To Rise Again

By Stewart Bint

Some secrets are better left in the past.

Summer, 1940. Before the German occupation during World War II, the Marquand family flees their home in the English Channel and never looks back.

Summer, 1983. The once-opulent Idlewild Mansion is crumbling and derelict. 18-year-old David Simeon dreams of Idlewild years past; in his dreams, he sees a young girl endlessly wandering its corridors.

Soon, the threads of past and present begin to intertwine. But what is the connection between Simeon and the shadowy old mansion, and is it too late to stop the darkness that still dwells there?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Feb 24, 2022
• ISBN: 4824116058

Stewart Bint

Writer: novelist - four novels and a short story collection traditionally published in print and ebook (To Rise Again, The Jigsaw And The Fan, Timeshaft, In Shadows Waiting, and Thunderlands); magazine columnist; public relations writer .Previous roles include radio newsreader, phone-in host, and presenter.Married to Sue, with two grown-up children, Chris and Charlotte, and a budgie called Bertie.Usually barefoot.Lives in Leicestershire, UK.

Book preview

Also by Stewart Bint

In Shadows Waiting

Timeshaft

The Jigsaw and the Fan

Acknowledgements

Thank you to Miika Hannila and the team at Next Chapter.

Special thanks to my wife Sue, son Chris, and daughter Charlotte.

Thank you to my schoolfriend Trevor Law and his wife Penny, for allowing me to use the haunting name of their home, Idlewild.

And thanks to my good friend, fellow novelist DM Cain, for her unstinting enthusiasm and encouragement.

For

Trevor Law

Prologue

Jersey

World War ll

Colonel von Brauschlow read the directive again.

This was the first time his inconsequential outpost on Jersey had received a communication from the Drittes Reich High Command.

And addressed to him personally. That made him proud. Especially when his eyes lingered on the title and name at the bottom: Der Führer, Adolf Hitler.

The message outlining Hitler's plan left von Brauschlow in no doubt. The future of the German Fatherland and the master race rested entirely in his hands.

He smiled at the thought that Jersey, this tiny island surrendered by the British Government to the German occupying forces in June 1940 as being of no strategic importance, would be the starting point for the final realisation of Hitler's dream: world domination.

Before Hitler rose to power, those in command of the German forces had failed miserably in the 1914-18 debacle, and his hopes of a conventional victory this time around were now also fading fast.

As the words leaped out at him from the page he could see Hitler's strategy was daring and the tactics risky.

But von Brauschlow knew exactly what he had to do.

He picked up the phone on his desk.

Chapter 1

Arrival

1983

Le Broc's family store is less than a mile from our house.

Just on the edge of the village.

In fact, once you've turned right out of our drive and negotiated the bends and twists in the narrow winding road, it's the first thing you come to, if you don't count the fields full of grazing Jersey cows. The cattle, with their luscious, delicate, brown coats stand out in stark contrast to the brilliant green of their home fields. And I've noticed the tourists often stare at them through their car and coach windows.

But I scarcely threw them a glance as I strolled down the lane towards the village. And I don't suppose they took too much notice of me, either, as they continued to chew their cud.

It's always okay going down the hill, but a different matter entirely coming back up. Our house stood at the apex, commanding fine sweeping views of the English Channel, whose deep blue waters glistened and sparkled, as if set on fire with a million gems. Tourists could only catch an occasional glimpse of the house as it hid coyly behind the copse…the curved gravel drive stretched some five hundred yards from the gleaming white gates by the roadside, to the sturdy Oak front door.

The heatwave was in its fifth day, and I mused how much it would take out of me to climb back up from Le Broc's.

BBC Radio Jersey has only been on the air for about a year, but I find it a useful source of information. Only yesterday, for instance, it had told us islanders that our weather was hotter than anywhere else in Europe. At eight-five degrees Fahrenheit – that's twenty-nine in this new-fangled Celcius money – it was one degree hotter than Athens. But of course, even those gorgeous sunbathing temperatures could not compare with Jeddah, where it was said to be one hundred and three (oh, alright, thirty-nine in Celcius – I still don't think it'll ever catch on, though).

