MAJOR THURLBY AND THE HOUSE OF MILK

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 MAJOR THURLBY AND THE HOUSE OF MILK

Major Thurlby sat in his usual seat at the Railway Hotel. His pipe clenched in the corner of his angular mouth, and a pint of Guinness resting on the round table wedged before his ample stomach.

He drained the glass, and after a furtive glance about the bar, left the premises by the side door, adjacent to the public conveniences. Turning right heading towards Killips, he strode out quickly reaching the crest of the steep incline, and immediately turned left towards the police station.

Marching quickly down the slight incline he soon reached St Johns Church, and wavered slightly as he passed the Undertakers positioned on the left side of the road, situated next to Woody's of Wembley.

He quickened his gait and was soon at the entrance of Barham House, originally built by the Copeland sisters, and the former home of Sir George Barham, the founder of "Express Dairies", milk suppliers and purveyor of dairy products, and an early Mayor of Wembley.

The property was built in the grounds of the far more historic Crabs House which had been owned by the father of the Copeland sisters. The Copeland sisters are commemorated to this day in Wembley by way of the secondary school named in their honour, and Copeland road.

The mansion was sited to the west of Wembley, on the main road to Sudbury, and still retained a few of the lavish green acres that had previously surrounded the stately home.

The lush meadows supported healthy herds of dairy cows during the eighteenth century, and as a consequence had provided ample supplies of milk to Wembley and the surrounding villages. During the middle of the century the provision of a railway station at what became known as Wembley Central, provided convenient and easy access to the centre of London and an eagerly waiting market for fresh milk and dairy products.

However, the house had recently been under the control of the local urban district council, and had become somewhat dilapidated, although still habitable.

Major Thurlby turned into the driveway and pushed open the once magnificent wrought iron gates, which were no longer locked due to the apathy shown by those chosen by the council to tend the gardens and house.
 He marched forward towards the entrance and strode up the couple steps leading to the balustrade and open walkway that surrounded the building.

He pushed his right hand in to his overcoat pocket and retrieved a long key that he placed in to the aperture contained within the brass fittings bolted to the mahogany door.

His left hand pushed the door slightly ajar and a shaft of light played across his overcoat and the cracked grey floor tiles which covered the balustrade.

Due to the war time blackout, and lack of street lighting, the light was strangely extenuated, and glowed eerily in the dark.

He placed his head around the door jamb, and the rest of his body followed in a slow and cautious manner.

On entering the premises, his eyes quickly became accustomed to the gloomy light and he swiftly made his way to the staircase and preceded to climb two stairs at a time.  On reaching the first floor he entered the door to the right of the landing and sat at a small table. After checking that the blackout curtains were in place, he switched on the table lamp and removed his hat.

Seated opposite him, in an ancient black wheel chair was the twisted and feeble figure of Lord Chard, the owner of the power station, cooling towers and electricity generating station, which had been partially destroyed the previous evening by the Luftwaffe.

He offered his hand to the Major and they touched hands in a brief but discourteous way.

 “Now, now, Lord Chard”, “that’s no way to treat your colleague and master in this game of intrigue and subterfuge!”

The Major looked sternly at the old man and started to talk swiftly but in a hushed tone. The words were in German, and it was clear that the wheelchair bound Lord was able to understand the speech, as he occasionally nodded his head towards the Major, or raised his clenched hand as if to dismiss the fetid vocabulary spilling from the German spy’s mouth.  

After a few minutes the Major finished speaking and walked across to the seated Lord and shouted;

”VON CHARD!” “Do you now understand?”

He turned to the door and strode through it with a swish of his trailing coat, rapidly descended the stairs before exiting the way he had entered the semi dilapidated building.   

Back on the first floor, Lord Chard, or as his German ancestors would have entitled him “Von Chardz” pulled a soiled handkerchief from his pocked and wiped a tear from his eye. He then grabbed the hand wheels of his chair, and propelled himself towards a small chest of drawers, which he unlocked with a small key concealed in his left palm.   

He opened the box and removed a number of documents, and carefully placed an old blue envelope marked “Par Avion” on his lap. He withdrew a number of black and white photographs and stared coldly at them through his old red rimmed eyes, now sore and filled with tears. 

He spread the photographs across his lap and let out a small laugh as he picked up the photograph of himself and a young Hitler youth boy scout, both stark naked and frolicking before a roaring fire in a compromising position..

 Next to the photo was a paper note typed in Germanic script and stamped with the seal of the Fuhrer. The note consisted of a couple of lines that simply read;

 “We have the negatives and we will be contacting you soon so that you can assist the motherland in its glorious fight against the British Bulldog in our struggle for Liebensteaum”.

He ran his fingers across the photograph and then grabbing the faded note, crumpled it in his soft pink hands and threw it in the dying embers of the open hearth. As the open box of tricks sat upon the unpolished surface of the bureau, the last embers of the  flickering fire cast a waning shadow of the weeping Lord Chardz upon the wooden floor, until after a final flicker all was dark and quite.   

Back outside Major Thurlby was striding towards Sudbury Town and  an appointment with a representative of the Duck Flat Cap Society at The Mitre public house, who was to vet his application for membership.

 However, he was unaware that as well as the anticipated warm pint of best bitter and a stale cheese roll, another far more sinister entity awaited his arrival in the snug of the quite, semi rural retreat. 

The Mitre was almost empty apart from two old men playing darts in the public bar and a youngish couple in the saloon. Adding to this loose confederacy was a small, thick sett man, with thinning hair and huge belly, standing at the snug bar slowly draining a pint of strong Ale.

 

Dr Doyle had been a regular at the pub for many years and was well known by all who frequented the establishment on a regular basis. However, he was also known to venture a number of miles along the Harrow Road towards leafy Harrow Weald, and had become a member of the committee of the locally infamous, Duck Flat Cap Society.

Also, unknown to Major Thurlby at this time, Lord Chard, or should we say “Von Chardz”, was also a member of this society and had been the acting President and Chairman since before the onset of the war. Chard was also a good friend of Dr Doyle, and they had recently exchanged pleasantries and convened a very long conversation, in a local hostelry in Sudbury Town, known as “the Swan”.

Major Thurlby slipped in to the pub and awaited his meeting with Doctor Doyle, unaware of the momentous events that this meeting would unleash.
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