D-Notice by Bill Walker (books to read for self improvement txt) 📕

As the last of the Horse Guards passed him, their mounts swishing their coiffed tails in unison, Watson began to whine, squirming in his master’s arms like an eager puppy. Sir William eyed the terrier with mock disdain. “You must learn to hold your waters, old boy. England expects every dog to do his duty...discreetly.”

Sir William chuckled again, placing the dog on the pavement and attaching his leash. “Come, Watson, let us take our leave.”

They began walking toward the Horse Guards barracks through the dispersing crowd. The tiny dog pulled and strained at his leash, anxious to place his mark on familiar territory. “Easy, old boy, easy,” Sir William admonished. “We’re almost there.”

Passing under an archway between two barracks buildings, they entered Horse Guards Parade where the Guards drilled, and on to St. James’s Park, a large area of green crisscrossed by footpaths and dotted with trees. Most of its interior was dominated by a large artificial lake, and here and there were families of ducks trolling about, leaving trails of ripples to mar its otherwise glassy surface.

As with the Changing of the Guard, St. James’s Park reinforced Sir William’s belief that tradition still reigned, even if common sense in government had long since fled. And that was the rub and the main reasons he’d resigned his position at what was then considered an early age. He’d lost his stomach for the fight, especially when Harold Wilson’s Labour government began sniping at MI6’s heels, questioning every blasted move they made and calling them imperialist throwbacks.

The nerve of the man! The utter gall! It was even thought, in certain circles, that he made his frequent trips to Moscow only to receive new orders. As a result, the sixties had turned into a quagmire, and it had all gone downhill from there.

Suddenly depressed, Sir William released his hold on Watson’s leash, collapsed onto one of the ubiquitous benches and watched as the little terrier scurried over to a favorite tree, letting loose a stream of urine that darkened the bark where it hit.

“Not a moment too soon, eh Watson?” he said, absently.

As if noticing them for the first time, Sir William scanned his surroundings. A few yards away a group of young nannies clucked over their diminutive charges, while further on a pack of scruffy youths clad in black leather, their waxed Mohawks dyed the colors of the rainbow, listened to loud Heavy Metal blasting from a giant portable radio. There were other elderly people scattered about. Some appeared oblivious to their surroundings, lost in some private hell, while others actively engaged in conversations with those they’d only just met.

Sir William smiled wistfully, envying them their gregariousness. That was something he’d never been very good at. It was Evie who’d made all their friends.

Hearing Watson’s bark, Sir William looked up and saw the little dog staring past him. He turned to find an elderly man standing next to him.

Where the blazes had he come from?

One moment he’d been alone, and the next...there the blighter stood, clutching his frayed umbrella in rough, gnarled hands. Thick and heavyset like a pillar box, the man wore a baggy suit that was at least fifteen years out of date. The hat was a rumpled moth-eaten fedora pulled low over his beetled brow, nearly hiding his intense brown eyes. It was the man’s thick ratty beard, however, that finally put him off. He could never abide a man who let his whiskers run rampant like some creeper vine on a trellis.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” the old man said.

Sir William squirmed, letting a wan smile flicker across his lips. “Quite.”

The old man pointed toward the seat. “Do you mind if an old soldier rests his weary bones?”

The man’s accent was strange. It sounded like South London, yet something else, the way he rolled his “R’s” sounded foreign. Oh, well, there were plenty of them running about these days. Why, oh, why did the blighter have to pick him to be friendly with?

Sir William forced himself to look at the old man once again. “It’s a free country.”

The old man eased himself onto the bench with a heavy sigh, leaning forward onto his umbrella. “Is it? I often wonder.”

“What do you mean?”

The old man shrugged. “Just that times have changed. Not like the old days, eh?” He nodded toward the group of punks cavorting several yards away. “In our day those boys would be in uniform, fighting for King and country.... Not bloody tit-suckers on the dole, eh what?”

Watson stood off to the side, eyeing both men with a wary expression. Sir William snapped his fingers. “Come on, Watson, heel to.”

But the little dog remained where it was, staring at them. Sir William began to feel strangely anxious. There was something odd about the other man—something about his face.... “You were in the war?” he asked, not really wanting to know.

The old man smiled, his eyes devoid of warmth. “Yes.... You might say I was....”

“Really, where?” he said, growing impatient with the man’s queer manner.

“I was with the Royal South Wessex.”

Sir William felt the earth tilt on its axis. Blood pounded in his ears, and he suddenly found it very hard to breath. “W—who the bloody hell are you,” he whispered, hating himself for the note of fear in his voice.

But he was scared—deathly afraid to the very marrow of his bones, which now felt as if they might crumble to dust.

The old man stared back at him, those mirthless brown eyes now burning with a mad glimmer. “Just someone come to put things right...Sir William.”

Sir William gasped. “How do you know my name?”

But the time for talking was past. The