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Windflower Wedding
Elizabeth Elgin


The fourth book in the "Suttons of Yorkshire" series which concludes the lives, loves and dramas of the Suttons in a world still at war.Drew and Kitty's marriage plans are threatened by the arrival of Lyndis Carmichael. Will this catalyst be their undoing?











ELIZABETH ELGIN




Windflower Wedding










Dedication (#ulink_bcc40de3-8a37-5d75-ba43-5f4ee26e42ad)


For my own ‘Clan’

Sally, Tim, Maria

Joanne, David, Angela

Rachel, Rhiannon

Jayne and Rebecca




Family Tree (#ulink_4dd8e0de-71d4-5b68-9f8c-6b96c630ec89)










Contents


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Dedication (#ub6b26d2e-3af6-552f-9cf5-b8a79f88eb52)

Family Tree (#u9ce8b2b5-da3a-58a5-8eb9-77c8339e1999)

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1 (#ulink_bcff8c92-3094-5684-9c74-30a1d722ea41)


1942

Home. Keth Purvis smiled with pure pleasure. Where he was being driven he had no idea, and cared still less, because this morning he had disembarked at Greenock. Not quite home. Holdenby in the North Riding of Yorkshire was home, but Scotland was near enough! Now he was only a telephone call away from Daisy; now, the Atlantic no longer separated them.

‘So do you want the good news first, or the bad?’ his superior in Washington had asked.

‘Whichever, sir.’

They had turned him down, he’d thought; turned down his request to return to England, but the bad news was that that request was approved – with conditions. The good news was that when he returned to England, when a passage could be arranged for him, he would be promoted to the rank of captain.

He wasn’t, he recalled, offered any details. It was a take-it-or-leave-it deal, with no questions asked and no answers given.

He had taken it; had grasped it eagerly, for what condition could be so demanding that Daisy was not worth it?

That had been on his birthday in July. Now it was September and the heather on the hills fading, the bracken turning to gold. Days of waiting became weeks, then months. His elation turned to dejection. They had forgotten him, he was sure of it, until one day he was on his way on a troopship filled with American soldiers and airmen and, though he only once glimpsed them, a score of nurses, carefully chaperoned.

They had not sailed in convoy. The Queen Mary was too fleet to be so confined. She sailed alone, keeping a zigzag course the whole way across the Atlantic to outwit submarine commanders who would give eyeteeth and more to sink her or her sister ship the Queen Elizabeth. The Mary and the Lizzie – and the Mary had borne him safely home. To Daisy.

‘Where are we?’ he asked of the woman driver.

‘Sir – I don’t rightly know …’

‘Somewhere in Scotland, surely?’

‘Yes, sir. Somewhere in Scotland.’ She stared ahead, her cheeks pinking.

‘So if you don’t know where we are,’ he teased, ‘how will you know when we get there?’

She could well be lost, he thought mischievously. It was two years since signposts had been removed – even the one at Holdenby crossroads – so that the enemy, when he parachuted in, should not know where he had landed. Then, Britain daily had expected invasion and though it was almost certain that invasion would never happen now, still the signposts and names of railway stations had not been put back.

‘Sir. I know approximately where I am.’ She glanced at him sideways and saw the smile on his face. ‘And I know exactly where we are going, but you know I can’t tell you!’

‘Of course, Sergeant.’ He didn’t care where they were going. He had always thought – when They had told him his request to return to England had been approved, but with conditions attached – that he would be sent to some out-of-the-way, hush-hush place. Another Bletchley, only in the wilds. Doing exactly the same thing he had done at Bletchley. And where more wild than this, with the road they travelled little wider than a cart track and getting narrower by the mile?

A beautiful wilderness, for all that. To their left, the head of a loch, circled with hills, and to their right, mile upon mile of pine trees and tangled undergrowth and the sun, big and orange, beginning to sink behind those purple hills.

He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. Daylight lasted longer the further north they travelled. In London – and in Liverpool too – blackout conditions would already be in force, he supposed.

‘What time is blackout?’

‘Depending on where you are – and give or take a minute or two – round about ten o’clock.’

‘Should you have told me that, sergeant?’ he said with mock severity.

‘Oh yes, sir. I got it from the newspaper this morning.’

She was biting on her bottom lip to suppress a smile. She was really rather nice. Married, of course. Her wedding ring was the first thing he noticed about her capable left hand. There were many married women in the armed forces, he supposed, and soon, given luck and seven days’ marriage leave, Daisy would be another of them.

‘I don’t suppose,’ he hazarded, shifting his position the better to see her face, ‘that if we were to pass a phone box you could stop? I’d like to ring my fiancée. We haven’t spoken to each other for –’

‘Sir!’ She cut him short, her face all at once very serious. ‘There are no phone boxes around here. All removed. Security, see. But even if there were and you ordered me to stop – we-e-ll, I’d be bound to report it as soon as we arrived because it would be more than my stripes were worth if I didn’t!’

‘And you’ll report this conversation?’

‘No, sir.’ She was smiling again. ‘Not this time. Only you’ve got to realize the way it is.’

‘Yes. I realize.’ Phones, where they were going, would be listened-in to or scrambled, and every letter he wrote censored. He expected it and he didn’t care, ‘I suppose we are allowed to have phone calls?’

‘With permission, yes, sir. You’ll be able to phone out, sometimes, but there are no calls allowed in. I’ve been there a year now, and I still don’t know the phone number. And when you do phone, you’ll have to get used to the fact that someone will almost certainly be listening.’

‘Hmm.’ He folded his arms and stared ahead. More hush-hush than Bletchley Park, this new destination. At Bletchley he had at least been trusted with the phone.

Then he shifted in his seat, straightened his shoulders and allowed himself a small, secret smile. He was home and soon Daisy would know it in spite of all the petty restrictions.

And that was all that mattered!

Wren Daisy Dwerryhouse, summoned to the phone in the hall at Wrens’ Quarters, Hellas House, said, ‘Dwerryhouse,’ and waited, breath indrawn. It was always like this now, when anyone at all phoned.

Keth? whispered a voice inside her, even though she knew it would be Mam or Drew or Tatty.

‘Hi, Daiz!’ Only Drew called her Daiz. ‘Just thought I’d ring, see how you are and if there are any messages for Rowangarth.’

‘Drew! You’re going home!’

‘Only seventy-two hours. We’re getting de-gaussed again so most of us have got a spot of leave.’

‘Is Kitty going with you?’

‘She is. She managed to wangle it. Well – you know Kitty!’

Daisy knew her, and liked her; liked her a lot in spite of the fact that Kitty’s coming to England had resulted in near heartbreak for Lyndis, with whom Daisy shared a cabin.

‘Well, enjoy yourselves. I’m just fine, tell Mam and Dada. And give my love to Aunt Julia. I should be home on long leave myself before so very much longer. That’ll put a smile on Mam’s face. Oh – and give my love to Kitty too, won’t you?’

She smiled into the receiver as she replaced it; just as if she were smiling at Drew, her brother – her half-brother. Dear Drew who was so in love, just as she was, and planning a wedding as soon as They, the faceless ones, allowed it because in wartime, They could do anything they wanted and without so much as a by-your-leave.

She opened the door of Cabin 4A, closed it carefully, then paused to think about what she would say.

‘That was Drew on the phone.’ Leading-Wren Lyndis Carmichael said it for her. ‘And he’s in dock and taking Kitty out and not you and me.’ Not any more, since Kitty.

‘Yes, but they’re going home. He’s got seventy-two hours’ leave. He just phoned to see if there were any messages.’

‘I see. And you don’t have to look so guilty. I brought it on myself, didn’t I? Fell hook, line and sinker for him and then he ditches me for Kitty Sutton, one of your hallowed Clan!’

‘No, Lyn! Drew liked you a lot – then Kitty happened along and that was it! It was nothing to do with the Clan.’

‘You’re right. It wasn’t. And I should’ve got used to it by now, but being dropped still hurts, Daisy, because I still love him – more than ever, if that’s possible. Even though he’s going to marry Kitty, it doesn’t stop me wanting him.’

‘Lyn, love – what can I say? Both you and Drew are special to me, and Kitty too, so I’ve got to sit on the fence as far as you and he are concerned. Don’t ask me to take sides.’

‘I won’t. Only you can’t turn love off. You can try, but the loving is always there.’

‘I know. It would be the same for me if Keth found someone else. And don’t think I’m all smug, Lyn, because I’ve got a ring on my finger. I worry, sometimes, that we’ll be so long apart he’ll forget what I look like. I mean – why did he have to be sent back to Washington? Three years away, then one day, out of the blue, he’s on the phone – back home. And just when we think we’ll be getting married They send him away again. Who do They think They are, then? Almighty God?’

‘Of course they do! Has it taken you all this time for the penny to drop? We are only names and numbers to that lot! But I’ll tell you something, Dwerryhouse D. I’m going to have the time of my life cocking a snook at Authority the minute I get back to civvy street again. Just imagine seeing an officer and saying, “Hullo, mate,” to him instead of saluting! Or maybe even winking!’

‘“When I get back to civvy street again.” How many millions of times must that have been said, Lyn?’

‘Lord knows, and He won’t tell! Anyway, now that we’ve done our stint for King and Country for the day …’

‘And eaten a mediocre, kept-warm lunch.’

‘Very mediocre. So what say we take a walk in the park? There won’t be many more lovely afternoons left. We’re well into September, now.’

‘Mm. Had you realized that we’re three weeks into year four of the war?’

‘I had. But if it hadn’t been for the war, I wouldn’t have met Drew, had you thought?’

‘Drew is taboo!’

‘Okay. And worrying about Keth in Washington?’

‘That too.’

‘So what shall we talk about? Shortage of lipsticks and face cream?’

‘Or the blackout?’

‘And the pubs always running out of beer and never a bottle of gin to be seen!’

‘And my wedding dress, hanging at Rowangarth!’

‘Now we’re back to Keth again!’

They began to laugh, because it was best you laughed about things you were powerless to change, then pulled on hats and gloves and made for the park, just across the road.

Navy-blue woolly gloves and thick black stockings on a beautiful Indian summer day in September, Lyn thought. Yuk!

‘By the way,’ she said, when they had fallen into step and were making towards the Palm House, ‘I know it’s taboo, but what did you say they were doing to Drew?’

‘Not Drew – his ship! And surely you know what degaussing is?’

‘I don’t – except the entire ship’s company gets a seventy-two-hour leave pass when it happens.’

‘De-gaussing is passing an electric current through the copper wire that’s fixed round the ship. It neutralizes it, sort of, so that mines won’t go off when they sail over one.’

‘Clever stuff – especially if you happen to be on a minesweeper like Drew is. Does it really work?’

‘It has done, this far.’ Daisy crossed her fingers. ‘I suppose they’re having a top-up, or something. So what shall we talk about?’ Daisy said very firmly.

‘Heaven knows!’ What was there to talk about that didn’t lead back eventually to Keth or Drew? Lyn brooded. Or more to the point, how Drew Sutton was crazily in love with Kitty, his cousin from Kentucky and had proposed to her and spent the night with her within the space of twenty-four hours? ‘I suppose we could talk about what we would do with a hundred clothing coupons; if we were allowed clothing coupons, that is.’

‘I’d rather talk about pay parade tomorrow,’ Daisy said. After all, pay parade every two weeks was just about the only thing you could be sure about!

Unspeaking, they walked past the shattered Palm House and on towards the ornamental lake. Life got tedious, sometimes, for those serving in His Majesty’s Forces, and often – much, much too often – very lonely.

Alice Dwerryhouse was well pleased. She had been to a salvage sale and come away with enough flower-printed cotton to make two dresses – one for Daisy and one for herself. And after thinking long and hard she bought five yards of pale blue fine woollen material, smoke-stained and in parts water-marked too. She had worried about the pale blue wool, washing it carefully, thinking she had been a fool to waste good money on something that could shrink into nothing as well as wasting precious soap flakes.

She need not have worried. It had blown dry on the line and come up fluffy and soft – and stain-free and pre-shrunk, into the bargain. Now Daisy could have a nice going-away costume and the beauty of salvage sales was that material sold there came not only cheaply but without the need to hand over clothing coupons for it! You paid your money and you took pot luck, she supposed. And it wasn’t very nice, if you let yourself dwell on it overmuch, that such windfalls were the result of some fabric warehouse being bombed and the bolts of wool and cotton knocked down for salvage.

She pulled the iron carefully over the pale blue length, trying hard not to gloat that now Daisy would not only have a proper white wedding dress but a going-away outfit too. Indeed, she sighed, coming down to earth with a jolt, all her daughter lacked now was a bridegroom and Keth Purvis was miles away in Washington.

It was all Hitler’s fault, though. Evil Hitler who was the cause of it all, and why the air force lads didn’t bomb him to smithereens she didn’t know. Or maybe, she thought, smiling wickedly, how would it be if the good Lord worked a crafty one so that Hitler and half a dozen mothers of sons and daughters away in the forces could be locked in a room for ten minutes. Ten minutes, that’s all it would take!

‘Alice! You were miles away. Penny for them!’ Julia Sutton closed the kitchen door behind her – Julia never knocked – then sat down beside the fire.

‘A penny? No, they’re worth much more than that!’ They were too, considering what she had just done to Hitler. ‘But there’s good news written all over your face – so tell me.’

‘Good news indeed! Were you going to put the kettle on?’

‘You do it. Just want to finish pressing this material. It’s come up real well, though I can’t say I didn’t have second thoughts after I bought it. But what’s happened?’

‘Drew and Kitty, that’s what.’ Julia set the kettle to boil. ‘Kitty phoned. Can I put up with the pair of them for three days, she said. Drew’s been given leave!’

‘Leave? A bit sudden, isn’t it? He’s not –’

‘Not going overseas? No, I don’t think so. Something that had to be done to the ship, she said. Very vague. You know what Kitty’s like. She didn’t even get round to saying what time before the pips went, but I take it they’ll be arriving on the six-thirty into Holdenby – if not before, of course, if they hitch a lift from York.’

‘And you’re still pleased – about them getting married, I mean?’

‘Delighted. Kitty is so adorable – she always was, come to think of it. Quite the naughtiest of the Clan, but such a way with her. You like her, don’t you, Alice?’

‘You know I do. I always did. We’re very lucky, you and me both.’ Carefully she draped the precious material to air, then folded the ironing blanket carefully. ‘And I’ve got news for you too. Daisy’s leave has been approved. She’ll be home a week from now. And I’m not supposed to tell you, so you’ll have to be very surprised when you see him in uniform. Tom’s been made a sergeant. There’ll be no living with him now!’ Alice smiled fondly. Tom – a marksman in the Great War; now a sergeant in the Home Guard. Funny how being married to him got better with each year. Different, but better. Two more years would see their silver wedding anniversary. Mind, she sighed, if the war hadn’t happened she could well have been a grandmother now.

‘Why the sigh?’

‘Oh, just thinking about Keth and Daisy being apart. I ought to be glad he’s where he is and not in the thick of the fighting, but I would, just once, like to see the six of them together again, just like they used to be when they were growing up.’

‘My Clan? Drew, Daisy, Keth, Bas, Kitty and Tatty. And five of them are in England now. Only Keth to will and wish home, then I shall take their photo again, just as I did in the Christmas of ’thirty-six. ’Thirty-seven, remember, was the last summer they were all together. And I’m sure they’ll be together again one day.’

‘When the war is over, happen?’

‘No, Alice. Long before then. I know it!’

‘Then fingers crossed that you’ll be right.’

‘I am.’ Julia stirred her tea thoughtfully. ‘Did you see it in the paper, by the way, that the milk ration is being cut?’

‘I did. It’s down to five pints a week now, between the two of us!’

