Fancy Dress
Somewhere in the back of his mind Alan knew that going to this party was a bad idea. The invitation had said fancy dress, and they had agreed to do an “Allo Allo” theme. Nina had practiced her “Reneee” line all week. Even though every inch of his gut was telling him not to go, he got in the car with Nina dressed as a saucy waitress, and drove to Throckley Park.
One moment it was clear, the next he was reaching for the fog lights. They could hear the roll of distant thunder. As the dusk descended, the fields, enshrined in the fog, were eerily white. Even Nina was uncharacteristically quiet, never a good sign.
They found the manor house and parked. Of course, no-one was outside. They climbed the steps hastily, Nina’s heels clicking as they went.
Long red tapestries hung from the walls. Alan thought the large black swastikas in their centre was taking it a bit too far. They entered the lounge, where the throng were drinking champagne and cocktails, laughing merrily. Before Alan had a moment to look round properly, David Stevenson came over to greet them.
“Herr Blackton,” he said with a smile, “always a pleasure to see you.”
You only saw me yesterday on the golf course, you twit, Alan thought.
“Your attention please,” a tall, stern looking man said, raising his glass. He was very blond, with blue eyes and an angular face. He was wearing a German uniform, and so looked the part that Alan wondered if they had hired professional actors.
“A toast to the Fuhrer. A toast to the thousand year Reich!”
The blood drained from Alan’s face. This wasn’t remotely funny anymore. They would be in the bloody papers. But the rest of the guests raised their glasses.
Dave nudged Alan “I’d drink, and look happy about it if I were you.”
“What?” Alan replied indignantly.
“If only we'd got the boys out of Dunkirk. Seventy years now, and still it goes on," Dave whispered ruefully through a forced smile.
One moment it was clear, the next he was reaching for the fog lights. They could hear the roll of distant thunder. As the dusk descended, the fields, enshrined in the fog, were eerily white. Even Nina was uncharacteristically quiet, never a good sign.
They found the manor house and parked. Of course, no-one was outside. They climbed the steps hastily, Nina’s heels clicking as they went.
Long red tapestries hung from the walls. Alan thought the large black swastikas in their centre was taking it a bit too far. They entered the lounge, where the throng were drinking champagne and cocktails, laughing merrily. Before Alan had a moment to look round properly, David Stevenson came over to greet them.
“Herr Blackton,” he said with a smile, “always a pleasure to see you.”
You only saw me yesterday on the golf course, you twit, Alan thought.
“Your attention please,” a tall, stern looking man said, raising his glass. He was very blond, with blue eyes and an angular face. He was wearing a German uniform, and so looked the part that Alan wondered if they had hired professional actors.
“A toast to the Fuhrer. A toast to the thousand year Reich!”
The blood drained from Alan’s face. This wasn’t remotely funny anymore. They would be in the bloody papers. But the rest of the guests raised their glasses.
Dave nudged Alan “I’d drink, and look happy about it if I were you.”
“What?” Alan replied indignantly.
“If only we'd got the boys out of Dunkirk. Seventy years now, and still it goes on," Dave whispered ruefully through a forced smile.
Copyright 2016 by Alex Avrio
