The silent owl, p.1
The Silent Owl, page 1
The Silent Owl
Glen Williams
The Silent Owl
Published by The Conrad Press in the United Kingdom 2021
Tel: +44(0)1227 472 874 www.theconradpress.com info@theconradpress.com
ISBN 978-1-839782-13-8
Copyright © Glen Williams, 2021
The moral right of Glen Williams to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
Typesetting and Cover Design by: Charlotte Mouncey, www.bookstyle.co.uk
The Conrad Press logo was designed by Maria Priestley.
By the same author and also published by The Conrad Press
The Phantom and the Crown
For Hannah and Rachel
Prologue
Today - London
My name is Harry James and I know what a real hero looks like.
I was just ten years old when I was introduced to the quiet, elderly man who was to help me shape the values I still live by today.
Everyone who already knew him was aware of the heroics he performed as a soldier in two world wars.
That’s a given, but it was the courage he found within himself to defeat his demons that made me respect him so much.
David Price had to dig deep inside himself to overcome the terrible feelings which isolated him from his home, his friends and his chosen life.
He found that strength from somewhere and it took immense bravery. I will never, ever forget him.
Back then I was a lad from Chelsea with the sort of posh accent which could have spelt trouble when I moved to Wales.
It was early in the 1960s which even today, people think of as the era when the world changed from its old ways into something like the place we live in now.
Here in Britain the decade was defined by London with its new fashions and young people who questioned authority: then there was Liverpool and that group called The Beatles!
That all makes me smile because down in Aberglais our day-to-day lives were hardly any different from what they would have been in the 1950s or maybe even a couple of decades earlier.
Phones were rare, cars or washing machines were luxuries for the few and renting a television was still something to brag about.
The necessities of life seemed to be a 410-bore shotgun for rabbiting and a trout fishing rod to hang on the wall.
I was taken to Wales by my grandfather, a retired history professor, who had discovered a manuscript in which a medieval monk had written about some relics apparently hidden locally.
Those ancient writings took us to Aberglais and into the adventure of a young boy’s dreams. I am so grateful to that monk, whoever he was.
My grandfather had become my guardian after my parents were both killed in a car crash leaving me orphaned.
That was bad enough but then becoming the only English boy in a strange village was a tough call. It didn’t help that I wore my public school blazer, had polished shoes and spoke with that cut-glass accent.
Luckily, I quickly made friends with my new classmates, Beth Jones and Tom Rhys, who were clever enough to see that being so different would single me out for trouble.
It was Beth and Tom who introduced me to old David, a village character who looked like a tramp, but was more of a gentleman than anyone in a smart suit.
David loved being out in the wilds and he turned a local forest clearing into a place where he taught local children country lore and woodcraft skills. It was better than school.
David, Beth, Tom and I got caught up in the great adventure which I won’t share with you now as it has been written about elsewhere far more skilfully than I could manage.
It was David’s intelligence and integrity during that escapade which set me thinking about what made him tick, so I asked my new friends to explain his strange, personal history.
I was really curious about this remarkable man.
Basically, I knew he had fought in both world wars and had finally returned home a decorated hero.
Then he had developed cruel symptoms of what was then known as shell shock, but nowadays we tend to hear of post-traumatic stress disorder to describe the depression and trauma of war.
Apparently, it had become so bad that David had built himself a hut in the forest and moved there from his cottage in the village to be alone with his troubled mind and odd behaviours. The poor man was embarrassed by his frailties.
It was only when he discovered his two young friends, Beth and Tom, were in danger that he confronted the anguish which had made him hide away from the world.
When Tom and Beth told me how he conquered his own fears and left the forest to save them I suddenly knew what courage looked like.
It all sounds so simple, but the reality is a truly magnificent tribute to humanity at its best.
I already respected David as an exceptionally good person, but once I knew the whole story I thought of him as a superhero.
Today, as I look back over my own life, he is still my hero. His example has helped define me as a person.
I have nothing sensational to share with you about my own life as I am now a reasonably successful senior partner in a London law firm with a nice house and a great family.
Home for me is just outside London in a lovely South Buckinghamshire village and I always look forward to driving from the station and entering through the gates which lead up my driveway.
I still see Tom who stayed in Wales to become a carpenter and craftsman. It is a great sight when his dirty old Land Rover Defender pulls into my drive. Perhaps the neighbours think I’m being robbed! Who cares.
Beth shares her time between London, New York and Los Angeles as a highly regarded film-editor. She was always going to surprise us.
They are wonderful people, but I will always be especially grateful to them for introducing me to David.