However, in Athens and Jeddah it would be a different kind of heat, I thought, less humid and more bearable. Here, you only had to be out of the shade for a few moments and the sweat was flowing like a river in flood.

I'd spent the first part of the morning lazing by the pool, and indeed, hadn't really intended stirring from our grounds all day.

Then there was a panic in the kitchen.

It was most unlike Mum to have forgotten the vital ingredient for dinner. And today of all days. This particular meal of all meals. It was a relatively simple dish, I suppose, and doesn't take too long to prepare, but is exquisitely tasty. And she had decided it was just the one to tempt the bank manager while Dad persuaded him that now was exactly the right time to lend our family firm a small fortune.

Just as I was contemplating a dip to cool off, Mum found she didn't have any mushrooms. And you can't have pork in mushroom sauce without the mushrooms. I suppose you couldn't really get away without the pork either. Nor the dry red wine. Nor the cream. But the mushrooms were just as essential an ingredient.

Jingling the coins in the pocket of my shorts I reflected that the cost to Mum of me walking down to Le Broc's in this stifling heat would be a can of beer (perhaps even two) from the refrigerated counter.

It was when I rounded the last bend that I saw the car parked outside the shop. A silver-grey metallic Rolls Royce with the beige hood folded down. Nothing too unusual in that, of course, Rolls Royces abound on Jersey. In fact, Dad says he's thinking of having one when the time comes to change the BMW.

But what did catch my eye was that it had an English number plate. Personalised, too.

Richard Burton? Raymond Baxter? Numerous names with those initials on the number plate flooded into my head as I opened the gate and walked up the short path before exchanging the heat of the mid-day sun for the wonderfully air-conditioned interior of Peter Le Broc's store.

An involuntary shiver sprinted the length of my spine as the chill in the air hit me. I rubbed my hands together briskly, and nodded to the elderly woman behind the counter which ran down the left side of the shop.

Hello, Mrs Le Broc. How's things today?

Oh, fine thanks, young David. Come and have a glass of wine. It's a rather special occasion today.

Agnes Le Broc. A small, stout woman, her grey hair pulled up tautly into a bun which sat on the crown of her head at a somewhat rakish angle. I'd put her in her early sixties. But then again, I never was a reliable judge of a woman's age. Her brown, weather-beaten face was leathery, lined and crinkly; even more so right now, courtesy of the broad smile.

When I'd entered the shop, she'd been talking to a young man who was leaning on the counter opposite her. He was bent over slightly, chin resting on his right hand which was balled up into a fist. His right leg crossed in front of the left just below the knee…his black patent leather right shoe where his foot bent was as creased as Mrs Le Broc's face. His left hand had been flattened on the counter about 18 inches from his body. A glass of white wine rested alongside it.

As Mrs Le Broc spoke to me he drew himself up to his full height; I should say about six feet one. His blue casual trousers were immaculately pressed and his open-necked shirt was so dazzlingly white that had I not been wearing sunglasses I'd have probably suffered from snow blindness. The gold medallion on the end of a chain around his neck nestled among the hairs on his chest, just at the V formed by the material of his shirt. It was so large that even at this distance there was no mistaking it for anything other than a Saint Christopher.

I smiled back at the shopkeeper across the counter. Wine, Mrs Le Broc? Are you celebrating something?

I am indeed, David. I got the impression she paused for effect before telling me it was her fortieth wedding anniversary.

Congratulations. Forty years, my word. Are you sure it's that long? I felt obliged to undertake the usual style of flattery. You hardly look old enough.

Away with you, you young devil. The way I look it could easily be my golden wedding today, instead.

I held up my hands in mock horror. No, Mrs Le Broc, I assure you…

Go on with you! Now wait here while I get you a glass. All my customers are having a drink with me today to celebrate. She swung around, disappearing through the open door just behind her into the rear of the shop.

The young man resumed his bent position, resting on the counter. He looked across at me, smiling.

She's quite a character, isn't she? he said.

Mrs Le Broc? She's wonderful.