‘We-e-ll, I suppose Home Farm will slip us the odd pint, now and again. It isn’t as though milk has to be brought here by sea. I don’t feel so bad about getting extra milk – not like sugar, or tea or petrol. Wouldn’t touch those. Wouldn’t risk a seaman’s life.’

‘I should think not, and us with a sailor son!’ Alice drained her cup, then upended it into her saucer, gazing at the tea leaves clinging to the sides. ‘Wish Jinny Dobb were here to read our cups. Jin wasn’t often wrong, was she?’

‘No. Dear Jin. It’ll be a year on the fifth of October since they were all killed – and a year on the tenth since Mother died.’

‘I know.’ Alice reached out for Julia’s hand. ‘I loved her too, don’t forget – I loved all of them. But they wouldn’t want us to fret. None of them would.’

‘Mm. And we’ve still got each other, you and me. Sisters to the end?’

‘Sisters,’ Alice said, gravely and gratefully, ‘to the end …’

‘Have you ever stopped to think, Gracie Fielding, that if this dratted old war goes on much longer you’ll be a time-served gardener?’ Jack Catchpole, sitting on his upended apple box, blew on his tea. ‘That is, of course, provided you don’t go getting any ideas about getting wed and wasting all the knowledge I’ve passed on to you!’

‘Married, Mr Catchpole?’ Gracie blushed hotly. ‘Now whatever gave you an idea like that?’

‘Gave me? When it’s sticking out a mile and that young Sebastian never away? Don’t know how he manages to get so much leave!’

‘Well, he won’t be able to get away so often in future. It was quite easy, once, but now the aerodrome – er – airfield, is ready, Bas says the bombers will start arriving soon and things will be different.’ A whole new ball game, he said it would be.

‘Ar. I did hear as how the Americans down south are already going bombing, and serve those Nazis right, an’ all! But young Bas won’t be flying bombers, will he?’

‘No. He wanted to, but his hands – well, his left hand in particular, put paid to that.’ She added a silent thank goodness.

‘Never mind. His hands didn’t stop him getting to be a vet’nary with letters after his name, so they can’t be all that bad. And it was a miracle he wasn’t taken in that fire like Mrs Clementina was.’

‘I never notice his hands, truth known,’ Gracie smiled.

‘Of course you don’t. Just a few old scars. Mind, I shall want to know good and early when you and him set a date. I shall take it amiss if you don’t let me do the flowers and buttonholes for you. And think on! We want no winter weddings when there’s only chrysanths to make bouquets of. See that you plan it for the summer when there’s flowers about.’

‘Mr Catchpole!’ Gracie jumped to her feet. ‘I’ve told you time and time again that I don’t think it’s at all wise to get overfond of anyone in wartime. You could get hurt. Look what happened to Tatty.’

‘Aye, poor little wench. But wisdom has a habit of popping out of the window, Gracie lass, when love walks in at the door, and don’t you forget it.’

‘I won’t. I’m not likely to. I’ve told you that often enough!’

‘Aye, but it seems no one has told young Bas. He’s a grand lad, you can’t but admit it.’

‘Yes, and he can get pipe tobacco in their canteen and he brings you some every time he comes. You encourage him!’ Gracie said hotly. ‘But you’ve no need to worry about losing me. I want to do my apprenticeship. I want to be a lady gardener when the war is over. I don’t want ever to go back into an office so you’d better accept that you’re stuck with me, ’cos I’m not going to marry Bas Sutton.’

‘Now is that a fact?’ Jack Catchpole slurped noisily on his tea. ‘Well, you could’ve fooled me, Gracie Fielding,’ he chuckled throatily. Oh, my word, yes!




2 (#ulink_0fb0c968-4552-5e63-87ad-b3f81ce82c57)


The army car, camouflaged in khaki and green and black, turned sharp left and the driver stopped at a guard post where a hefty red and white gate barred their way.

‘Hi,’ the driver said laconically, offering her identity pass, even though she obviously knew and was known by the soldiers who stood guard. ‘One passenger, male.’ She turned to Keth. ‘Your ID sir, please.’

Keth fished in his pocket, offering his pass. The corporal of the guard switched on his flashlight, studying it in great detail. He handed it back, then shone the light full in Keth’s face. ‘Carry on, driver!’ he rasped, satisfied with the likeness.

Saluting smartly he motioned an armed guard to open the gate, winked at the driver, who winked back, then waved them forward.

‘Very officious,’ Keth remarked mildly, blinking rapidly as black spots caused by the torch glare danced in front of his eyes.

‘Just a couple more miles – and another checkpoint,’ the sergeant smiled. ‘Have your ID ready.’

The black spots were fading and Keth looked around him. The sun had sunk behind the hills, and in the half-light a crescent moon hung silver white at the end of a long avenue of tall pines.

The driver braked hard as a large bird ran across their path. ‘Damn it!’ she muttered. ‘I should have got it, but I always brake. Instinct, I suppose.’

‘What was it?’

‘A cock pheasant. Wish I wasn’t so squeamish. He’d have done nicely for the pot!’

She accelerated, drove at speed down the long, straight drive then slowed as they approached a second checkpoint.

This time only a pole barred their way; Keth offered his identification without being asked for it, closing his eyes against another beam of torchlight, which did not come.

‘’Night, Mick.’ The driver wound up her window then said, ‘There you are. Home sweet home, sir.’

Keth let out a whistle. Silhouetted against the sky it could have been Pendenys; Pendenys Place, Holdenby, but with more towers. Pendenys was in the North Riding of Yorkshire, though, and the great bulk ahead was in the wilds of Scotland. Somewhere in Scotland, and hidden and guarded and secret.

‘What’s it called?’ It was worth a try.

‘Home sweet home, sir, like I said.’

They slowed to a crawl as the car wheels crunched into the gravel of the circular sweep in front of the forbidding entrance.

Good security, Keth thought. Gravel made a lot of noise, even to walk on. It reminded him of the curving sweep of the drive at Denniston House, where Mrs Anna and Tatty lived, and he wished he were crunching up it now.

One of the massive double doors swung open, revealing a dimness beyond. The door closed again and torchlight picked them out.

The ATS driver got out, stretched, then rotated her shoulders.

‘Captain Purvis, sir – this way, please.’

Keth made to pick up the largest of his cases but it was at once grasped by a lance corporal and carried up the steps, together with his canvas bag, a second case and his respirator and steel helmet.

One, two, three … Mentally Keth counted the steps. Eight in all. He always counted steps as he climbed them; always had done. It irritated him, but still he did it.

The half-door grated open again, then slammed shut behind them. To his left an armed sentry sloped arms and stamped loudly as Keth passed.

This must, he reasoned, be the great hall. There had been a great hall at Pendenys with a floor patterned in highly polished tiles, massive arches and a grandiose staircase. The great hall in this secret Scottish castle was higher, its floor slabbed and worn and cracked in places. The staircase was oak, turned black with age, and a canvas strip covered its treads, though whether to protect the stairs or to deaden sound Keth couldn’t be sure.

To his right a massive iron fireplace crackled and spat wood sparks and it gave him strange comfort. He smiled his thanks to his driver who said, ‘Good night, sir. Good luck,’ then walked away down a long, echoing passage.

‘The CO is expecting you if you’ll come this way,’ said a regimental sergeant major, picking up Keth’s cap. ‘I’d take this, if I were you, sir.’

Keth thanked him, and settled it on his head, realizing he would be expected to salute.

They began to climb the stairs. Twelve steps up – dammit, he was counting again – the staircase branched to left and right. They turned left and the RSM knocked twice on the third door on the right.

‘Enter!’

‘Captain Purvis, sah!’ He did a smart about-turn, opened the door and closed it behind him with a bang.

Keth came to attention and saluted, all the while wondering about Pendenys and if army boots stamped all over Mrs Clementina’s floors and up her stairs and if everyone banged her doors like the muscular sergeant major.

‘Sir!’ Keth stared ahead, arms rigid at his sides.

‘At ease, Purvis. Take a pew.’ The brigadier nodded towards a leather chair opposite.

Keth sat, then removed his cap, placing it carefully on the floor at his side.

‘Good journey over? No bother?’

‘The best ever. The Queen Mary doesn’t waste time.’

‘Hm. Always fancied a trip on one of the queens. Comfortable, was it?’

‘Yes, sir, but very – er – basic.’

The liner had been stripped of all her luxury. A cabin intended for two now slept eight in iron bunks. He remembered his first luxurious crossing of the Atlantic in ’thirty-seven, then wiped all thoughts from his mind.

‘Drink?’ asked the senior officer. ‘We do manage to get the odd bottle of whisky from time to time.’ He rose to pour two measures.

‘A very small one for me; I haven’t eaten since morning.’

‘Water with it?’

‘Please, sir.’

‘Welcome.’ The brigadier raised his glass. ‘Good to have you with us.’

‘Thank you, sir. Glad to be here.’ How glad they would never know.

The brigadier had poured very small measures. He tilted his glass and drained it. Keth thought him a decent fellow but then perhaps he was a very senior boffin in khaki. Perhaps everyone here were mathematicians or scientists disguised as soldiers, just as he was.

‘How was Washington?’ He poured another small measure of whisky, nodding his head in the direction of Keth’s untouched glass.

‘Not for me, sir. I’m fine, thank you. And Washington has hardly changed.’

‘Hm. You were there before – at the Embassy?’

‘Yes, sir. In the cipher room. A civilian.’

‘And you volunteered to return – correct me if I’m wrong?’

‘I asked to be drafted home. I was told there would be conditions and I accepted them – though I don’t know yet what they are.’

‘All in good time. Tomorrow’s another day. Right now you’ll be wanting a kip, I shouldn’t wonder. Sorry you missed dinner but your batman will go on the forage for you.’ He glanced at his watch, a signal for Keth to get to his feet.

‘No hurry. Finish your drink.’ The brigadier pressed a button beneath the lip of his desk and almost at once the lance corporal who had carried in Keth’s kit appeared to stamp his feet and stand to attention.

‘Take Captain Purvis to his quarters, please.’

‘Er – good night, sir.’ Keth emptied his glass. ‘Thank you.’

‘’Night, Purvis.’

The interview was over and he had learned nothing save that tomorrow was another day when doubtless the conditions would be explained to him, and where he would be working, and with whom.

‘Will you be going down to the mess, sir, while I unpack your kit?’

He was being asked to clear off out of it and not make a nuisance of himself.

Obstinately he said, ‘No, Lance Corporal, I don’t feel like socializing tonight. But I would like a couple of sandwiches and a very large mug of tea. Milk, no sugar. And then I would like a bath and maybe, afterwards, make a phone call.’

‘Oh, deary me, sir.’ The batman shook his head mournfully. ‘The sandwiches and the bath – no trouble. The phone call, oh, no.’

‘But why ever not?’ Keth indicated the bedside telephone with a nod of his head.

‘That, sir, is only internal, between you and the switchboard. Won’t get you to the GPO, not that instrument.’

‘Then how do I go about it?’

‘Sir, you don’t. There’s a ban on outside calls. Only in the direst emergency would you be allowed one. But I’ll see Cook about your sandwiches. I might manage beef …’

‘Beef will be fine.’

‘Righty-o, sir. I’ll get them now, then I’ll come back and unpack for you while you have your bath. I believe you’ve come from the States?’

‘I have.’

‘Then you won’t know about baths, here. Six inches of water, no more, per person. There’s a black line painted around all our baths, and over that line we dare not go!’

‘Of course not.’ Keth bit on a smile, then rummaged in his canvas bag for his toilet things. He had brought several tablets of soap with him and rose-geranium bath salts for Daisy – a bottle of perfume too, to use on their honeymoon because as sure as God made little apples, they were getting married on his next long leave. ‘But are you sure there is no way I can phone my fiancée?’

‘Not that I know of, Captain. Letters is the only way and they’ll have to be seen by the Censor. Even ours.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘But that’s what comes of working in a place like this. You take the downs with the ups, and since I was pulled off the beach at Dunkirk with one in the shoulder, I count my blessings, in a manner of speaking. Rather be here, for all its faults, than holed up in Tobruk or in a prisoner-of-war camp.’

‘Faults? You mean there’s nothing much to do here?’

‘Oh, there’s the recreation room and the NAAFI van comes twice a week. They bring ciggies and we’re allowed a couple of bottles of beer. But mostly it’s – well, you know what I mean, sir? I’ll see to your sandwiches. And if you’ll give me your soap bag I’ll reserve you a bath on the way down. It’s customary, around this time of night, to put your soap and towel in a bath, otherwise you’ll be unlucky.’

‘Thanks, Lance Corporal,’ Keth smiled. ‘And what am I to call you?’ He seemed a decent sort, in spite of his sorrowful expression.

‘Call me? Why, Lance Corporal, that’s what, sir! If you’ll pardon me, it doesn’t do to get too familiar here – what with the fluid nature of the place, if you get my meaning.’ He left the room, leaving Keth to wonder about the fluid nature of the place and why phone calls were strictly not allowed. Frowning, he picked up the telephone.

‘Switchboard,’ a female voice answered at once.

‘Can you tell me, please, how I can make a call to Liverpool?’ Dammit, it was worth a try!

‘See the adjutant, sir. He’ll refer your request to the brigadier,’ came the ready reply.

‘Thank you.’ Carefully, thoughtfully, he replaced the receiver. But hadn’t the brigadier said that tomorrow was another day, and with a couple of sandwiches inside him and a mug of tea, things would seem better. One thing was certain; no one here gave straight answers to straight questions and he hadn’t yet discovered the name of the place, nor where, in Scotland, it was located.

The lance corporal returned, looking even sadder, placing a plate and mug beside Keth, shaking his head gloomily.

‘Sorry, sir. No beef. You’ll have to make do with cheese.’

‘Cheese is fine.’

‘Then I’ll be back, sir, in ten minutes. Oh, and the adjutant’s compliments, and will you see him in his office at nine sharp in the morning?’

Keth bit into the sandwich, realizing how hungry he was and how surprisingly good the cheese tasted.

He kicked off his shoes then lay back on his bed. Even though the telephone mocked him, he knew there would be some way to speak to Daisy, tell her he loved her and that soon they would be married.

Darling, he sent his thoughts high and wide, I love you, love you, love you – and I’m home!

Drew and Kitty walked hand in hand beneath the linden trees.

‘I’m so happy,’ she sighed. ‘Everything is so perfect that sometimes I worry.’

‘Worry, when we’ll soon be married and you’ll be mistress of Rowangarth and we’ll live happily ever after?’

‘I’d rather be your mistress, but I suppose I am, really.’

‘No. You’re my lover,’ Drew smiled. ‘Are you truly happy about us, Kitty?’

‘Truly, truly happy. I don’t want to come down off my lovely pink cloud.’

‘You’ll have to, to marry me – and that’s another thing. When?’

‘Look, let’s sit down.’ She linked his arm, then entwined his fingers in hers, sitting on the stone seat at the side of the walk. ‘All this – you, me, meeting and loving, Rowangarth on a September afternoon – even the war can’t spoil it. It’s our own special world and no one has ever loved as we love, nor ever will. I love you and I’m in love with you. I’m so devastatingly happy that I want this gorgeous madness to go on for ever – can you understand, Drew?’

‘Of course. It’s the same for me too. But I want us to be married.’

‘We are married. We met on a scruffy dockside in a bombed city and all at once every light in Liverpool blazed brightly and I felt dizzy, and oh, Drew, I’ll never be able to tell you how wonderful it was, that first loving. That was when we were married, don’t you see? That very night we slept together. We’ve even got same names – Drew and Kitty Sutton.’

‘I want you to be Lady Sutton. I want Uncle Nathan to marry us. I want you to have my – our – children.’

‘And we will be married, of course we will, and we’ll have kids – four, at least. But, darling, I want this unbelievable happiness to last a little longer. Let me get used to being in love?’

