South Downs Way and hardly ever see another soul, but not today, now the place is infested with people like fleas crawling through a hedgehog’s back; dog walkers, hikers, joggers and those infernal mountain bikers. You can’t walk anywhere now without stepping on a dog turd. Bloody dog walkers, not all of them I know. They’ve even built a bloody parking lot up there now, in fact they’re all over the place, just about every place of outstanding beauty has one. I miss the England I remember as a boy and am thankful I got to enjoy it back then. The word progress has always been a dirty word for me. If the country’s population keeps increasing at the rate it is, we’ll all have to learn to live in one of those sentry boxes the guards use at Buckingham Palace and adapt to sleeping standing up. Politicians, they’ve really buggered up this country, glad I won’t be around much longer to see the handiwork of their continued combined folly.

I’ve made a conscious decision not to let them spoil my day, they’ve spoiled enough of them already. Lately my daughter’s been telling me to consider ten things in the day I’m grateful for and not to be so negative. Apparently she’s been following one of those self-help programmes. You’ll live longer you know, that’s what she told me over the telephone in a recent conversation. A real phone with a cord attached, affixed to the wall in my kitchen, not one of those cell phone things people are walking around with stuck to their ears. I don’t care if it can tell me the temperature outside, I can go outside and discover that for myself, or how many steps I’ve walked today, how many calories I’ve burned. And as for being constantly up-to-date with the news, who wants to be, it’s all so depressing. I’ve even given up watching the BBC World News. In fact I don’t think it would have mattered to me if I hadn’t seen or heard the news since 1945 at the end of the war. It doesn’t seem to have registered with my daughter that I’m already ancient. Figuratively, I don’t have one foot in the grave, my proverbial foot is the only thing not in the grave, the remainder of my body, again figuratively speaking is in the grave. Mind you, those scientists that study longevity are no longer interested in young men of my age, now they’re far more interested in those people over a hundred and ten years old. Living to be one hundred is now considered passé. I am, according to the dictionary a nonagenarian and therefore not worthy of study.

I continue to gaze over the brown-coloured wall and the tops of the buddleias and the butterflies, at the panoramic view of the sea or more precisely Mount’s Bay. To the east, the English Channel, to the west, the Celtic Sea and onwards to the vast North Atlantic Ocean. Look northeast or to the left of where I’m sitting and you’ll see the iconic St. Michael’s Mount with its imposing castle, and I do mean a castle not a fisherman’s cottage, though there are some of those nestled at the foot of the huge hill on which the castle was built many centuries ago. Its current inhabitants are descendants of earlier occupants. Like many historic buildings in England, an arrangement has been made between the current owners and the National Trust to ensure the protection and upkeep of the building over a long-term lease, allowing certain parts of it, at a fee to be open to the general public. The last time I checked it was fifteen pounds for an adult, seven pounds fifty for a child or thirty-seven pounds fifty for a family pass, that is if you want to see both the castle and the garden. I should contact the National Trust and see if they might be interested in coming to a similar arrangement with me. Cornish afternoon cream teas in the back garden for a tenner, after a quick walkthrough of my cottage with its inglenook fireplace and oak beams. I did change one thing on my own modest castle, the front door colour, from dull grey to a glossy navy blue, more in keeping with my merchant navy days and later my police service.