He straightened up again, running his fingers through his corn-coloured hair. Hair which seemed to completely frame his striking face in the same way a lion's is framed by its mane. Well cared for and shining, it swept back from his forehead, half-concealing his ears, to fall a good two inches below his shoulder. Despite the sweltering temperatures his whole appearance was the very epitome of sartorial elegance.

She certainly is. He indicated his glass on the counter. And wine, too. What a welcome for me for the first week at my new home.

You're coming to live round here?

Yes indeed. Just a couple of miles up the hill. Idlewild.

His words hit me like a thunderbolt from nowhere. I stiffened as my head raised itself a couple of inches.

Idlewild? It was unbelievable to think that the old place was going to be lived in after all these years. But it's been empty since the war. I thought it was part of the old man's will.

The stranger chuckled at my obvious bewilderment. Suddenly, my head was spinning, and again my mind was seeing things that my eyes had never glimpsed.

It was like my dream. The one I'd had over and over again since my ninth birthday. And it was just like the visions, if that's what you can call them, on the day I'd forced my way through the overgrown hedge and crept up to the massive, imposing mansion.

And here it was again. A loud buzzing rang through my ears as the shop around me dissolved into something else entirely. It was as if I were watching a re-run of an old film. Time and time again in my dreams and my vision, I'd watched the young girl running down the red-carpeted corridor. Then, as if by magic every time, the walls merged in with the floor, the corridor appeared to turn itself inside out, and I was in another room, a vast, long, wide, room with gigantic marble pillars stretching out of the lush red floor and reaching up to the elegant gold-trimmed ceiling.

Usually there's more. Much more. Many rooms to explore before the dream ends. But this time I gradually became aware that my body was shaking violently from head to foot.

Then, like an electric light being switched off, the huge room snapped out of existence and I found myself staring into the worried faces of Mrs Le Broc and the stranger whose words had sparked off this latest attack.

The young man had both hands on my shoulders and was roughly pushing me back and forth.

Are you alright? he demanded.

Mrs Le Broc took hold of my arm and started to move to the hatchway in the counter. Come on, let's get you to a seat.

No, no, I protested. I'm okay now, thank you. I just went a bit dizzy, that's all. I could hardly tell them the truth, that I was having a vision, now could I?

My mind scrambled for something plausible. I…it…it must have been the sudden change in temperature. Coming into the cool in here from the heat outside. It's mighty hot out there, you know.

You'd better come and sit down for a few moments, anyway.

No, thank you, Mrs Le Broc. I'm fine now. Honestly.

She appeared to see I was standing my ground, and seemed to give up. Well, if you're sure?

I am, thank you. I don't really know what it was. I just felt dizzy for a few seconds.

You can say that again. The young man's face still looked concerned. You were swaying so much I was sure you were going to fall over. In fact, as I rushed over to you, you just crumpled into my arms.

I'd just got that cork out again when I heard Mr Brobiere shout, said Mrs Le Broc. I dropped it and came running in. I wondered what on Earth had happened. Oh, it's made me feel right funny, David, I can tell you that.

I had to laugh. Well, I'm awfully sorry, Mrs Le Broc. But whatever it was seems to have gone now. I'm fine. I looked across at her worried frown. And I think you need that wine more than I do.

Ooh, the wine. I'd forgotten all about that. She darted off again through to the back of the shop.

Well, I shall certainly never forget my first week here in Jersey, said Mr Brobiere, raising his eyebrows whimsically and running a hand through that corn-coloured hair again. And that's a fact.

Yes, I said, attempting to put an amusing catch in my voice. I won't forget today either. Why, the day old Idlewild gets lived in again…snapped into the 1980s you might say – must surely be a day for putting out the flags.

You know, I got the same response from Mrs Le Broc. I hadn't realised the old homestead was quite such a talking point in these parts. I'd always thought of it as just being a derelict dump, forgotten by all and sundry.

Hhmmm, hardly a talking point, I wouldn't have thought. Although I must confess that when we have visitors from the mainland I nearly always tell them about the place. They're fascinated by it, always wanting to know more, and wanting to go and see it.

See what I mean? A talking point.