‘And if I’m sent foreign – what then?’

‘Then we’ll get married on your embarkation leave, though wouldn’t it be just marvellous if Mom and Pop could be there? Oh, she’s delighted about us. She always knew my English half would get the upper hand and I’d marry an Englishman. I think she even secretly hoped it would be you, darling. So let me wallow deep in my pink cloud – just for a little longer? Let me stay starry-eyed – please?’

‘Kitty Sutton, you always speak in superlatives! You always did. To you, everything must be larger than life – even being in love.’

‘And you, my darling, are dour and sensible and you’re still reeling from the shock of being bowled over by my glittering personality. So why don’t you come and join me on my pink cloud? I stayed awake ages last night, thinking you might knock.’

‘Yes, and I lay there for ages, wanting to come to you.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Don’t know. Suppose I dropped off, eventually …’

‘No, you wanted to sleep with me, but when you think about it, darling, it wouldn’t have been right – not here, at Rowangarth.’

‘Me creeping along the passage, you mean, like we were using Rowangarth for a dirty weekend?’

‘Mm. We’d get caught, anyway …’

‘Yes. Those boards creak something awful in the upstairs passage.’

They began to laugh, then agreed that not for anything would they sleep together at Rowangarth until they were married. Any place else – every place else – but not Rowangarth.

‘When we get back to Liverpool,’ Kitty whispered, ‘will you have to go back on board right away?’

‘No. I’ll just report to the quartermaster, then push off to the Adelphi, I suppose. Shall you come with me, darling?’

‘We could spend the night at my digs. Ma won’t mind.’

‘The Adelphi would be better and I could sign the register Andrew and Kathryn Sutton without so much as a blush.’

‘And I’ll twist my ring round on my finger so it looks like a wedding ring and then everybody’ll be happy! And we’ve got to be together every minute we can, because you never know the day I’ll get sent to London. I’ve been expecting it for a while now.’

‘I’ll hate it if you go.’

‘Yes, but had you thought – I could lodge with Sparrow and it would be just great sharing the spare room with Tatty. Do you suppose Aunt Julia would let me?’

‘Sure of it. And I know Sparrow would like it too. But don’t let’s talk about you being sent away, Kitty – not till it happens?’

‘Okay. And when – if – it does, we’ll think about Daisy and Keth who are miles apart. At least you and I will be able to ring each other. We’ll have to do what your gran did; count our blessings and oh, Drew, wouldn’t she have been pleased about you and me? Didn’t she always just love a wedding?’

‘Mm. If I’m at sea, darling, will you phone Mother when it’s the first anniversary of her death next month?’

‘I will – word of a Sutton. And my bottom’s getting cold on this seat; let’s skip afternoon tea and go for a walk? Let’s go to the top of the pike so I can say hullo to Pendenys. And, darling, when we’re married and the war is over, will Uncle Nathan and Aunt Julia go to live there? Well, it’s his now, or will be when the military gives it back.’

‘Mother will only go there under protest. She doesn’t like Pendenys. Well, who would when they’ve lived all their lives at Rowangarth? But we’ll worry about that when the war is over and the Army gives it back.’

‘I’m surprised the soldiers are still there. I’d have thought Grandmother Clementina would’ve haunted them out of it ages ago.’

‘Kitty Sutton, I’m surprised at you! You’re getting as bad as the locals. It isn’t haunted. It’s just that the army lot are so secretive about what goes on there and it makes it sort of mysterious.’

‘What d’you think they’re really doing there? Spying? Cloak-and-dagger?’

‘Can’t make up my mind. There’s all sorts going on that most people don’t know a thing about. I’m sure Keth’s a part of something like that. He’s so vague when you ask him what he’s doing.’

‘Yes, well whatever it is he’s doing it in Washington, which is rotten luck for Daisy.’

She held out her hand and they began to run; across the lawn and the wild garden and over the stile, into the wood. And when they had passed Keeper’s Cottage and were hidden in the deeps of Brattocks Wood, they kissed long and hard.

‘I love you, darling,’ he whispered. ‘Have I ever told you?’

‘Not in Brattocks, you haven’t. So kiss me again and then we’ll climb to the top of the pike and you can tell me there that you love me. And I shall stand and shout it out to the whole Riding. Kathryn Norma Clementina Sutton loves Andrew Robert Giles Sutton and they’re going to be married in All Souls, and you’re invited to the wedding, all of you!’

‘I do love you,’ Drew laughed. ‘Don’t ever change, will you? Don’t ever stop being dotty?’

And she said she wouldn’t, then asked him to kiss her again.

Keth blinked open his eyes, looked questioningly around him, then realized he was in a castle in Scotland and that he was home!

‘’Mornin’, sir.’ His batman had opened the blackout curtains and placed a large mug of tea at his bedside.

‘’Morning, Lance Corporal.’ Keth stretched, then swung his feet to the floor, making for the window. All around were wooded hills and in the distance, the glint of early-morning sun on water. The loch they had passed on their way here, perhaps?

‘What did you say this place was called?’

‘I didn’t, sir, but you’ll doubtless be told. It’s Castle McLeish.’

‘And it’s – where?’

‘Somewhere in Scotland, Captain, though if you was to press me, I’d tell you it was in deepest Argyll and more than that I’m not prepared to say.’

‘And who lived here, before the Army took it?’

‘A gentleman who made his money from whisky. He passed the business on to his two sons, then came here to spend the rest of his days in peace and solitude – or so he thought. But now he lives in a croft about five miles away and both his sons are in the Navy. It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?’

‘A funny old world, Lance Corporal.’

And a wonderful world with Daisy only hours away. Argyll. On the west coast of Scotland and directly north of Liverpool by about two-hundred-odd miles! So near, and if only he could find a telephone she would whisper that she didn’t believe he was home again and it was true, wasn’t it? He really was home? And when was he getting leave and when would they be married?

‘When you’re shaved and dressed, sir, I’ll explain the geography of the castle.’

‘Oh – er – yes. Think you’d better.’

‘It’s a rambling, up-and-down sort of place. You could get lost in it and not be found for days. You’ll want the mess, then the adjutant’s office. One in the east wing,’ he said, mournfully, ‘the other in the north tower. Them stone floors play havoc with your feet.’

‘I’ll survive,’ Keth grinned.

‘Yes, sir. Let’s hope so. Some do.’ And some didn’t. His melancholy was on him again. He’d seen them come and he’d seen them go and all of them fine, upstanding young men. Yes, and women, too, which wasn’t right, to his way of thinking. ‘They’ll be serving breakfast now, if you’d like me to show you the way …?’

When Keth returned to collect his cap in readiness for his visit to the adjutant, he found his bed made, his room cleaned and the windows open to the September morning.

And it was a beautiful morning, he thought, breathing deeply on the brisk, tangy air. His whole world was set fair and if he was not to be given a posting to England, then this beautiful part of Scotland would suit him very nicely – once he had sorted a few things out, like where and with whom he would be working – and phoned Daisy or, at the very least, written her a letter. Somewhere in Scotland, he would head that letter, and when she opened it her cry of disbelief would be heard on the other side of the Mersey.

He straightened his tie, brushed away a speck, then tucking his cap under his left arm, made for the north tower and the adjutant who would answer all his questions and explain the intricacies of phoning your girl and why there was such an air of secrecy over the place. He found the north tower with no trouble at all and knocked firmly on the door marked ‘Adjutant’.

‘You’ll be wondering why you are here,’ Keth was asked when pleasantries had been exchanged and hands shaken.

‘Not really. I put in a request for a posting home and I suppose I’ll be doing what I did before. What I really want to know is how I can phone my fiancée, and I’d like an address to give her when I write. She doesn’t know I’m back, you see, and –’

‘And you’re impatient to get in touch? Well, I’m sorry, but there’ll be no phone calls and no letters – at least, not with this address on them. You can write,’ he hastened, prompted by the agonized expression on Keth’s face, ‘but you will have to write your letters exactly as if you were still in Washington. No hints that you’re in UK; nothing to give the game away.

‘This office will have them censored and appropriately franked, and your young lady will receive them in due course and be none the wiser as to your whereabouts – and that’s the best we can do, I’m afraid.’

‘But I don’t understand. I used to work at Bletchley Park and I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, because it’ll all be on my service sheet. And I imagined – wrongly, it seems – that I would take up where I’d left off. Before Washington, I mean …’

‘Yes, it’s all here.’ The adjutant opened a drawer, taking out a bulky folder. ‘You have a knowledge of, er, Enigma?’

‘As much as the next man. Nobody knows, really, what’s going on in that direction – not all of it,’ Keth said guardedly.

‘But you are familiar with Enigma?’

‘I’ve done my fair share of code-breaking.’ Watch your tongue, Purvis!

‘Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe codes – yes. But how about the U-boat codes? How familiar are you with them?’

‘Now look here,’ Keth flung, all at once on his guard, ‘I signed the Official Secrets Act not so long ago, so if you want to know what went on, I suggest you quiz someone else.’

‘Your attitude does you credit, Captain, but I know what goes on at Bletchley; I know there’s a fair amount of success with the German army and air force codes, but I know they can’t break the naval code and it’s become a raging priority. Orders from the Cabinet Office, in fact.’

‘We did break the U-boats’ code – sometimes,’ Keth offered uneasily. ‘It took a lot of doing, though, for some reason. Only managed it a couple of times a week and very often what we gained was yesterday’s knowledge.’

‘Exactly. And we’d rather like to be more up-to-date on it. Either that,’ he shrugged, ‘or we’re going to lose the entire merchant fleet in the Atlantic, and Hitler will have done what he wanted to all along: bring us to our knees by starvation. Our shipping losses are phenomenal and we can’t go on losing ships the way we are. We think there is a variation between the machines used by the Army and Air Force on the one hand and the Navy – which includes U-boats – on the other, and that is why you are here, Captain.

‘From now on your sole preoccupation will be the breaking of the U-boats’ code and that is all I can tell you at the moment. During the next few days the MO will take a look at you, assess your fitness. It’ll be likely you’ll need a day or two toughening up. Your file indicates that you’ve done a small-arms course and the usual rifle drill and are fairly familiar with other forms of self-defence.’

‘Like what?’ Keth scowled.

‘Like using a hand grenade and a basic knowledge of booby traps and explosives.’

‘Self-defence? Sounds more like commando stuff to me. But yes, I did go on one or two courses, though what use they were was always a bit of a mystery.’

‘You’ll find out – in time. Meanwhile, I’ve fixed you an appointment with the medical officer. Be there at ten. It’s likely he’ll prescribe a spot of PT and a few cross-country runs. Oh, and see the dental officer, will you? Best that you should.’ He folded the file with a finality that indicated that the interview was over, then rose to his feet. ‘And don’t look so perplexed. It’ll all be crystal clear by the end of the week.’

Indeed, thought the adjutant, it would have to be.

‘End of the week? Okay – I’ll accept that but –’ Keth raised his eyes to those of the adjutant and held his gaze steadily, ‘but just tell me one thing. Is this another of those peculiar billets – like Pendenys Place in Yorkshire, I mean?’

‘And what do you know about Pendenys?’ He lowered himself into his chair, his gaze as steady as Keth’s.

‘Not a lot and most of it rumour, I suppose. The locals think something is going on there – and it’s securely guarded, like here, and like this place it’s secluded.’

‘You’ve been to Pendenys, then?’ The adjutant reached for the file again.

‘Many a time – but before the powers that be took it off Edward Sutton. I live near there. I’m engaged to the daughter of the head keeper on the next estate.’

‘To Daisy – er – Dwerryhouse, who’s in the WRNS?’

‘Yes.’ Keth looked down meaningfully at the open file. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

‘Very well – if I must! When you came back to England from Washington – the first time, I mean – you met her down south. You were stationed briefly at Bramble Hill, not far away. And you stayed the night with her at a Winchester hotel. You’ll not want me to tell you that you signed in as Mr and Mrs Purvis. You were under surveillance even then!’

‘That’s enough!’ Keth was on his feet again, his face an ugly red. ‘I know all about the Official Secrets Act and the Defence of the Realm Act too, but leave Daisy out of it – okay? What she and I do is damn all to do with you, or anybody else for that matter! Did it give you a kick, reading through my file? Because you’ll know we stayed the night at a Liverpool hotel too, not long before they sent me back to Washington without the chance to say goodbye to her – like it was some stupid cloak-and-dagger thing!’

All at once that hotel room with its cornflower and poppy bedspread and curtains and the electric fire that guzzled shillings seemed to have been dirtied.

‘No, we don’t seem to have any record of that one,’ said the adjutant mildly, ‘but by then you’d have been pretty well cleared security-wise. Your fiancée is in the clear too.’

‘I should damn well think so! And all this because of Enigma! Have you got my mother’s blood group in your records too?’

‘Steady on, Purvis. Nobody sees these records but the high-ups – and me. And you got it right. This place – and Pendenys, if you must know – are very secure establishments, so your details are safe here.’

‘I couldn’t give a damn one way or the other!’ Keth was calmer now, though his heart still thudded much too loudly. ‘But leave Daisy out of it – right?’

‘And you calm down, Purvis or –’

‘Or you’ll put it on my file: given to sudden rages!’

‘Not on this occasion. But if I were you, I’d take a turn in the garden – do a spot of deep breathing, sort of – or your blood pressure isn’t going to look too good when the MO takes it. And Purvis –’ he hastened as Keth opened the door, ‘don’t take this to heart. It’s nothing personal. We like to know everything about our operatives – we have to – so you’d better get used to the idea that what you do during the next few days here will probably be closely watched and recorded.’

‘Remind me to let you know, then, every time I flush the toilet!’ Keth hissed. Then closing the door again, leaning on it in what he hoped was a perfectly controlled and relaxed pose, he said softly, ‘Just what goes on here?’

And the adjutant, equally controlled, replied that he would be told very soon.

‘Thank you – sir!’

Keth opened the door again, then closed it behind him very quietly. Then he shut his eyes tightly, took a deep breath and said, ‘Arrogant bastard!’ He even permitted himself the smallest smile, thinking that his words might have been heard – and noted on his file!

And why was he worrying? he thought, as he walked through the immaculately kept grounds. He was back – for the second time. He had asked for a draft home, had accepted there would be conditions attached to it, so why get het up over the adjutant? They had to be careful till they had cleared him – a second time. He must accept it. It was the price to be paid for getting back home. To Daisy. He was to carry on his work with Enigma. He was a mathematician – a boffin, a back-room boy – doing his bit for the war under the disguise of a captain in the Royal Corps of Signals. And as soon as his security check was okayed, he would know exactly what went on, what was required of him and how soon he would be allowed that phone call to Daisy.

Calm again, he looked at his watch. Best cut along sharpish. Best not keep the MO waiting.




3 (#ulink_94707cea-c25c-5081-bc38-0149962d28cd)


‘Pity we missed Drew and Kitty,’ Tatty sighed.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Daisy firmly. ‘Well, from your point of view, I mean.’

Daisy, home from the Wrens on seven days’ leave; Tatiana Sutton, home for two nights from her translator’s job in London.

‘Why isn’t it?’

‘Because you’re hurting still over Tim, and seeing them together would have been awful for you. I miss Keth till it hurts, but at least I’ll see him one day. You don’t even have that to hold on to.’

‘No. Just memories. I often wonder what would have happened if I’d got pregnant. Sometimes, I wish I had; it would have been some part of Tim. I know there’d have been the usual upset – Tatiana Sutton getting herself into trouble, and all that cant – but I wouldn’t have cared. Grandfather left me comfortably off – I could have kept the little thing.’

‘Well, you didn’t have Tim’s baby, love, but if you had I’d not have pointed a finger. It could’ve happened to me and people who live in glass houses don’t throw stones.’