There’s nothing about growing old I can recommend; aches and pains linger, joints hurt and memories become confused, not to mention deteriorating eyesight and hearing. I was never any good with remembering names anyway, but now I have trouble remembering faces. Where has the time gone? All those years, no not years, decades would be a more accurate description of time passed. My ninetieth birthday has just slipped by, not a big affair, just my daughter Jacqueline, she’s a registered nurse and her husband Ray, he’s a plumber, useful chap to have around; my granddaughter Emily and her husband Bob both police officers with the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary stationed in Exeter, she’s in the CID he’s on Traffic. That department was never my cup of tea, Traffic I mean. Over time I’ve learned to forgive him for that and his other failings, like being useless at general house repairs. But, the two of them did bring me great joy in the form of my soon to be, two-year old great-grandson William. Three former colleagues, all since retired from the Sussex Police drove across country to celebrate with me; Ian, Mike and Debbie, all about thirty years younger than me, if my memory serves me correctly. There would have been quite a crowd gathered, only longevity has a way of killing off people around you, genetics I guess, taking into consideration; accidents, heart attacks, strokes and the dreaded cancer. I stopped checking the Sussex Police obits years ago, so many old partners and former colleagues all gone, some well before their time, some didn’t even make it to retirement. Some I was glad to see the back of. I feel like I’m seated at this incredibly long dining table, like the one I believe is inside Buckingham Palace for those Royal dinner engagements, not that I’ve ever been inside the palace, only from what I’ve seen on documentaries and TV shows. Seated at the table around me are all my friends and family and people I know. Every time I get up to leave the table to go to the washroom, on my return I get the feeling something’s amiss. As I look around the table I see why, people are missing. As I get older, more and more people have disappeared from the table and now there’s hardly any one sitting there with me. It’s becoming quite obvious that my turn is coming soon, but I’m not ready yet so I’m trying to make the imaginary dessert last as long as possible. Perhaps it’s like being in primary school waiting for the nurse to give you an injection. It’s terrifying as you wait outside the room to be called, but once you’ve had the needle it wasn’t so bad after all. Unfortunately though once you do really leave that dining table, there’s no coming back. So my dear Jacqueline, there’s one thing to be grateful for today, I’m still alive and enjoying being alive and the whiskey. Look at that, two things I’m grateful for today, make that five; the view, my cottage and the fine weather.

No wife to join in the celebrations; Patti ran out on me within the first six months of my retirement thirty years ago. That would have been, let me think; in 1988. It was the end of January when I retired. She couldn’t handle me being under her feet all day, moping around our modest house in Kemptown, Brighton. Retiring was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be, not that I wasn’t ready for it and even begged the universe for it to come, the shift work was killing me the nights especially. I was permanently tired. It’s true; you know when it’s time to go. I don’t blame Patti for leaving me, I’d have done the same thing in her shoes; running off with the mail man was what really pissed me off. Been single ever since. After the divorce we sold our house in Kemptown and went our separate ways. I moved to the West Country, to this picturesque fishing port called Newlyn. Why Newlyn? I was second mate on the coaster Balmorino back in the fifties, sailed in here to load Cornish stone, the place remained etched into my brain ever since, little did I know it would pull me back many years later to put down permanent roots. Funny how you remember some things; the galley suffered a breakdown, almost caused the cook to have one too. No hot meals, salads until the stove and oven could be repaired when we reached our next port, wherever that was, don’t remember now. I do remember the union steward, a new sailor on aboard who gave a speech on deck about not sailing until the problem was fixed. We were like a family, our captain was good to us, a fair man and a man we all respected. He asked if we’d sail on the next tide and have repairs done when we reached port. Other than the union rep, we all agreed, the stone was loaded and we sailed out of Newlyn, leaving behind a flotilla of colourful fishing boats and yachts. Didn’t do it for the company, did it for our captain. Wasn’t much of that loyalty when I eventually joined the world of policing. That was after the Korean War in June, 1950. Along with over ninety thousand British troops, including Canadians and other member countries of the United Nations and the United States, who formed the largest part of the coalition, I found myself fighting the North Koreans who were backed by the Chinese and the Russians. Prior to the end of 1945 Japan ruled Korea, at the end of the war Russia declared war on Japan. Following high level, but ultimately short-sighted diplomacy, it was agreed between the United States and Russia to split Korea in two along the 38th parallel. So instead of taking the country out of Japanese hands and letting the Koreans govern themselves, the country ended up with two governments, one for the newly formed North Korea and one for South Korea. And we all know how that turned out. Hadn’t there been enough killing during the two World Wars. I remember the Second World War, I was seventeen when it finally ended, almost went overseas to fight after lying about my age, then V-E Day marked the end of the war. Despite National Service, I didn’t need to be conscripted for the Korean War, I was young, adventurous, naïve and, probably stupid. It got close and personal at times, kill or be killed. I wanted to live so I killed, despite the passing of time you never forget the look in the eyes of a man dying at your own hands, that look of shock and disbelief as life so precious ebbs away. You never forget your own friends lying dead and dying around you. You don’t forget, but people forget, those that never fought. They call it The Forgotten War, but it should never, must never be forgotten. And yet here we are again, sixty-five years later after it ended holding our breaths as two megalomaniacal leaders square