It’s difficult to explain precisely what I learnt from his example. Perhaps the simplest answer is that it taught me to be decent and to try very hard to do what is right.
What follows is based on the story I was told by Beth and Tom with an added sprinkling of what they call, colour, from what I knew about life in Aberglais. My little interpretations and guesses help the tale along.
So I have taken one or two liberties in its telling as I have had to describe conversations I was not part of. Believe me, any invented scenarios and descriptions are true to the people I knew so well.
Now it’s your choice. Read on if you want to know David’s story.
Chapter One
Aberglais, South Wales - 1963
Tom looked at the present under the tree and knew exactly what was inside the box so carefully covered in Christmas wrapping.
It had been the top of his list and for months he had dreamt of virtually nothing else.
He felt a tingle of pleasure just thinking that in a few hours it would be morning and he would have the pair of light-tan coloured boots in his hands.
He could not wait to rub his fingers along the raised animal paw prints on the soles. They would make great prints in the snow.
Then he would take out the compass from the secret compartment in the heel. He knew that he would have to open the few presents left on his bed first.
That would happen before his mother and father were up and about. Then they would join him downstairs. His mother, Rachel, would turn on all the Christmas lights and his dad, William, would sit in the comfy armchair to watch the presents being opened, never taking his eyes off Tom’s reactions.
The family would be gathered in the main lounge which they just called the front-room and was only used for special occasions.
First Tom would grab all the presents with his name on the tags and place them in a pile on the corner of the sofa. He had imagined over and over what would happen next.
He would carefully unwrap the special box first and take out the boots.
He knew the boots were there. After all, he had been begging for a pair for months. He remembered visiting the shoe-shop with his mother back in November, ‘just to see what the fuss over these new boots is all about.
‘I’m not saying you’re going to get them mind.’ Good try, Mam.
After savouring their feel and smell he would carefully put them on.
Tom could never imagine ever taking them off again. He could hardly wait for the chance to run off to the forest to show David.
He would look after those boots as if they were his own baby brother. Tonight he just had to be patient for a few more hours.
It was Christmas Eve and the routine for the evening would be exactly the same as it had been last year and all the years he could remember before that.
The fire had been burning in the grate all day and his dad was busy piling it high with fresh coal and a covering of coal dust to keep it burning steadily through the night.
Soon he would slip on his overcoat and gloves to set off to the pub at the top of the street. It was a ritual Tom liked to watch in silence. It meant Christmas was happening and the next few days would follow familiar patterns laid down across the recent years.
This evening William would remain at the pub for a little over an hour sitting in the bar with his mates. Tom knew exactly where his dad would sit in the group because he always sat
Tom had the scene stamped on his memory because whenever he called at the hatch in the hallway at the pub to get a bottle of lemonade for home he could see clearly into the bar.
If his dad was there, he would raise his pint to Tom and then place it back on the table before touching his wristwatch with his finger. He would be home soon.
Rachel knew the Christmas Eve ritual well and was aware what was about to happen next in the order of proceedings.
‘Tom, have you eaten that sandwich? I didn’t spend all day cooking for you to waste it.’
The smell of freshly cooked ham had filled the house and later it would entice friends and neighbours who came calling for their annual Christmas Eve tipple and a bite to eat in the company of the Rhys family.
The turkey was staying cold out in the pantry and would be in the oven by six in the morning.
‘Yes, Mam.’ He answered in the resigned drawl of someone who is fed-up of stating the obvious.
In fact, it was not quite true. Half the sandwich was still in his trouser pocket. He would savour that later in the evening. Why was he never hungry at home but always ready for food when he got out into the cold?
Later the family would all be together again in the little terraced cottage to greet the neighbours, extended family members and friends.
Tom would be allowed to stay up late and even after going to bed he would lie awake and try to listen to the conversations from downstairs.
There would be laughter and the singing of carols. All that would come later after darkness when the stars would sparkle in the late night sky above Aberglais. The sky always seemed to be clear on Christmas Eve.
He refused to wear a coat. Instead he had on an extra jumper and on his head was the knitted balaclava he loved wearing. Tom thought it made him look like a knight-in-armour.
His gloves hung loose as they were attached by a length of twine which went up his sleeves and across his shoulders. They would be ready to wear if it got too cold.
Once outside into the silent village street he stepped out onto the middle of the road so he could stare up at the night sky. Traffic was rare and tonight there would be nothing apart from the late bus to town.
If he was lucky, he would catch sight of a shooting star, or could it be the trail from Father Christmas’s sleigh?
As he ran, he looked from side to side through the windows of homes where curtains had been left open to show off the brightly lit Christmas trees. It was all so wonderful.