‘You’re a good friend. It’s nice to be able to talk to someone about Tim and I appreciate you going up the pike whenever you can to let him know he isn’t forgotten. I got up early this morning and went there. I felt very near him.’

‘Good.’ Daisy reached for Tatiana’s hand and they walked on, glad to be together for just a little while. ‘How’s London, by the way – and Sparrow?’

‘London’s okay; better, now that we don’t get so many air raids. The Blitz was awful. I feel like a Londoner now. There’s so much kindness about – everyone being nice to each other; smiling, and all that. It’s because we’ve been through all that bombing together, I suppose.’

‘I know what you mean. I felt very close to the Liverpool people, knowing I’d seen their blitz out with them. You and me have really grown up, haven’t we, Tatty?’

‘Me especially. I defied Mother and Grandmother over Tim and then I walked out and went to London. I only wish Tim and I could have been married – even though it would have been only for a little while.

‘And another thing – Uncle Igor is quite nice to me these days. I go and see him every week now. At first I did it because I felt sorry for him – all alone in that house in Cheyne Walk – and I suppose I went because I wanted to find out about my father.’

‘What about him?’ Daisy said sharply. Not that it was any business of hers, but she was as sure as anyone could be there was something not quite right about Tatiana’s father, even though he’d been dead for ages. For one thing, both Mam and Dada changed the subject if, innocently, she had mentioned him and for another, Aunt Julia’s mouth went positively vinegary when anyone said Elliot Sutton’s name. ‘Did you find out, whatever it was you wanted to know?’

‘Oh, yes, I did. Uncle Igor couldn’t stand him. He said he warned my mother not to marry him, but she was determined to have him – and all the while Grandmother Petrovska and Grandmother Clementina encouraging it. It seems that Grandmother Clementina was so rich she could buy anything she wanted and she wanted a title in the family.’

‘Hm. By things I’ve heard – in passing, sort of – I believe she had money but no – er – well, she was a little bit bossy.’

‘Grandmother Clementina had, as they say around these parts, plenty of brass, but no breeding. I’d believe it, too. What little I remember of her was that she was a bit – well – loud. Anyway, my mother had a title. In Russia in the Czar’s days, the daughter of a count was entitled to call herself a countess and Grandmother Clementina seized on it like it was the answer to all her dreams. A real countess at Pendenys Place! Uncle Igor thought it was pathetic.’

‘And what else did he tell you?’ Daisy was intrigued.

‘I’ll tell you – one day. Right now, I’m enjoying being home – when I can keep out of the Petrovska’s way, that is. I wish she’d take herself back to London and look after Uncle Igor at Cheyne Walk, but I think she’s still scared of the bombing. I notice Uncle Igor isn’t falling over himself to persuade her back. I think he’s quite contented on his own. He lives in the basement kitchen now. The rest of the house is closed up except for what was once the servants’ sitting room, next to the kitchen. That’s where he sleeps.’

‘I wonder why Mrs Clementina ever bought a house in London,’ Daisy frowned. ‘She hardly ever used it.’

‘A whim. That’s all it was. Did you know,’ Tatiana giggled, ‘that when the Petrovska and Mother and Uncle Igor first went to live there – when they had to get out of Russia because the Communists took over – Grandmother Clementina complained bitterly that Eastern European refugees had taken over the property next door, and the value of her own house would go down.’

‘I bet she soon changed her mind about her next-door neighbours when she found they had titles! Is Cheyne Walk as nice as Aunt Julia’s little house in Montpelier Mews?’

‘No. The Cheyne Walk house is much, much bigger and not half so cute. I love being at Montpelier with Sparrow. She’s a darling. We might even have Kitty living with us if she gets sent down to London to work.’

‘You won’t get yourself upset though – Kitty going on and on about Drew, and you – well …’

‘Loveless, and wanting Tim? No. That part of my life – and it wasn’t much more than three months, remember – is most times locked up inside me. I only let it out when I feel very brave, but one day I’ll be able to think of him without hating the world, I suppose. Sparrow says I will.’

‘Mm.’ When Tatiana talked about Tim, Daisy felt guilty because Keth was safe in Washington and it made her want to hug her friend and tell her she understood, but there was still a coldness around Tatiana that warned everyone away.

‘Well, that’s life, as they say.’ Tatiana’s attempt at a smile failed dismally. ‘And here we are at the crossroads so do we go to Denniston or your place?’

‘Whichever you want.’ Daisy would rather not go to Denniston House because Countess Petrovska always looked at her in a very peculiar way. As if, almost, the daughter of a gamekeeper had no right to be best friends with the daughter of a countess. And that was very stupid of her, Daisy thought hotly, when that gamekeeper’s daughter was rich enough to buy the entire Rowangarth estate and Denniston House too, had she wanted to.

But she tried not to think about the money because it must not be allowed to come between her and Keth. Hardly anyone knew about it; only her parents, Aunt Julia and Drew and Keth – not even Keth’s mother knew. Money left to her by an eccentric old bachelor when once they lived in the New Forest. Money that never seemed quite real because she had only got it legally on her coming-of-age last June, and now there was nothing to spend it on because the shops were empty and Wrens were not given clothing coupons, so she couldn’t go raving mad and buy a fur coat – just for devilment, of course!

‘Hey!’ Tatiana was snapping her fingers in front of her nose and Daisy blinked and smiled guiltily. ‘You were miles away in a trance!’

‘No. In Washington,’ Daisy said without so much as a blush. ‘So where are we going then?’

‘Your place,’ said Tatiana promptly. She liked Daisy’s parents and she loved the cosy kitchen and always being made to feel wanted. ‘And you never showed me what Keth gave you for your twenty-first. A case full of make-up, you lucky dog! Are you sure you won’t use it till your honeymoon?’

‘Absolutely sure. I keep it in the pantry where it’s cool so none of the pots of cream will go off. It would be awful if they did.’

‘They’ll be all right, but shall we just have a gloat over them and maybe a sniff? It’ll be positively sinful to see so much make-up all at once. It’s ages since I got even a pot of cold cream. I suppose that now Keth’s been sent back to America he’ll be sending you silk stockings and all sorts of things.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a few pairs of stockings, for going out in, I suppose, but such a lot of parcels get torpedoed these days, crossing the Atlantic. Mind, the last one Kitty’s mother sent from Kentucky got through, and would you believe it, she had sent glace cherries? Tilda was speechless – well, she hasn’t been able to make cherry scones for ages, there being no cherries in the shops. I shouldn’t wonder if she didn’t bake some for Drew, when he was on leave.’

‘They were lovely days, weren’t they?’ Tatiana sighed. ‘When we were all young, I mean, and Bas and Kitty came over on one of the liners and the Clan was together. Will we be together again, do you think?’

‘Yes, we will. There are five of us here already. Whoever would have thought Bas and Kitty would make it to England with a war on, an’ all? And Aunt Julia says she feels it inside her that Keth will get home too. She’s getting as bad as Jinny Dobb, but oh, if only he could come back …’

They had climbed the far fence of Brattocks Wood and were standing beneath the elm trees where the rooks nested. Daisy looked up at the big black birds that circled overhead.

‘Have you ever told it to the rooks, Tatty?’

‘Told what to the rooks?’

‘Oh – things. Special things like secrets and wishes and fears – anything, I suppose. They always keep secrets and sometimes I think it helps to tell them your worries.’

‘Isn’t that a bit pagan?’

‘No. Country people often do it. Some people tell things to the bees, but Mam and I tell it to the rooks.’

‘Your mother does it?’

‘Yes. Always. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Aunt Julia doesn’t have the odd word with them from time to time, even though she’s the wife of a vicar!’

‘But how do you do it?’ Tatiana wasn’t at all sure that Grandmother Petrovska would approve of such things, her being devoutly Russian Orthodox still, and always crossing herself and praying to her icon.

‘Well, you lean your back against the tree – any tree where rooks nest, then you put your arms behind you, palms touching the tree and you close your eyes and you do it.’

‘But what if someone saw you, or heard you?’

‘Oh, they’d have you branded a witch and it would be the ducking stool for you!’ Daisy gave a shout of laughter. ‘You don’t actually say things out loud. You think them and your thoughts go up to the rooks.’

‘And it works?’

‘I’m not sure – but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

‘And could I talk to Tim?’

‘No. You’d need a medium for that, and only Jinny Dobb was any good at it.’

‘And Jin’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

‘The same night as Tim died. When his bomber crashed.’

Daisy nodded her head. She didn’t want Tatty to talk about that night.

‘It’ll soon be a year since he died, Daisy.’

‘I know, love. But Reuben died that night too, and your Grandfather Sutton and Mrs Shaw and Jinny.’

‘And all Tim’s crew!’ Tatiana’s mouth set traplike. ‘Bastard Germans!’ she hissed.

‘Don’t, Tatty …’

‘Don’t hate that pilot who shot Tim down? So what do you think I’m made of – grit and granite?’

‘No, I don’t. You know I don’t.’ Daisy grasped her friend’s hands, squeezing them tightly. ‘I hate them too for what they did to Reuben that night. He was the nearest I ever got to a grandfather and I loved him every bit as much as you loved your Grandfather Sutton!’

‘But it was special between Tim and me. Grandfather Sutton and Reuben and Mrs Shaw and Jin were old. Tim had hardly lived!’

‘Tatty – please. I’m sorry we came here, started this. I shouldn’t have told you about the rooks.’

‘Yes you should and I’m glad you did! Oh, I’m not going to tell them how much I love Tim – not yet, anyway – because I’m too bitter inside me. But show me how you do it, because I’m going to tell those rooks how much I hate German fighter pilots who shoot up an aerodrome just because it’s a wizard prang and how especially I hate the one who got Tim’s plane.’

‘If you think it will help, but I don’t think the rooks much like bitterness and hatred. Leave it, Tatty? Leave the fighter pilot who killed Tim to God, why don’t you?’

‘Yes. I’m being awful, aren’t I? And I suppose I should remember that Tim’s plane dropped bombs on the Germans – and maybe killed old people like Grandfather Sutton and Reuben, and little children, too …’

‘Yes – well that’s what wars do to people like us, Tatty. Mam says the old ones make wars and the young ones have to fight them. And let it come, love, if it’ll help.’ She gathered her friend to her as tears filled Tatiana’s eyes and ran down her cheeks. ‘Let’s give the rooks a miss today, and tomorrow we’ll go up the pike. You’ll be nearer to Tim up there.’

‘Yes. That was where he died.’ She dabbed her eyes, then blew her nose furiously. ‘Thanks for being so nice about it, Daisy. It’s awful trying to be normal when you know you’ll never be normal again.’

‘I know, love. You’ll feel a lot better once we’ve heard the curlew call at the top of the pike.’

‘I will, won’t I? And do I look awful? Will your mother know I’ve been crying?’

‘No, Tatty. You don’t go all red and blotchy when you cry like I do. And if you did, she would understand. Don’t forget Mam knows what it’s like. For a whole year she thought Dada was dead.’

‘Yes, and for almost a whole year I’ve known Tim is dead and that I’ll never see him again. But I’m glad for the time we had together, Daisy. No matter what, no one can take that away from me.’

‘No, love. And no one who cares for you as much as I do would ever want to. So let’s go and see Mam and have a look at my make-up?’

‘Okay.’ Tatiana looked up sharply as a bomber flew low overhead. ‘See it, Daisy? That’s a Halifax, a new one. They’ve got them at Holdenby Moor to replace the old Whitleys.’

‘Do you still do your aircraft recognition, Tatty?’

‘I do. If it flies, I can tell you what it is – ours or theirs. Come to think of it, why didn’t I join the ATS as an aircraft spotter? I’d have done very well at it.’

‘Well, you’re stuck with being a translator now. We’re both of us stuck with what we’ve got for the duration. And who’s to tell, Tatty, maybe you were intended to go to London? Maybe it was in your stars that you should.’

‘And meet someone else, you mean? Oh, no!’

‘I didn’t mean that. But you’ve made friends with your Uncle Igor, haven’t you, and somewhere in London something might just happen to at least help you to come to terms with losing Tim.’

‘Help me accept what I can’t change, you mean?’

‘Something like that – yes. I hope you will, Tatty. I can’t bear to see you like this. And maybe there’s some truth in what Mam always says – that nothing lasts; not the good times nor the bad. Maybe soon it’s going to be your turn for something good to happen.’

‘Maybe. And I really am learning to count my blessings, Daisy. Did you know I’m helping the WVS now; a sort of escort. I’ve done it twice. It was Sparrow’s niece Joannie started me off. She asked me to do it as a favour the first time, and I’m thinking of doing it regularly: taking airmen out. I don’t mean dating them, but they’re mostly aircrew, in need of an escort, really. And don’t look so bemused. The first time I did it I was shattered; didn’t think it was for me. But then I felt so sorry for them, you see.’

‘Wounded airmen, you mean? You go to the hospital and talk to them and walk with them?’

‘No. They could walk fine, those I met. But they have been in hospital and now they’re going out some, you see. Facing the world again, I mean.’

‘Facing the – Tatty, you don’t mean they’ve been burned?’

‘I mean just that. They’re all young men, Daisy, and some of them look awful. It’s mostly their hands and faces. Their hair and their ears are just fine; protected by their helmets. But their poor faces – oh, the first time I saw them I felt sick inside.’

‘Were they so bad, then?’

‘Yes. Their features all gone. But that wasn’t why I felt awful, Daisy. We were going to the theatre, you see – me and three other girls and four airmen. It was their first time out of hospital blues and into their uniforms again. And it was the first time they’d been out since – since it happened.’

It must have taken a lot of doing – for them, I mean.’

It must. Like I said, I felt sick, but I didn’t let it show. I smiled when I was introduced to my airman. I looked right into his eyes and smiled and do you know what, his eyes looked relieved. His face didn’t, because he can’t smile yet. But his eyes smiled.

‘He was a navigator called Sam. He held his arm out so gallantly, and I took it because that man could have been Tim. My wonderful Tim could have looked that way, and just for a second I was glad that he hadn’t suffered like that.’

‘I know what you mean, Tatty. All of them intelligent and good-looking – then for that to happen is awful.’

‘Yes. I know Tim dreaded it. Do you know he once said to me that he’d rather die than fry?’

‘Tatty! Don’t say such things!’

‘Tim said it, not me. Most aircrews say it. It made me cry so much he promised never to say such a thing again. And he got his wish in an awful kind of way. At least it was clean for him, and quick.’

‘Tatty – don’t. Tim wouldn’t want you to be like this.’

‘No, but he’d have wanted me to go out with those wounded airmen because they are worse than wounded, Daisy. They said there’s some wonderful work going on – skin-grafting and things like that. They can even build up noses again. Sam said he was glad about that because his original nose was awful. Said he hoped he got a better one second time round.’

‘I don’t know how he could joke about it.’

‘Nor me, because it isn’t just their poor faces that are wounded, it’s their pride too. Sam got a bit serious and told me that when he was in hospital, the girlfriend of the airman in the next bed came to visit and she started to scream and make a fuss when she saw him. He said the Ward Sister just got hold of her and all but threw her out. The girl never came back. She wrote later, and broke it off.

‘So they are really marvellous and that’s why I shall go out with them and dance with them and help them to come to terms with what’s happened. They’ll learn to accept it, I hope, and that special hospital helps a lot. But it’s still awful for them. Tim would have hated it.’

‘Oh, lovey!’ Daisy reached for her friend, hugging her, blinking away tears that filled her eyes. ‘Tatty Sutton, you’re a truly lovely person and I know why Tim loved you so much. He’d be proud of what you are doing.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so, and I’m proud of you too! So let’s go to Keeper’s and take a peek at my make-up – and why I’m saving it I just don’t know!’

‘I do,’ Tatiana whispered. ‘And thanks, Daisy.’

‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’

‘For being my friend – and for understanding. And tomorrow, before I leave, we’ll go to see the rooks – okay?’

‘The good old rooks,’ Daisy smiled. ‘You bet we will!’

Keth had not done so much writing since his student days. He put down his pen, rubbing the back of his hand, frowning.

He would be gone for ten days, they told him – certainly no longer than two weeks. So write your letters to the people you usually send them to, they said; address them and date them as if you were still in Washington, and write them as if you were still in Washington too.

‘But my mother and fiancée will carry on writing to that address – I won’t get any letters!’ he had protested.

‘They’ll be redirected to you. You’ll get them – eventually.’

‘But why? And where am I going for ten days?’ Surely not another stupid course trying to make a soldier out of him when all he was good at was mathematics and code-breaking.

And then an awful thought filled his head and he quickly dismissed it because they couldn’t be sending him to make another parachute jump? He shuddered to remember the last, the only, jump he had made; tried to shut out the look of disbelief on his instructor’s face. And far worse than that had been the awful bruising he got on landing and how lucky he was, he’d been told, not to have been badly injured, and to go back to signalling because surely he was better at signalling than parachuting out of a plane!

‘Where you’re going you’ll know when you’ve been kitted out,’ he was told. ‘And you can leave your stuff here because here’s where you’ll be coming back to.’

‘I see,’ he’d said, but he hadn’t understood a word of it because they still weren’t giving straight answers to straight questions. All he knew was that the muscular sergeant major he encountered on his first night at Castle McLeish was a drill instructor who supervised assault courses and who took great delight in putting officers with soft hands through it time and time again. He could also be very insulting – respectfully insulting, that was!

So Keth had written two letters to his mother and four to Daisy and he would have to write at least two more because usually he wrote to Daisy every day.

Two of the letters he had supposedly written from Kentucky where he was having a weekend with Bas and Kitty’s parents, told how delighted they were that Kitty and Drew were engaged and how sad Mrs Amelia was not to be having the time of her life organizing engagement showers and fussing over her daughter’s trousseau. He felt all kinds of a heel as he wrote them.

Trouble was, he had seen no evidence yet of anything in the least familiar to him. As far as he was concerned, Castle McLeish was little better than a drill camp and Keth Purvis was being toughened up for something that this far had nothing to do with Enigma nor bombes nor code-breaking. Something, somewhere, didn’t fit and the more he thought about it, the more apprehensive he became.

If only somebody would say – in answer to his oft-asked question – ‘Yes, Purvis, this is what you are here to do,’ then go on to explain exactly what it was they wanted of him and why he was going away for ten to fourteen days. It was a simple enough request to make but it had not been answered. Nor had anyone looked him straight in the eye and that, he decided, was what made him even more apprehensive.

Well, he’d had enough! He laid down his pen, picked up his cap, in case it became official, and made his way to the mess where he knew he would find the adjutant. And he would have answers to his questions; eyeball-to-eyeball answers, or his name wasn’t Keth Purvis!

He had waited his time in the mess; waited until the adjutant was alone, then walked across the room to face him.

‘A word, if you please – sir!’

The adjutant recognized the narrowed eyes and jutting jaw and asked him if it wouldn’t wait until tomorrow.

No, Keth said, it wouldn’t. Either he got a straight answer now to a couple of questions he wanted to ask or he would put in a request to see the Commanding Officer!

That was why he sat here now, in the outer office. Wait, he had been told. The Commanding Officer would see him in just a minute. The minute had stretched out to fifteen; the customary waiting time for all subordinates intent upon wasting the CO’s time. A heel-cooling period.

Yet Keth did not want to cool down. He wanted to know why he had come from Washington only to do physical jerks and be ignored when he asked the sane and sensible question: what the hell was he doing here?

The phone on the ATS sergeant’s desk rang. Keth wondered why every army girl here was a sergeant. This one was a good-looker; hair like Lyn Carmichael’s. She smiled and told him to go in. He jumped to his feet, hoping his stare hadn’t been too obvious, then knocked on the door she indicated.

‘Enter!’

Keth closed the door behind him, came to attention and saluted.

‘At ease, Purvis.’ He was not invited to sit, so he stood feet apart, relaxing his shoulders, hands behind back. ‘Now the way we do things here, Purvis, is not to make a b nuisance of ourselves. We speak only when spoken to and we don’t ask questions – right?’

‘Sir …’ Keth acknowledged cautiously, because he had been speaking out of turn and he had made a nuisance of himself, he supposed.

‘Has the nature of what goes on in this establishment been lost on you, then? Did you never wonder why you had been asked to leave letters behind you?’

‘Yes. And I wondered – with respect, sir – what kind of a course I was going on, for about a fortnight. I thought I would be doing the work I did at Bletchley Park, but I can see no indication of it here.’

‘Enigma, you mean? Well, you’re right. We only know about Enigma here. We know about a lot of things.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Keth’s mouth had gone dry. He was beginning to wish he had left well alone.

If you’d kept your mouth shut for just another day, I could have given you the whole story, but since it seems you can’t,’ the senior officer paused to let his words sink in, ‘since you want to know why you were brought back from Washington, I’ll tell you.

‘We had your card marked, Captain – just in case we wanted something done by someone who had a working knowledge of the Enigma machine. And then we found we did and we want you for a courier’s job. And please let me finish,’ he snapped as Keth opened his mouth to speak. ‘There are any of a dozen other men could do the job and a damned sight more efficiently than you; men who don’t ask questions nor throw their weight about as you have been doing! But none of those men has your knowledge of Enigma, you see.’

‘Courier?’ Keth breathed, running his tongue round his top lip. ‘Deliver something?’ Was that what all the fuss was about, for Pete’s sake?

‘No. We – They – want something picking up. From occupied France.’

‘Ha!’ Keth’s body sagged. Then he straightened his shoulders, stared ahead and asked of the regimental photograph on the wall, ‘And if I don’t want to be parachuted into occupied France, sir?’

‘Then you can start packing your bags now and I’ll guarantee you a seat on the very next plane back to Washington! You asked to return to UK. You knew there would be conditions attached. You were specifically told so! What’s the matter with you, man – got a yellow streak?’

‘No, sir. Only when it comes to parachuting!’

‘Hm. Understandable, I suppose, when your one and only jump was an utter fiasco, according to your records. That’s why you won’t be parachuting in.’

‘Then that’s fine, sir.’ He didn’t like being called yellow.

‘I’m glad, because you’ll be leaving here tonight. SOE will kit you out and brief you. It will be in no way dangerous. All you have to do is pick up something and bring it back. It’s the operators in the field who’ll be taking the risks.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Of course it wasn’t dangerous. He hopped over to France every week of the year! ‘Am I to start packing my kit?’

‘No. Leave it all in your room. Anything personal or private you will place in an envelope, seal it down, and initial the flap. One of your drawers has a lock and key. Lock anything away that you want to and give the key to the adjutant when you leave. Afterwards, you’ll be coming back here so you can pick up your bags before you move on – back to Bletchley. Any questions?’

‘Just how will I be – er – going in, sir?’

‘All depends. On weather conditions. It’ll either be by Lysander – that’s an aircraft,’ he said, as if explaining to an idiot that a Lysander was an extremely efficient, small, light aircraft that could land on a postcard, almost, ‘or by sea – the submarine boys will put you ashore. Like I said, it’ll all depend.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

‘Right, then. Dismissed.’

Keth remembered to salute, to do an efficient about-turn, then left the room, also remembering to smile and nod his thanks to the red-haired sergeant on the desk, as if what he had just been told hadn’t knocked him for six!

Then he opened the door of his room, sat heavily on the bed and gasped, ‘Flaming Norah!’




4 (#ulink_887c2dc4-c656-5f9e-8c81-9a9e8bc6f0a1)


Telegraphist Drew Sutton, having handed over the middle watch to his opposite number, stripped off to his underpants and swung himself into his hammock. Hammocks were very adaptable. On a boat as small as HMS Penrose, you slung them wherever there was a space, be it in the mess or beside the engine-room bulkhead. Hammocks moulded themselves to your body and gently swung you to sleep with every rising and falling of the Penrose’s bows. Double beds, on the other hand; large, sinful double beds with soft shaded lights either side, took a lot of beating.

He smiled into the darkness. Kitty Sutton. From Kentucky. His kissing cousin and the woman he would marry just as soon as he could get her down the aisle. At this moment, Kitty was wallowing in being in love. She was in love with love and didn’t want to spoil it, he suspected, by getting married. Yet they were morally married, he supposed. If sharing a bed on every possible occasion constituted a marriage, then they were well and truly wed. And he could understand Kitty’s reasoning. To her, he supposed, sleeping together in delightful sin was more thrilling, more risqué, than the church-blessed union after which you not only could sleep together as much as you wanted, but were expected to do so. The intonations of a priest, the pronouncing of them man and wife was all very well, but his adorable Kitty, he was almost sure, preferred the former and the element of risk it carried with it.

Take Thursday night. He smiled fondly. She had stood demurely beside him as he signed the hotel register Andrew and Kathryn Sutton, Rowangarth, Holdenby, York. She had fluttered her eyelashes coyly, and the new lady receptionist—who didn’t know Drew at all—asked her, if Modom wouldn’t mind, of course, to produce her identity card.

Drew pulled in his breath and hoped she wouldn’t blush furiously. And Kitty had not blushed at all! Having, on her arrival in the United Kingdom, acquired a British ration book and a British identity card which stated she was Kathryn Norma Clementina Sutton of Rowangarth, Holdenby, York – her official English address – she placed it on the desk with the sweetest of smiles and said she wouldn’t mind at all!

Then the red-faced receptionist had stammered her apologies, explaining that one couldn’t be too sure these days, and she hoped Mrs Sutton would forgive her.

At which Kitty smiled even more sweetly, pocketed her identity card, and all at once very serious, said, it’s Lady Sutton, if you don’t mind.’

Then she swept to the lift, jammed her finger on the button, leaving the squirming receptionist looking for the smallest crack in the floorboards in which to hide.

‘Kitty Sutton, you really do take the plate of biscuits!’ Drew had collapsed, laughing, on the large, bouncy bed beside her, imploring her never to change; always to be his outrageous, adorable Kitty. She had laughed with him and promised him she never would, then proceeded to undress with indecent haste.

‘Kitty.’ He whispered her name softly. It would be strange, in church, marrying Kathryn Norma Clementina when it was really Kitty he was in love with. His life now could be divided into two phases; before Kitty and since Kitty – and he wondered how he had even remotely existed before the night, barely three months ago, when she came back into his life like a hurricane. He was still breathless from the impact.

The same ATS sergeant drove Keth away from Castle McLeish in the same car in which he had arrived, only this time he sat in the back seat. He sat there because he needed to think and uppermost in his mind was SOE, which any fool knew was Special Operatives Executive and differed from MI5 and MI6 in that it was concerned solely with getting agents into occupied Europe, listening for their W/T call signs and getting them out again when they had completed their operation or when it became imperative to remove them quickly for their own good. The Army, the Royal Air Force and the Royal Navy, Keth knew, all co-operated in the delivery and collection of those agents. You didn’t work with Enigma and not know it.

Now, it seemed, either the Submarine Service or the Royal Air Force was taking him to France – ostensibly as an unimportant messenger, charged only with making a collection. There would be little risk to himself, he’d been told, and he grasped that assurance to him like a warm, comforting blanket.

On hearing his immediate destination he had, after the initial shock subsided, written two more letters to Daisy, then addressed nine envelopes, two to his mother and seven to Daisy. In the last letter, dated ten days ahead, he told her that the course he had been sent on was almost finished and soon he would have a more permanent address to give her.

Then he posted the unsealed envelopes in a box not unlike those used by the general public which was marked, Missives for Censoring but which really meant Stick your love letters in here, chum, to be read by the po-faced adjutant.

He had disliked the adjutant at Castle McLeish on sight, labelling him pompous, upper class and insensitive; wondering when it would be his turn to be deposited into occupied Europe; hoping it would be very soon! Yet Daisy was worth it. Just to think of her mellowed his mood.

He said, ‘I don’t suppose you are allowed to tell me where you are taking me this time, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir. Just another place Somewhere in Scotland – about an hour away.’

He could hear the smile in her voice so he said, ‘And did they give you those stripes for being button-lipped?’

‘Yes, sir, they did – and I don’t want to lose them.’

‘Well,’ he expanded, ‘I can’t say I’m sorry to be leaving Castle McLeish – for a while, at least. Especially I won’t miss the adjutant. Is he always so snotty?’

‘No, sir. Far from it.’ Keth sensed the sudden edge to her voice.

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, Captain. He’s one of us – really one of us. He’s done more drops into you-know-where than I dare tell you. About six weeks ago his wife was killed in an air raid. They haven’t sent him back since. He has children, you see.’

Keth did not speak for the remainder of the journey.

The only train into and out of Holdenby Halt on a Sunday bore Tatiana away to York and thence to King’s Cross. Daisy stood and waved until the little two-carriage train disappeared round the curve in the track, then she cycled back to Keeper’s Cottage, thinking that during the next seven days five of Aunt Julia’s Clan would have been to Rowangarth, though not all at the same time, of course. Drew and Kitty had been and gone, then she, Daisy, arrived on leave and the day after, Tatiana had come home on one of her rare weekend visits.

And then Bas phoned, begging a bed for the night. Kitty’s brother Bas was real sweet, Kitty said, on Rowangarth’s land girl, Gracie. Gracie, on the other hand, was giving Bas a run for his money, though Jack Catchpole reckoned it was only a matter of time before he caught her.

Daisy looked forward to seeing Bas again. She had last seen Sebastian Sutton in the late summer of ’thirty-seven when she stood at the waving place where the railway line ran alongside Brattocks Wood for about thirty yards. Exactly five years ago. She and Bas had grown up since then. She smiled, wishing the Clan could be together again, just once for old times’ sake. But the Clan was incomplete because Keth had been sent back to Washington and only the Lord knew when he would be home again.

She missed Keth desperately. A part of her would have given anything to have him back; the other part – the sensible part – wanted him to stay safely in America and no matter how long the war lasted, she always reasoned, she would at least know he would come home safely and that one day they would be married.

She told herself she was lucky; that Tatty would have given ten years of her life to know that one day, no matter how far away, she would see Tim Thomson again. Tatiana Sutton, the spoiled and cosseted child, had grown into a woman who once loved passionately, then dug in her stubborn English heels and defied her Russian mother and grandmother, taking herself off to London out of their meddling reach. Tatty lived at Aunt Julia’s little white house now, with Sparrow to care for her, to understand and love her without reservations as only Tim had done.

Probably, if Kitty was sent to London to join up with ENSA, she would live at the little white mews house, too. It would be good for Tatty – provided Kitty didn’t talk too much about how happy she was, and about getting married to Drew. But Kitty Sutton never did anything by halves. It wasn’t in her nature. Bubbling, volatile Kitty, whom everyone noticed the minute she stepped into a room; sparkling, notice-me Kitty, whom Drew loved desperately. She would be good for him, Daisy thought as she pedalled down Keeper’s Cottage lane. Drew had always been serious. He’d changed some since joining the Navy, but then you had to adapt. If you didn’t, life in the armed forces could be hell.

‘Hi, there!’ Gracie, carrying cabbage leaves, making for Keeper’s Cottage and the six hens she looked after at the bottom of the garden, beside the dog houses. ‘Just going to see to the hens – are you coming?’

Daisy said she was; she liked Gracie.

‘Did you know Bas will be over at the weekend?’

‘Yes. He told me. Twice. Once in a letter, then again on the phone.’

‘My word – letters and phone calls,’ Daisy teased. ‘Where’s it all going to end?’