Well, yes, I laughed. I meant it isn't a talking point amongst the locals. Not nowadays, anyway. My Dad can remember how it was on everyone's lips for the first two or three years after the war, but gradually the novelty wore off, he says, and no-one really talks about it now.

Ought I to tell this friendly stranger the weird effect his new home had had on me when I'd approached it all those years ago? How I imagined I could see right through the boards hammered securely in place in front of every window and door; how I knew, or thought I knew, exactly how everything had been inside when the Germans occupied it during the war?

And how my dreams had come regularly for several months afterwards? And now this same vision again? Should I tell him?

I didn't think so. Not yet, anyway, I mused. After all, I'd only met him about five minutes ago.

A thought struck me. That's your car outside, isn't it? The Roller?

Yeah, it is. Why?

And you said this is your first week on Jersey?

Yeah. I arrived five days ago.

Then how come you've been able to buy Idlewild? You don't qualify under the Jersey residential laws.

Mr Brobiere smiled again. He had such a disarming smile. Who said anything about buying the old place? I've inherited it.

But… How does the old saying go: No buts? It was certainly true in this case, as my question was still-born on my lips as Mrs Le Broc scurried back into the shop with a glass in each hand.

Here you are, young David. And another glass for you, Mr Brobiere, because you're celebrating something too – your first week here amongst us. I hope you'll be very happy here.

He picked up his half-empty glass from the counter. I'm sure I shall, Mrs Le Broc, with such charming company nearby. He drained the glass, reaching over for the second.

Inwardly I cursed the kindly Mrs Le Broc. How could she come back with the wine at such an inopportune moment?

It'll cost a small fortune to do the place up, surely? I probed, anxious to find out more about the wealthy Mr Brobiere and his new home.

I don't know…er…David, isn't it?

I nodded.

It's structurally sound. Needs a new roof, of course, and God knows how many coats of paint. And, er, it needs rewiring, it'll take a rotovator, if not a bulldozer, to sort out the garden; so, yes, maybe you're right about a small fortune, come to think of it.

Another pause. I could see a little more prompting was needed if I was going to discover anything worthwhile.

You say you inherited the place?

Yes. Last year. I spent a couple of weeks over here then, sorting out what needed doing to it. I thought then that I might sell it, but I've had second thoughts. I've decided to come and live here, so I've got things moving pretty quickly and the renovation work starts next week. Once it's finished I'm moving in straight away. In the meantime I'm staying in a hotel in St Helier.

You've come over to keep an eye on things?

Yes. I've taken three months off to get to know the island. I like to know my homeland backwards.

It won't take you three months to get to know Jersey, I laughed. More like three weeks. Maybe even three days if you have me as your guide. I've lived here all my life and know the place pretty thoroughly. And anyway, if you're going to live in Idlewild it makes us near neighbours. I live two houses away from you. There's about a mile and a half between us, but it's still only two houses.

Right. Sounds perfect. You can show me all the best nightspots and dens of iniquity.

I feigned a certain amount of mock surprise and horror. "Hey, now wait a minute. I'm only just eighteen. I've hardly had time to get to know places like that myself. Well, not legally, anyway.

But I bet Mrs Le Broc can tell you a few tales about them. I turned mischievously towards the elderly shopkeeper. I'm prepared to stake vast odds on it that just for a split second there was a worried frown across her brow as she stared intently at Mr Brobiere. But it was almost as if she felt my eyes touch her face, and she swung to look at me, her smile back.

Oh, I don't know about that, young David. Not nowadays, anyway. There were some pretty lively dance halls when I was your age. But that's going back a good few years. Especially around the time of the war… Her voice trailed off and she turned to look at Mr Brobiere again. Then there was an almost imperceptible shake of her tightly-bunned head, as if in a bid to clear the air, and her smiling eyes turned to me again.

Oh yes. When things were getting back to normal after the Germans left, we had some super dances, I can tell you.

Mr Brobiere stopped with his wine glass half-way to his lips. "I bet you can tell me something else, too,

Reviews for To Rise Again

[natasha matney · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this. Was super good!!! Intense til the end!