He stopped and caught his breath as he heard the local carol singers strike up their first song outside the pub. That was where they started every year and that was where they would finish their tour later on for a final drink.
Tom had no time for carol singing tonight.
Meredydd, the landlord of The Drovers, would be on the pavement in his shirtsleeves, despite the cold, with his arms folded across his chest. He would step back inside to pick up a tray of free drinks for the singers once the final carol was sung.
Tom had slowed to walking pace as he neared the telephone box opposite the churchyard in the centre of the village. His friends were already gathered there.
They were already chatting and ignored his arrival.
‘Well, I can stay out until ten if I want to.’ It was Beth, the only girl in the group, who always wanted to get the better of the boys.
Tom smiled as she raised her hand in silent welcome. He was her closest friend.
They were always together and usually to be found up at the Caer which was the Welsh name for the clearing in the local forest.
Caer translated as a stronghold and the remains of a castle hall stood at its heart. Local people said it was part of a castle which was never finished way back in the thirteenth or fourteenth centuries.
It was there at the Caer that old David lived in his shed and spent his time teaching local youngsters how to fish, recognise different birds and trees or even use his tools to make things.
David was their favourite teacher: much better than proper school.
‘That’s fine Beth Jones, but I can stay up until the anthem’s on the tele tonight,’ boasted Jack.
That silenced the rest as Beth was the only other one present whose family had rented their first set. It was a badge of honour to have one.
Tom thought about the times he had watched that new programme called Dr Who in Jack’s house. He longed for the day his parents honoured their promise to rent a television of their own.
Without any further conversation the group of seven pals moved off instinctively and silently into the churchyard and up to the main door.
Inside the open porch was the nativity scene made of wooden effigies and lit by candles.
The display was a little tattered nowadays but its presence in the porch was an Aberglais tradition and the friends always gathered to look at it on Christmas Eve.
Soon they would be too old for the traditional visit as abandoning the Christmas Eve habit of gathering to look at the nativity scene was regarded as a sign of being grown up. You would never catch a teenager visiting the porch on Christmas Eve.
After staring in silence for a few minutes the spell was suddenly broken and the first of the friends began to turn and move off with shouts of goodnight and reminders of plans to meet up tomorrow.
Tom held back for a few moments so that he could walk back into the village with Beth.
‘Remember, Beth, tomorrow.’
She stopped and looked at him accusingly. ’Of course, stupid. Eleven o’clock at the playing field. I’ll be there.’
‘We can’t be late.’
‘I know, I know. Christmas Day. Yea, yea. I’ll be there Tom and you’d better be on time.’
They moved on together. Tom was satisfied that the plan was confirmed.
‘What have you got him?’ She knew he would want to keep it secret but could not resist telling her.
‘Six fishing flies. I made them all.’
‘He’ll love that.’ She looked genuinely impressed.
‘And Dad has given me an old fly-box of his. I’ve wrapped it all up and put his name on a tag. What about you?’
‘Not as good as yours. I’ve got a big box of chocolates. He never refuses a sweet.’
‘Nice.’
Tom could not supress a smile.
He knew both their parents would send their own gifts which would be the usual biscuits and perhaps a bottle or two of beer.
Later Meredydd would send up a Christmas dinner from the pub. There was no chance of David coming into Aberglais for the day. No chance.
‘I wish he would come back,’ said Tom. ‘My mother is always offering him a place for Christmas dinner but he just shrugs and shakes his head.’
Beth broke into a run. ‘Perhaps we could borrow the Tardus,’ she shouted back over her shoulder. ‘Transport him.’
Tom stepped up his pace to catch up. ‘Bet he’s never even heard of Dr Who.’
‘Or The Beatles.’ They were both laughing as they reached the high street to start searching for the carol singers.
Chapter Two
Normandy, France – June 10, 1944
It happened in a terrifying moment and the world stood still.
Private David Price felt a sickening panic and urge to push away the dead body of his comrade now spreadeagled on top of him.
What stopped him from moving or screaming in horror was the knowledge that it would mean his own death. He had to fight hard to resist the urge to scream. He was overwhelmed by fear and panic.
The bodies of two other troops from his unit lay crumpled in the ditch which ran alongside the low hedge.
David held his breath with a force which made his muscles strain: and he prayed.
He had been talking to his friend and comrade, Charlie, when the crackle of machine gun fire shattered the silence.
There had been no warning. They had not heard the German soldiers approaching silently through the gap in the hedge behind them.
The deadly attack was a complete surprise as all five of the enemy troops opened fire.