‘Heaven only knows. Sometimes I think I should finish it all; times like now, I mean, when I can think straight. But when we’re together it’s an altogether different ball game, as Bas would say.’

‘It’s called being in love, Gracie.’

‘Well, I’m not in love! You know I won’t fall in love till the war is over!’

‘Then you should try it. You might even get to like it.’

‘Even though we might be parted, like you and Keth? And I haven’t got all day to stand here talking. Mr Catchpole will be giving me what for for wasting time. Here!’ Carefully she put four brown eggs into Daisy’s hands. ‘Take these to Tilda, will you? And don’t drop them!’ And with that she was off, up the garden path, making for the wild garden, striding out defiantly.

Never going to fall in love? Daisy thought, shaking her head. But Gracie had fallen for Bas the minute they had met, did she but know it. Pity, she thought, about that Lancashire common sense of hers getting in the way.

‘See you!’ she called, but Gracie strode on.

Another isolated, heavily guarded house, Keth thought; about thirty miles west of Castle McLeish if the position of the sinking sun was to be relied upon and the speed at which they had travelled. In this house there was more of an urgency in the air and, for once, the first question he asked had been answered with surprising frankness.

‘How long will you be away, Purvis? Just as long as it takes, I suppose. There’s a submarine flotilla not far from here and that’s how you’ll be going in. You might think things are ponderous slow when you get there, but you’ll only have one contact – two, at the most. You’ll just sit tight. Things get passed down the line, sort of. Better that way. And don’t think that being a courier is paddling ashore, swopping passwords, then paddling back to the submarine. It’s never that straightforward.’

‘No.’ They were sitting on the terrace, drinking an after-dinner coffee and brandy in the most civilized way; so ordinary and normal, Keth thought, that he couldn’t believe that soon he would assume another identity and be sent to –

‘Where exactly am I going – or shouldn’t I ask?’

‘Not out here. We’ll go inside. It’s getting cold, anyway.’ The man, dressed in civilian clothes and whose name Keth did not yet know, picked up his glass then murmured, ‘My office, I think it had better be.’

When they were seated either side of a log fire and their glasses topped up, Keth said, ‘France, I gather.’

‘Yes – occupied France.’

‘Good. I speak the language passably well.’ Better than passably. Tatty’s governess, herself French, had seen to that such a long time ago, it seemed. When Keth Purvis had lived at Rowangarth bothy, it was; before the war when Rowangarth garden apprentices lived there and were looked after by his mother – and she glad of the job. ‘I don’t suppose I’d fool the locals, but I could get away with it with a German.’

‘Then let’s hope you don’t meet any. Oh – and you’ll have to see the photographer first thing in the morning. Your papers are ready, except for that. Better see the barber too. Your haircut looks a bit English, I’m afraid. Apart from that, there’s a resemblance to Gaston Martin about you.’

‘That’s whose ID I’ll be taking? A pretty ordinary name, isn’t it?’ The surname Martin was as common in France as Smith was in England.

‘Nevertheless, Gaston Martin does exist. He was invalided out of the French artillery just after Dunkirk. Deaf, in one ear – remember that. But you’ll be given details.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘He’s here, in the UK. He got taken off the beaches with our lot and our lot invalided him out. He’s working in North Wales, so you’re not likely to cross each other’s paths – not where you’ll be going, anyway.’

‘That’s a relief.’ Keth was glad of the brandy because ever since he’d been told about France, his stomach had felt distinctly queasy. He wondered if he would sleep tonight or lie awake turning it over in his mind, telling himself he was a damn fool.

Yet a bargain was a bargain. They had told him when he asked to be sent back to England there would be conditions attached and he accepted without a second thought; anything to get back to Daisy. But not in his craziest dreams had anything embraced cloak-and-dagger stuff, because that’s what this escapade boiled down to; downright bloody stupid, to put not too fine a point on it. Times like now, he could accept it – just. But how would he feel when they dumped him on some dark beach? Not very brave, he knew.

‘When it’s over and done with – well, what I’m trying to say is – when I’m back, what’s going to happen? To me, I mean.’

‘You’ll pick up where you left off – at Bletchley Park. I take it you don’t want to go back to Washington?’

‘I don’t! I’m only in this predicament now because I wanted to get home.’

‘Getting cold feet?’

‘Got! I’m not the stuff heroes are made out of, I’m afraid; but conditions They said, and conditions I accepted.’

‘Good. Only a fool isn’t – well, slightly afraid. And in SOE we don’t ask for heroes. We’d rather our operatives stayed alive. I hate sending women in, you know,’ he said gruffly, picking up the brandy bottle, asking, with a raising of his eyebrows, if Keth wanted another. And Keth, who drank little, nodded and pushed his glass across the table.

‘Good man. Help you to sleep. And don’t worry, we aren’t trying to recruit you.’

‘Then why now?’ Keth tilted his glass.

‘Might as well tell you now as tomorrow or the next day. We knew of your request – to come back to UK, that is – and you wouldn’t have had a hope in hell if we hadn’t needed a specialist, so to speak. You’re familiar with Enigma.’ It was a statement.

‘Yes. It’s still something of a hit-and-miss thing – breaking their codes; well, breaking the naval codes.’

‘Exactly. That’s the whole crux of the matter. Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht codes are little problem, or so I understand.’

‘That’s right.’

‘But the naval codes – well, we can gather in their signals with no trouble at all. What is so annoying is that they chatter all over the Atlantic airwaves – especially the U-boats – and there’s damn-all we can do about it. Can’t break ’em.’

‘We can, sir, but most often it’s too late.’

‘Far too late for our convoys, yes. We’re losing one merchant ship in every four that crosses the Atlantic and it’s got to stop. It’s immoral!’

‘So I’m to be part of an operation that’s going to get hold of an Enigma machine the German Navy uses?’

‘Yes. But don’t get butterflies, Purvis.’

‘I’ve already got them and they’re wearing clogs!’

‘Then don’t worry – at least not too much – because we think we’ve managed to get hold of one. Don’t ask me how or where. One thing we don’t do is expect our radio operators over there to transmit long-winded messages. But the information this far is that one is ready for collecting. That’s why we need someone like you to check it over and bring it back. I take it you’d know what you were looking for?’

‘No. But I’m familiar with the ones their Army and Air Force use, so I reckon I’d spot anything different.’

‘Then that’s all we ask. Churchill would give a lot to break the U-boats’ codes. We can’t go on losing ships the way we are, nor the men who crew them.’

Keth agreed, then asked, ‘So you don’t know the exact location of the machine?’

‘Only approximately. Like I said, our wireless ops in the field don’t waste time on claptrap. They set up their sets, hook up their aerials and make their transmissions as fast as they can. The Krauts have got special detector units and they like getting hold of one of our men – or women. That’s why our lot don’t go round like Robin Hood and his Merry Men. They’re mostly loners. The fewer operators they know, the better. You’ll rely on your contact and trust him, or her. Your contact will tell you only as much as you need to know, so don’t ask questions, or names, because you won’t be told. I understand,’ the older man chuckled, ‘that you asked a lot of questions at Castle McLeish.’

‘I suppose I did, but I’m learning.’ Keth tilted his glass again. ‘Can I ask when I’ll be going?’

‘In about forty-eight hours.’

It was, Keth supposed, like going to have a tooth filled, only worse. He drained his glass then got to his feet. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, I think I’m ready for bed now.’

‘Yes. Off with you. By the way, you don’t usually hit the bottle, do you?’

‘Hardly ever. But on this occasion, it has helped calm the butterflies. Good night, sir.’

‘’Night, Purvis.’ The elderly man watched him walk carefully to the door, relieved to find himself thinking that the young officer, inexperienced though he was, would fit the bill nicely. Strangely dark, he brooded. Black hair, black eyes. Gypsy blood, perhaps?

‘Purvis!’ he called.

‘Sir?’ Keth’s face reappeared round the door.

‘Any didicoy blood in you?’

‘No,’ Keth grinned. ‘My mother was a Pendennis. Cornish. They’re a dark people.’

‘Ah, yes.’

Didn’t take offence easily, either. And no matter what they’d said about him at Castle McLeish, he liked him. Purvis should do all right – as well as the next man, that was …

Grace Fielding was picking the last of the late-fruiting raspberries when a tall shadow fell down the rows. Without turning she said, ‘Hullo, Bas Sutton.’

‘Hi, Gracie. Marry me?’

She put down her basket and turned impatiently.

‘No, I won’t – thank you. And you always say that!’

‘Can you blame me when you always say no?’ He tilted her chin, then kissed her mouth.

‘And you can stop that in working hours!’ He always did it and in public, too! ‘Mr Catchpole’s going to catch you one day and you’ll be in trouble!’

‘No I won’t. I’ve just seen him – given him some tobacco. I shouldn’t wonder if he isn’t sitting on his apple box right now, puffing away without a care in the world.’

‘You’re devious, Bas Sutton, and shameless.’ She clasped her arms round his neck, offering her mouth because even if Mr Catchpole were not sitting on his box, smoking contentedly, the raspberry canes hid them. And she did like it when he kissed her, and she wanted nothing more than to say yes, she would marry him; would have said it, except for just one thing. Her sort and Bas Sutton’s sort didn’t mix. Not that she was ashamed of her ordinariness. She was what she was because of it and she loved her parents and her grandfather. She even loved Rochdale, though not quite as much as Rowangarth.

Rowangarth. Bas was sprung from the Rowangarth Suttons – the Garth Suttons, Mr Catchpole called them. His grandfather Edward Sutton had been born at Rowangarth, even though he married into Pendenys. And the Pendenys Suttons had the brass, she had learned, and one day Bas would inherit that great house – or was it a castle? – simply because his Uncle Nathan, who owned it now, had no children and in the natural order of things, the buck would stop at Sebastian Sutton – or so Bas once said.

But even if Bas refused Pendenys, he’d be rich in his own right because one day he would inherit one of the most prosperous and prestigious studs in Kentucky, while Gracie Fielding lived in a red-brick council house and would inherit nothing except her mother’s engagement ring. And the silver-plated teapot that had come to her from a maiden aunt.

‘What are you thinking about? You were staring at that weather cock as if you expected it to take off.’

‘I – oh, I was thinking it’s time for Mr Catchpole’s tea so you’d better kiss me just once more, then you can stay here and finish picking this row till I call you. And don’t squash them. They’re for the house, for dessert tonight, and Tilda Tewk doesn’t like squashy fruit!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ He kissed her gently, then whispered, ‘I love you, Gracie.’

He always told her he loved her because one day she would let slip her guard and say she loved him too. One day. And when it happened, he would throw his cap in the air, climb to the top of Holdenby Pike and shout it out to the whole Riding!

‘I’m sure you do, Bas Sutton,’ she said primly. ‘But in the meantime get on with picking those rasps!’

‘You’re not interested in the candies I’ve brought you, or the silk stockings or the lipstick, then?’

‘Pick!’ she ordered, then laughing she left him to find Jack Catchpole, who was puffing contentedly on a well-filled pipe.

‘I’ve come to make the tea,’ she said. ‘Bas is carrying on with the picking.’

‘Ar. He’s a right grand lad, tha’ knows.’

‘I’m sure he is, but that’s between me and Bas, isn’t it, and nobody else!’

She stopped, horrified at her cheek, her daring, but Mr Catchpole continued with his contented puffing and his wheezy chuckling and didn’t take offence at all. Because he knew what the outcome of it all would be, despite the lass’s protestations. He’d said as much to Lily.

‘Mark my words, missus, young Bas isn’t going to take no for an answer. Things alus happens in threes and there’ll be three weddings round these parts, mark my words if there isn’t.’

And in the meantime, may heaven bless and protect GIs who brought tins of tobacco every time they came courting his land girl!

‘Make sure it runs to three mugs, Gracie lass,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And make sure I get the strongest!’

Life on an mid-September afternoon could be very pleasant, be danged if it couldn’t – even if there was a war on!




5 (#ulink_c4aa23a9-c4fd-5825-bdeb-4e192f4d90bf)


Her watch over, Leading Wren Lyndis Carmichael scanned the letterboard beside the door at Hellas House. Everyone did it. It was automatic on entering quarters.

She reached for the one addressed to Daisy, recognizing Keth’s writing and the Censor’s red stamp. She would put it in Daisy’s top drawer with the one that came yesterday – a kind of welcome back after her leave.

It was only then she saw the letter bearing her own name, and a bright orange 20-cents Kenyan stamp. It had taken almost three weeks to arrive. Sea mail, of course. Very few letters came by air now.

She closed the door of Cabin 4A behind her, placing the letters on the chest of drawers. The midday meal was being served; she would read her own letter when she had eaten because it was from her father and the first since he had written telling her of her mother’s death – the woman she had thought was her mother, that was.

She glanced round the small, empty cabin. She missed Daisy. It was almost a year since a woebegone Wren in an ill-fitting uniform and flush-faced from a raging temperature came to Cabin 4A.

A lot had happened in that time. They became close friends, and shared runs ashore with Drew Sutton when his minesweeper docked in Liverpool. Lyn tried not to think about Drew Sutton now, because she had fallen crazily in love with him and ached for him to love her.

And so he would have, she thought despairingly, had not Kitty Sutton arrived from America. It had been a love-at-first-sight job for them both – or so Daisy had said on one of the rare occasions on which she now mentioned her brother.

It had been that, all right. Love, and everything else! Drew and Kitty spent that same night together and in the morning they were engaged. That was what hurt, Lyn acknowledged. Them sleeping together, because she had practically offered herself on a plate, only to be gently turned down by Drew Sutton. As if he were waiting for Kitty to come along, she thought, and amusing himself with Lyn Carmichael meantime, damn fool she had been for letting him.

She lifted her chin and bit on her lip. She no longer cried just to think of Drew, and Drew kissing Kitty and making love to Kitty. Not outwardly, that was. Her tears were gone because she had no more left to cry; only those inside her that hurt like hell; tears that didn’t leave her eyelids swollen and her nose red, but which writhed through her to stick in a hard knot in her throat and refuse to be shed.

She let go a deep sigh, then made her reluctant way to the mess. After early watch, kept-warm dinners were served and kept-warm dinners offered hard peas and gravy dried leathery. And it was the same with the custard, spooned over a sugarless pudding. Leathery, like the gravy she thought miserably, and at this moment she wanted to be miserable because a letter had come from her father and she didn’t want to open it.

Nor would she, she thought defiantly, taking a kept-warm plate from the serving hatch. She would not open the letter until Daisy came back from leave; pretend it had arrived only that morning. And then, because Daisy knew all about what had gone on in Kenya, and before Kenya, reading what her father had written wouldn’t seem so bad.

She speared a chunk of meat on the end of her fork, looking at it distastefully.

‘Roll on my leave,’ she said out loud to no one in particular. Roll on October when she would collect her travel warrant and her leave pass, and a seven-day ration card, and go to stay with Auntie Blod in Llangollen. At least in Llangollen there would be no chance of accidentally meeting Drew Sutton – with Kitty.

She began to mull over the idea of volunteering for overseas service and knew at once she would never do it; knew that she lived daily in the hope of seeing Drew, even with Kitty, because she loved him that much.

She would always love him.

Tatiana Sutton left the Underground at Knightsbridge and turned left into Brompton Road, thinking with pleasure of the rabbit, already skinned, and the pheasant, already plucked and wrapped in newspapers, in her leather bag. Daisy’s father had given them and Daisy’s mother prepared them, sending with them her very best love to Sparrow. And not only meat enough for four meals, but two large brown eggs given by Gracie, fresh from the nest only that morning and not weeks old like the rationed shop eggs Sparrow had to break into a cup and sniff suspiciously before using.

Sparrow would be pleased too with the bunch of Michaelmas daisies and chrysanthemums sent with Julia’s love, and the grave instructions to take care of herself now that the nights were drawing in, and to keep warm.

