Chapter 13: Ffion

It was a Saturday morning at the beginning of December, and I was in Celle buying Christmas presents for Miriam and my mother. I hadn’t spoken to Miriam since that terrible night when I had called her all those foul names. However, she was still my wife, if in name only, so I had decided to send her some perfume for Christmas, something of a peace offering I suppose. I had spoken to my mother a couple of times since that night, but neither of us had mentioned me losing my temper so spectacularly.

The run up to Christmas had brought huge crowds into town, and the place was heaving with people.
One of the characteristics of towns in this part of Germany is that the timbers of the many half-timbered buildings are carved and colourfully painted. Celle had many fine examples of these medieval houses, but probably the best known are those flanking Altstadt Markt, the main street, now a pedestrian precinct, that runs north to south through the centre of the medieval part of Celle.
Normally I would avoid the Altstadt on a busy Saturday morning, but I needed to visit one of the market stalls to buy my mother a bottle of the locally produced schnapps. Her favourite tipple was Baren Bissen -- Bites like a bear – which was so potent it could strip paint off a battleship, and at a pinch it could also be used to power a space rocket. My mother poured it down her throat as if it was warm milk.

I had completed my shopping and was pushing through the crowds, making my way to the bus stop in Schlossplatz, when I saw a very agitated Mrs Probert attempting to make herself understood to a West German motor cycle cop, at the junction of the Altstadt and Stechbahn. I went over to her.

“Excuse me, I speak German, can I help? What’s the trouble?”
Up close Mrs Probert was truly stunning; her tawny red hair fell to her shoulders in shining skeins, and her eyes were deep green, flecked with gold. Her skin was flawless, and even in a German winter it had a glow; her mouth, with full, red luscious lips, was a magnet for men’s eyes. Even the bulky anorak she wore couldn’t disguise the voluptuous body beneath, and the tight ski pants accentuated her long legs, taut, rounded bum and slender waist. Knee high leather boots completed her ensemble. She was drop dead gorgeous.

“My little boy is missing; he was here one minute and gone the next. I’ve been up and down looking, but there’s no sign of him.” Although she was clearly worried sick her voice was low and mellow, with a lilting Welsh accent. I asked her son’s age, and what he was wearing, and then passed on these details to the policeman.

“I’ll contact my control, they will check with all the police posts in the town for any child recently brought in.” He was as good as his word and got on his radio straight away.
I introduced myself to Mrs Probert, and told her what was happening. She had calmed down now the police were involved, and smiled and thanked me. I fell in lust with her at that smile. We waited for about five minutes and then the cop said.

“A young English boy has been brought into the Mauenstrasse police post. His description matches the one you gave me. What is the name of her son?”

I asked her, and she replied “Geraint Probert.”

The cop repeated the name into his radio, then turned and smiled, giving the thumbs up sign.

“Thank God!” Mrs Probert said, and then staggered, as if the shock had made her legs weak. I put an arm around her waist and held her hard up against me.

“Steady the Buffs! We’ll go and pick him up; Mauenstrasse is only just around the corner.” I thanked the motor cycle cop, and he saluted before roaring away on his BMW.

As I walked along with Mrs Probert, I realised I knew Geraint Probert. He was one of the young lads who came along twice a week for football training. I mentioned to her I knew her son from football, but had never seen her at the gym.

“I’m Ffion Probert. My neighbour takes Geraint to practise evenings with her son. All the boys talk about ‘Des’, I thought you were black.” I explained Franklin Desmond was the coach, while I only helped out with the training, and it was Franklin who was black.

At the reception desk of the police station we were directed to a room on the upper floor. Geraint was sat in a chair playing with his ‘Game Boy’, obviously unconcerned at being separated from his mother.
A severe faced woman was sat at a table, while a uniformed policeman stood over by the window, an Inspector judging by his rank insignia.

Ffion ran over to her son, hugged him to her and kissed him. She spoke in Welsh, which I don’t understand, but it was clear she was overjoyed to get him back.

“Oh, Mam, I’m not a baba,” Geraint complained. His embarrassment at being hugged and kissed in public by his mother was almost too much to bear.
I would have swapped places with him in an instant.

The woman at the table spoke, in German.

“I am Frau Wagner of the Lower Saxony Social Services Department. A report must be made of this incident. Charges may be brought against the mother for allowing her child to wander off unsupervised.”

Frau Wagner had a face like a slapped arse; her greying hair was piled up untidily on top of her head, and she wore those round, metal rimmed, spectacles as favoured by evil scientists in horror films. The look she gave Ffion showed her to be enjoying the thought of having charges brought.

“I don’t think that would be a very good idea.” I said in my authoritative German. “Unless, of course, you’re looking for a boycott of Celle shops by all the families of the British garrison at Trenchard Barracks.”
The local shopkeepers did very well from the troops and their dependents, and a boycott would really hit them hard.
“In fact, charges may well be brought against the town council. The British consul will be informed about the overcrowding, and lack of control, in the Altstadt. There were street traders, street performers, and crowds milling about all over the place. It was a complete shambles. There could have been a terrible disaster if there had been a fire.”

The Altstadt is always crowded, as it is a tourist attraction besides being a market, and I knew the town council were trying to put controls in place, so my attack hit home.
The police Inspector, who had not taken his eyes off Ffion since she had entered the room, then said, in excellent English.

“I’m sure Frau Wagner was only speaking in the widest possible terms. As no injury has befallen the young man,” he smiled at Geraint, who was back playing on his ‘Game Boy’ after being embraced by his mother, “ there are no grounds for any sort of charges to be brought.” He looked meaningfully at Frau Wagner, who gave a sniff of disdain, and shot a look at Ffion that could have felled an ox.

“A report needs to be submitted.” She snapped, and stalked out of the room. The Inspector smiled ruefully at Ffion.

“I must apologise for Frau Wagner, she is going through a bad time -- hormonally.”
Ffion gave him one of her male enslaving smiles.

“I’m so grateful for the prompt action of your men in finding my Geraint, I can’t thank you enough.”
He squirmed with pleasure—and lust.

“As your husband speaks such good German he will be able to fill out the report.” He gave me a look which said. ‘You’re a lucky sod, having her in bed every night.’
Neither Ffion nor I told him I wasn’t her husband.