Dear Sparrow. So full of love and caring and cosseting. She had made life bearable again, and when the war was over and she had to return to Denniston House, she would miss Sparrow a lot.

She smiled as she crossed the road into Montpelier Mews, once upon a time the stables belonging to the big houses in the square. The little white house with its red tiled floors and shining brass doorknobs and handles was home to her now and Sparrow her best-loved person – apart from Tim, that was. It shamed her, sometimes, that if asked to place her right hand on the Bible and state who was most precious to her, she would in all conscience have to answer that it was Sparrow, hurt though her mother would be to hear it.

‘I’m home,’ she called, banging the outer and inner doors behind her. ‘Have you missed me?’

‘I’ll miss the peace and quiet now that you’re back. Are those flowers for me?’

‘You know they are. Aunt Julia picked them herself. She sends love and says you are to look after yourself.’

‘And is the dear lady well?’

‘She is.’

‘And happy?’

‘Very happy, Sparrow, and chasing around the parish doing her vicar’s wife bit and looking after Bas, who’s on leave for a couple of days.’

‘Your Aunt Julia should have had children of her own,’ Sparrow sighed, ‘but she left it over late. I suppose, now you’re back, I’d better make a pot of tea.’

Truth known, she had been waiting this hour past to make one and would have, were it not wasteful of the tea ration to use a precious spoonful for one person only, when that same spoonful could provide tea for two.

‘Yes, please. You put the kettle on whilst I unpack my gifts, food gifts! I tell you, Sparrow, you and I will be eating like lords this week!’

‘Hm. Well, I hope the food was honestly got, and not black market.’

‘It was – honestly got, I mean. Daisy’s father said he was sorry he couldn’t supply the butter to roast the pheasant in. And did any letters come whilst I was away and did Uncle Igor phone?’

‘No letters and no phone call – leastways, not from your uncle. But our Joannie rang to ask if you’d be busy on Tuesday night and I told her you wouldn’t be.’

‘But I’m doing escort duty with Sam from the convalescent home. We’re going up West to see The Dancing Years.’

‘She knows that. What she rang for was to see if you could manage an extra one. She thought the music might cheer him up. He’s at the same convalescent home as Sam, and waiting his turn to go for treatment.’

‘And is he –?’ There was no need to finish the sentence; no need to say the word.

‘Yes. Like all the others and in need of a kind word and a smile. Those smiles mean a lot, Joannie said. I’ll ring her back when we’ve had our cuppa and tell her you don’t mind taking one extra.’

‘No trouble at all, Sparrow.’

‘You’re sure, now, ’cos what I didn’t tell you is that he’s not only got burns – this lad got blinded as well.’

‘Hell!’ She shuddered, covering her face with her hands.

‘You don’t have to take him if it’s going to upset you.’

‘But of course I will. I want to. It was just that it doesn’t seem fair, does it?’

‘Life never is, girl.’

‘You don’t have to tell me. And I’ll manage all right. Sam will give me a hand, tell Joannie.’

‘You’re a good soul, Tatiana Sutton. You’ll get your reward in heaven.’

‘I’d rather have it here on earth. I’d swap all that heaven nonsense just to have ten minutes with Tim; say a proper goodbye.’

‘What do you mean – “heaven nonsense”? Blasphemous, that is!’

‘Well, I don’t believe in heaven and sometimes I don’t believe in God either – only in Jesus,’ she added hastily.

‘Well! I’m surprised at you! And what would your mother think to hear you say that?’

‘Nothing, because I wouldn’t say it in front of her.’

‘And you’d best not say it in front of me again either! Do I make myself plain?’

‘Yes, Sparrow, you do. And I won’t say it again if you’ll promise not to go on about it and try to convert me.’

‘Convert you? Now would I do that, and you so bitter inside that you can’t see the wood for the trees? Come here and let’s you and me have a cuddle because Sparrow understands. She really does.’

‘I know you do, and I’m sorry if I upset you,’ Tatiana whispered, hugging her close. ‘And I ought to be ashamed, shouldn’t I? At least I’m not injured, nor blind.’

‘No, girl, you aren’t.’ Sparrow shuddered even to think of that beautiful face burned and blistered and those big, brown eyes never to see again. ‘And that’s something to be thankful to God for, ’cos it’s all in His hands, and by the time you’re as old as I am you’ll have come to realize it, I hope.’

‘And how old are you, Sparrow?’ She didn’t want to talk about God.

‘As old as my tongue and a bit older than my teeth! So are you going to pour that tea before it’s stewed to ruination, and give me the news from Yorkshire?’ She had never been to Holdenby; probably never would, but that didn’t prevent her feeling a part of Rowangarth.

And Tatiana said she was, then whispered again that she was sorry, because not for anything would she upset Sparrow, who must be at least seventy-five.

Keth shook the hand of a colonel from Army Intelligence, who did not offer his name but asked him, pleasantly enough, to sit down and make himself comfortable.

‘So! The MO and the dental officer have given you the all clear; have you made a will?’

‘Yes.’ Talk of such things made him uneasy. Wills were for old people, he had always thought. ‘When I was first commissioned, I took care of that.’

‘And your next of kin is your mother?’

‘Yes.’ Mention of next of kin gave him the same feeling.

‘Just a precaution. Nothing sinister, but in view of the fact you’ll be under some slight risk …’

‘Slight!’ Keth jerked.

‘You’re having second thoughts? Because now’s the time to say so …’

‘No second thoughts. I was told there would be conditions and I accepted them. But don’t think I shall enjoy going, because I won’t! So does that make me a coward?’

‘No. I wouldn’t give much chance for the safety of any of our operatives who had no fear. Nor would I believe them if they said as much. And a man who admits fear, but still goes ahead with the job is far from being a coward.’

‘I’m a mathematician, sir. There’s not one iota of derring-do in my entire body.’

‘Then be glad of it. It’s the careful ones who make it home every time. But you aren’t a trained operator, as such. We’ve given you only enough knowledge to help you survive. The less you know, the better. We’ll put you ashore, you’ll be met and taken to a safe house. You’ll wait there until you hear that what you have gone to collect will be delivered to you.

‘Then you’ll hang on to it – study it all you can within the bounds of safety – and keep your head down until we can have you picked up. It will depend on weather conditions, and suchlike. Either the submarine that will take you out will bring you back, or we’ll send a Lysander in.’

‘And I’m definitely going in by submarine. No jumps?’

‘No parachuting. According to your records, you wouldn’t survive another jump!’

‘You could be right, sir.’ Keth managed a smile; one of relief rather than pleasure. ‘It’s an experience I’d rather not dwell on. The sea route sounds a lot safer.’

‘It is safe. There’s a submarine flotilla not five miles from here – the fifteenth. They’ve done a fair bit of toing and froing for us in the past. We’ve been in touch with their navigating officer about tides and things. We want a flowing tide; one that will wash away any evidence like footsteps – allow the dinghy to get as far inshore as possible. Provided the Met boys give us the okay weatherwise, you’ll be on your way within hours and back within a couple of weeks. Then you’ll completely forget your little errand to France.’

Little errand? Typical, that was, when just to think of it made his teeth water, Keth brooded.

‘I’ll be happy to – forget it, I mean.’

‘You’ll be in all sorts of trouble if you don’t! Anyway, good luck, Purvis. Get yourself over to Room 22. Your papers are ready – and all you need to know about Gaston Martin. Read them over and over. Think yourself into his identity. He was born in a little place near Lyons, which is in unoccupied France. You won’t be going anywhere near there, so you’re unlikely to run into anyone who might have known him. His family probably have been told that he’s missing, believed killed in action.

‘If anything happens, though, make for the unoccupied sector. You’ll be safe enough there. This far, the Krauts have respected their boundaries and left them alone.’

‘Vichy France, you mean, sir? And what constitutes anything?’

‘Anything going wrong. You can get to the Pyrenees from unoccupied territory, and over into Spain. Or you’ll be told by Room 22 where you can get help. In one of the Marseilles brothels, for instance, the madam can be relied upon.’

‘Brothel?’

‘Yes. Places where men can come and go without being noticed over much. Don’t look so holier-than-thou, man. There is a war on, don’t forget, but you can ask all the questions you want of the Room 22 people. They’ll be rigging you out with clothes and all you need. Ask a lot of questions. What may seem trivial might just stand you in good stead if anything were to go a bit wrong – which it shouldn’t.’

‘No, sir. A straightforward pick-up.’

‘Absolutely.’ The colonel rose to his feet, holding out his hand, wishing Keth good luck, assuring him that if he kept his ears open and his eyes down, the entire operation should go like clockwork.

Keth pushed back his chair, put on his cap, then saluted and left the room, hoping with all his thudding heart that the colonel knew what he was talking about.

Clockwork. He would say it over and over again. It would be his good-luck word. The submarine boys would get him there and someone would get him out. With the package. And he would want to know more about that package and about what he would do when he stood up to the ankles in sea water and the submarine lads were getting the hell out of it!

He thought about the last war and men who were given no choice but to crawl over the tops of trenches into No Man’s Land through barbed wire and uncharted minefields, to face the machine gunners. His thoughts went back to a churchyard in Hampshire; to the grave of the man who had gone over the top many times. And in that moment he felt a strange, fatalistic calm and very near to Dickon Purvis, his father, who, if there really was a hereafter, would be looking down tonight on his son. And understanding.

‘Well, that’s everybody been and gone – well, almost everybody,’ Gracie sighed. ‘Drew and Kitty, and Tatty. And Daisy goes tomorrow.’

‘You’ve forgotten young Keth. He hasn’t been. And what about Bas, then?’ Catchpole demanded.

‘The idiot!’ Bas had decided not to take the one Sunday train to York, saying he would rather stay a few hours longer, then hitch a lift back to his billet at the Army Air Corps base at Burtonwood. ‘He was absent without leave, you know. Someone was covering for him, but I hope he made it back all right. Stupid!’ Gracie fretted, pushing her hoe angrily into a very small weed. ‘One of these days he’ll run into the Snowdrops and his feet won’t touch the ground!’

‘Snowdrops?’

‘Their military police. They call them that because they wear white gaiters and white helmets.’

‘Hm. Snowdrops is nice little flowers. Pretty and dainty – and welcome. You alus know winter is almost over when the snowdrops flower.’

‘Well, those military police are neither pretty nor dainty. Big bruisers, Bas says they are, and some of them real nasty with it. And he didn’t phone me last night, either!’

‘Last night,’ said Catchpole severely, ‘he was busy thumbing a lift back to camp – or avoiding those Snowdrop lads. On the other hand, he might have got hisself caught …’

‘Oh, Mr Catchpole, you don’t think he has?’

‘He could have, but I hope not.’ He would miss his tins of tobacco.

‘And so do I! Going AWOL is a serious thing.’

‘It is. In the last war they shot ’em for it, but they’re a bit more civilized now. Reckon these days he’d only get three months in prison!’

‘You’re joking, Mr Catchpole!’ It didn’t bear thinking about; three months without seeing Bas!

‘Happen I am, lass. There’ll be a phone call for you tonight, don’t fret. He’s as taken with you as you are with him. He’ll get through.’

‘He can please himself!’ Gracie jammed her hoe deep into the ground so it stood upright between the rows of early chrysanthemums, shivering and swaying. ‘I’m going to make tea,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Not that you deserve any!’

Head high, she made for the potting shed, heels crunching the gravel. Then she filled the little iron kettle at the standtap and set it to boil on the hob, taking deep, calming breaths, chiding herself because she’d let Mr Catchpole get under her skin, because there was more than an element of truth in what he’d said. She was taken with Bas Sutton. She looked forward to his visits, to dancing with him and kissing him. And the way he smiled made delicious little shivers run all the way from her toes to her nose.

Yet shivers apart, she always managed to count to ten; always refused to say she loved him and always said no, very prettily, each time he asked her to marry him. She was losing count of the times he’d said, ‘Marry me?’; losing count of the number of times she had closed her eyes, taken a deep breath and thought, really hard, about Daisy and Keth being so far apart and them not knowing when they would meet again. And Drew, fretting because Kitty could be sent to London to work for ENSA. And as for poor Tatty and Tim …

She tipped the twist of tea and sugar into the pot, determined not to get upset next time Mr Catchpole teased her about Bas or blush furiously or say things she didn’t mean because she was almost sure she could fall in love with him, though not for anything would she admit it to a soul!

She glared at the kettle, willing it to boil and all the time thinking about Bas and the Snowdrops and hoping they hadn’t stopped him and asked him for his leave pass. Because Bas getting caught just didn’t bear thinking about!




6 (#ulink_f242ed54-e194-5232-8815-6267b5965fd1)


Daisy removed the On Leave disc from the hook beneath her name, replacing it with one bearing the words In Quarters, Cabin 4A. Then she glanced at the criss-crossed letter board. None there for her, but in all probability Lyn had taken them.

Returning from leave was less traumatic now, she acknowledged, as the cramped familiarity of Cabin 4A reached out to her. This, for most of the year, was home; this small space with room only for a two-tier bunk, a chest of drawers and two wooden chairs she had shared for a year with Lyn who would soon be returning from watch. And shared it amicably, too. They were firm friends, their only cross words caused by Drew who was now engaged to Kitty. His feet-first fall into love with Kitty was sudden and thorough. Exquisite disbelief rocked him on his heels to find that after five years apart, his tomboy Kentucky cousin had grown into a head-turning beauty. The engagement pleasantly shocked everyone who knew him – with the exception of Lyn Carmichael, who was still devastated by it.

Daisy removed her hat, then pulled her fingers through her hair, smiling to see two letters on her pillow just as she expected and a sheet of notepaper on which was written large and red, ‘WELCOME BACK. YOU’VE HAD IT, CHUM!’ Had her leave, that was, until the New Year. Lyn, on the other hand, would start hers next week, which was a crafty move when you considered she would miss her week of night duties.

Daisy smiled, pushed the note into her drawer, determined to leave it on Lyn’s pillow in two weeks’ time, and carefully opened the two envelopes. Then she kicked off her shoes and lay back on her bunk to read them at least twice. The first time to savour their contents; to close her eyes and recall kisses and whispered love words; the second time to read between the lines for small phrases, names deliberately misused; any irregularity, no matter how small, that would hint at something the Censor had not seized upon.

Yet there was nothing, save that he loved her, missed her, wanted her. Nothing about the work he did in Washington nor if there was even the slightest chance he might be sent back to England with the same indecent haste They had sent him away. But They could do anything They wanted and usually did. Without explanation; without giving Keth even a forty-eight-hour leave pass to let them say goodbye. By the time this war was over, They would have a great deal to answer for!

A glance at her watch told her it was time for evening standeasy or, had she been a civilian, a bedtime drink and a snack. She had not eaten since midday and all at once realized she was hungry. She wondered as she spread viciously red jam on her bread what news Lyn would have and thought that in all probability there would be none. These days some of the sparkle had left Lyn’s eyes and a lot of her joie de vivre, which was a pity because she and Drew seemed so good together. Until Kitty, that was …

She balanced her plate on her mug and walked carefully back to Cabin 4A. Eating in cabins was forbidden but rules were there to be broken. Life would be very dull without the occasional tilt at Authority and at the moment the common room was cold and cheerless without the fire which could not be lit until October because of the shortage of coal.

It made her think of the leaping log fire in the black-leaded grate at Keeper’s Cottage and Mam sitting by it alone because Dada would be out with the Home Guard until ten o’clock at least.

A pang of homesickness hit her and she quickly ate her bread and jam, licked her sticky fingers, then fished in the pocket of her belt for three sixpences.

She would book a call home. Trunk calls almost always took ages to come through, but tonight she might be lucky and get through before lights out.

‘Could I have Holdenby 195, please?’ she asked the operator, who answered almost at once. ‘Holdenby, York?’

‘Have one shilling and sixpence ready, please.’

Daisy smiled. Operators never asked you to have your money ready if they didn’t have a line to Trunks. She pushed three sixpenny pieces into the slot, with a ping, ping, ping.

‘Press button A. You’re through now.’

All at once life was not good, exactly, but at least bearable. A phone call home with no bother and Lyn back off watch in less than an hour. If only there were some way to ring Keth or even send a message on the teleprinter at Epsom House, then life would be really good. If only Washington – and Keth – were not so far away!

‘Mam! It’s me! I’m back safe and sound. Thanks for a lovely leave …’

Keth spread the papers on the table in his room, gazing at them with disbelief.

‘Read them,’ he was told in Room 22. ‘Read them over and over. Think yourself into Gaston Martin. Bring them all back here, though, before you go to sleep. They’ll be safer with us.’

Sleep? Would he ever sleep again? He hadn’t felt too bad about what was to come until he was faced with another man’s identity. That was when it really hit him.

An identification card with Keth Purvis’s photograph on it; a card skilfully forged to look as if it had been in his pocket – in Gaston Martin’s pocket – since his discharge from the French Army in the winter of 1940.

Gaston Martin, his work permit said, was a labourer. Keth looked at his hands and shrugged, then looked again at the equally worn discharge certificate, taking in still more of the details of Gaston Martin’s life. He must, he had been told, commit it to his memory; must imagine himself into another man’s ego – into his psyche, his soul. He must, from now on, even try to think in this other man’s language.

Born to Belle Martin in her mother’s apartment at Nancy at three in the afternoon; two months after his father’s death in the trenches. Left in the care of his grandmother when his mother returned to her former occupation of seamstress. A sewing-maid, like Daisy’s mother?

Daisy. He was back home, yet she did not know; just the distance of a phone call away, yet he must not ring her. And of course he could not, because Keth Purvis no longer existed; not until he returned from France, that was. If he returned, he thought distastefully.

Gaston Martin. Born on 3 September 1917. He would remember the date easily because another war, this war, started on 3 September.

He didn’t know his address because as yet no one knew just where he would be put ashore. When they did, an address would be written in in the same faked faded ink, he supposed. They were thorough, he’d grant them that.

Put ashore. Words to start the tingling behind his nose. Somewhere, probably, between La Rochelle and Biarritz, Room 22 said vaguely; somewhere very near, Keth hoped, to the package he was to pick up.

That part of the coast would be safer, wouldn’t it, than the highly fortified northern ports of Calais and Dunkirk? The journey would take longer, though. How many days’ sailing time by submarine and did submarines travel submerged during daylight hours? How many miles an hour could they do? Knots per hour, wasn’t it?

He wondered how it would feel to be submerged. Submariners couldn’t suffer from claustrophobia on the sea bed, could they? So much water around and above them. How much pressure, his mathematical mind demanded, could the hull of a submarine take?

But that was nothing to do with him and he forced his thoughts back to the business of getting to France. A crossing to the north would have taken less time; but the South of France was nearer to unoccupied country – to Vichy France; nearer, too, to neutral Spain – if you could call Franco neutral in his thinking.

Yet why had Room 22 laid such stress on the nearness of Vichy France, and Spain? Was his trip – hell, trip? – to France more dangerous than they wanted him to believe?

He was afraid. He admitted it. Not necessarily of being killed quickly and cleanly. That took seconds and most times you didn’t know it was going to happen, his father once said. But he was really afraid of being taken and interrogated and then killed and worse even would be the knowledge that he would know, just before it happened, that he would never see Daisy again, nor Mum, and that they would probably never know how he had died. That really hurt.

He reached in the pocket of his jacket for his flask, poured a too-large measure of whisky, then tossed it down. It stung his throat and made him gasp for breath, but he felt better for it.

Once, when he worked in the boring safeness of Bletchley Park, Daisy had demanded to know why he was so secretive about what he did, and was he really a spy?

Keth Purvis a spy! His laugh had been genuine, yet now he was a spy. An enemy agent the Germans would call him if they got hold of him. He was to assume another man’s identity, carry false papers, wear specially provided civilian clothes obtained in France. What else could he be called but spy?

He wanted Daisy now, yet who was Daisy? Gaston Martin did not know of her existence. Gaston Martin had been discharged from the Army because his hearing was impaired. His papers said so. He must remember that, always. Not to hear properly might be an advantage if people started demanding answers to questions.

The whisky inside his empty stomach was beginning to relax him and he found he could think of Daisy without feeling sick at the thought of losing her. He wasn’t going to lose her! They were sending him to France as a courier because he knew about Enigma. That was all. He wasn’t an agent. Agents were highly trained and he was an amateur. Even that stupid lot at Whitehall didn’t send amateurs into danger – not real danger. He was to be taken to France by submarine, met, then hidden until it was time for him to bring back the package. They would take good care of him. Not that Keth Purvis was of any importance. What was important was the machine he would bring back. Any boffin with a knowledge of Enigma could have done it, couldn’t they? They had chosen him because he owed them one for his passage back to England, so he had to do it, if only to save lives at sea. Keth Purvis wasn’t at sea, was he? Didn’t cross the Atlantic again and again in a slow-moving convoy, nor go on the Murmansk run – that suicide trip to the north of Russia with tanks and guns for Stalin.

When it was over and done with he would return to Bletchley Park. They had told him that. And when that happened, he would never again complain of the mind-blowing frustration of it. He would even be glad that in some small way, perhaps, what he had done would help decode German U-boat signals more easily. Breaking their code only one day in five wasn’t on. When they could break it as easily as the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe codes, then the Atlantic would be a whole lot safer for Allied seamen.

He looked at the flask, then screwed the top back firmly. Gaston Martin had no need of more.

He picked up the closely typed papers he had been given. Gaston Martin, born to Belle and the late Jules a year before the end of the last war.

His mother was dead too. In hospital, following complications after an operation for appendicitis and no, he had not been with her when she died. It was too sudden, too unexpected. Only Grand-mère was with her. Grand-mère died a year later. Both she and Maman were buried at – Hell! Where?

Frantically he searched through the papers. So much to learn, but learn it he would, because he was going to France and coming back safely. All in one piece.

D-watch, relieved by A-watch, arrived back at Hellas House at twenty minutes past midnight or, in naval time, 00.20 hours.

‘Hi,’ smiled Lyn, carefully pushing open the door, depositing tea and jam and bread on the chest of drawers. ‘I thought you’d be awake still. Brought you up a drink. Good leave, then?’

‘Great. And thanks for leaving the letters – and the welcome-back greeting.’

‘Keth all right?’ Lyn took off her jacket, eased off her shoes.

‘He’s fine. He still loves me, which isn’t a lot of use, him over there and me here. Any news? Scandal?’

‘News – yes. You know the buzz about the hats? Well, it’s official. New caps in clothing stores soon and we’re to swap the old ones for the new type. Not before time, either. Just like school hats, these things. The new ones will be a sort of cross between a matelot’s cap and a beret, I heard. Cheeky. Worn low on the forehead, an inch above the eyebrows. At least I’ll be able to wear my hair in a pleat and not have to screw it into a roll.’ Lyn Carmichael refused, unlike most other Wrens, to have her hair cut short. ‘Oh, and we needn’t carry our respirators everywhere now. Seems Hitler isn’t going to gas us! We’re only to take them when we go on leave. They’re going to let us carry shoulder bags. I’ve actually seen one, though we have to buy them ourselves. Fifteen bob, I think they’ll be. Quite smart. It’s all been happening whilst you were away.’

‘Things are looking up,’ Daisy smiled. ‘No more news?’

‘We-e-ll, yes.’ Lyn took a steadying gulp of tea. ‘I had a letter from Kenya. From my father. It took me ages to open it because for some stupid reason I hadn’t expected to hear from him again – well, not until the war was over. It seems, though, that he and Auntie Blod have written to each other regularly since my mother died.’

‘The lady you thought was your mother,’ Daisy corrected.

‘Thought. I never really liked her; that was why she had me sent to school in England, I suppose.’

‘But you like your Auntie Blod, don’t you?’

‘If you mean am I glad she’s my real mother and not my aunt, yes, I am. My father should have married her, though, knowing he’d got her pregnant.’

‘I think he might have done, Carmichael, if your Auntie Blod had told him.’

‘Then she should have and they could have married and I’d have had a proper mother and father!’

‘You’re still annoyed about it, aren’t you – annoyed with your father, I mean?’

‘Yes, I am. The randy old goat!’

‘Lyn! That isn’t kind! It must have been awful for your Auntie Blod, giving you up to her sister and thinking she would never see you again. And I think she still loves your father, else why did she never marry and why are they writing to each other all of a sudden?’

‘Why indeed, and me not being told about it! But I suppose it’ll all come out in the wash. Auntie Blod will tell me about it when I go on leave. And if she still loves him, well, what the heck!’

Blodwen Meredith, her real mother, if she wanted to be picky, must truly have loved her father, just as Lyn loved – would always love – Drew Sutton. It was like Auntie Blod once said: you couldn’t turn love off to order.

‘It’s their life,’ Daisy said softly.

‘Yes, it is. Want some bread and jam?’

‘Just tea, thanks. And, Lyn – about your father. You once said you liked him better than your mother; that he was quite decent to you, when she wasn’t there.’

‘I should think so, too! After all, I was his natural daughter. My mother must have hated it really, having me around. The one I thought was my mother,’ she amended, sighing.

‘Well, it’s all coming right for them now, and you should be glad about it if they want to get together after all those years.’

‘I suppose I should. I’ll try to be, if only for Auntie Blod’s sake. I love her a lot. Always did.’

‘Probably because some part of you knew she was your real mother.’

‘Probably. Sure you don’t want this bread and jam, Dwerryhouse?’

‘Sure. Eat it yourself, then get into bed. I’ve put a hot-water bottle in for you. Chop chop! Some of us want to get to sleep! And by the way – I missed you. I’m sort of glad to be back in the old routine.’

She pushed the empty mug beneath her bunk, then wriggled down into her blankets. Come to think of it, Liverpool wasn’t a bad old place to see out the war in, for all its faults – provided the Luftwaffe didn’t come back and blitz it again!

But anywhere would do really. Without Keth, one port was much the same as another. And Lyn was smashing to be with – when she wasn’t all quiet, thinking about Drew marrying someone else, that was. Poor Lyn …

‘Where are they, then?’ Tatiana Sutton smiled a greeting at Sparrow’s Joannie, who was quite high up, really, in the Women’s Voluntary Service.

‘You’re sure you don’t mind – taking on another one?’

‘Not at all. They aren’t a bit of trouble. It’s the one or two civilians who look at them as if they’ve got no right to be out in public that bother me!’

‘The air gunner is blind. Did Aunt Emily tell you?’

‘She did.’ Tatiana drew in her breath sharply. Tim had been an air gunner. ‘But he’ll like the music, even though he won’t be able to …’ Her voice trailed off, because it was awful enough having your face burned beyond recognition; to lose your sight as well must make you want to rage against the injustice of it.

‘The music will be an extra bonus,’ Joannie said. ‘Just going out on the town will be really something. It’s his first time out since – since it happened. You’ll have to play it by ear. You realize that, don’t you?’

‘I do. What’s his name?’

‘Bill Benson. How’s Aunt Emily, by the way?’

‘She’s fine. Sent her love. Joannie – just how old is she? I’ve asked, but she won’t tell.’

‘So have I and got one of her looks for it. But it’s my guess she’s nearer eighty than seventy.’

‘She’s a love. She bullies me, you know.’

‘I do know, but it’s really affection. She’s got to have someone to love. Here are the tickets.’ She handed over a re-used envelope, stuck down with an economy label. ‘They’re good seats. You’re to meet the chaps outside the theatre.’

‘The Adelphi, isn’t it? I’m looking forward to it. How are they to get back afterwards?’

‘There’ll be transport provided. There are quite a few lads out on the town tonight so wait with yours, can you, till a driver comes to pick them up?’

She said of course she would and that she knew which line to use on the Underground and where to get off. She was getting to be quite a Londoner.

‘One last thing, Tatiana. If there’s an alert, I think it would be best if you got them to the nearest Underground – then stay with them, till the all clear.’

‘I’ll look after them.’ There were fewer air raids on London since Hitler had invaded Russia. Very few people left a cinema when ‘Air-Raid Warning’ was flashed on the screen now. Usually it was only air-raid wardens, ambulance drivers and fire fighters who left to report to their nearest centre; just as Uncle Igor did. It was the same in the theatres. Someone – usually a pretty girl – stood at the side of the stage holding up a notice to the same effect.

But Londoners were getting blasé about the Luftwaffe. They had paid their money and were staying to see a show! It was as simple as that. And London was a big place, they usually reasoned; the bombs would probably drop miles away!

‘I’ll take them if they want to go,’ Tatiana smiled. ‘But best be off. Don’t want to keep the RAF waiting!’

She wouldn’t, she was to think afterwards, have been so eager had she known what would be there outside the Adelphi Theatre to greet her.

‘This is Bill,’ Sam said. ‘Sergeant Bill Benson.’ Which would have been all right, Tatiana thought when she had got the better of the cold, cruel pain that sliced through her, had he not turned, his hand searching for hers, and spoken to her with Tim’s soft way of speaking; had he not had a shock of fair hair like Tim’s, nor the wing of an air-gunner above his left tunic pocket.

Tim come back to her, his beautiful face burned beyond recognition; Tim, wearing dark glasses over sightless eyes. Not smiling, because to smile she knew to be difficult. But the hand she grasped was Tim Thomson’s hand and the voice that said, ‘Tatiana. Nice to meet you,’ was Tim’s voice. Even his height belonged to a sergeant air-gunner she had not seen for a few days short of a year.

She clasped the hand in hers, said, ‘Nice to meet you, too, Bill,’ then covered that hand with her free one and closed her eyes and whispered silently inside her, ‘God! How could you do this to me? How could you?’

‘We’re in good time.’ Sam speaking. ‘What say we find the bar and sink a crafty half?’

‘A crafty half it is!’ said a voice not a bit like Tatiana Sutton’s. Then she pulled Bill Benson’s arm into the crook of her own. ‘That okay with you, Bill?’

And he said it was and asked her to tell him – quietly, if she wouldn’t mind – when there was a step up or down; otherwise he could manage just fine.

And Tatiana thought it was just as well one of them could manage just fine, because she couldn’t. She was light-headed and hot and cold, both at the same time. And it hurt, almost, to breathe.

‘Give me your stick,’ she heard herself saying, ‘and you, Sam, walk on the other side. Relax, Bill. We’ve got you.’

Yet all the time she was shaking inside her. And her mouth had gone dry and it was hard, even, to think; think about getting Bill Benson up and down steps and stairs, that was, and fixing him up with a beer; finding a corner of the noisy, heaving bar where he could manage to drink it without being pushed or elbowed.

‘What are you drinking, Bill?’ Sam had asked when they had found a place to stand.

‘Heavy, please.’ There was no smile on his tight, rough lips, but there was a smile in his voice.

‘That’s bitter, in Sassenach,’ she heard herself explaining to Sam. ‘And I’ll have a glass of light, please, if that’s okay?’

‘You know your Scottish ales,’ Bill said with Tim’s voice.

And she took a deep breath and said, ‘But of course, hen.’

She hadn’t meant to be flippant, had not meant to use one of Tim’s words because Tim had often called her hen. And you shouldn’t be flippant, should you, when nothing about and around you was real; when all you could be sure of was the voice that wept inside you?

God! Why did you do this? Why did you take Tim away from me then send Bill Benson into my life?

Because Bill was Tim and Tim was Bill. Only sightless eyes and a cruelly burned face disguised them.

She found herself wondering if Bill liked to dance, only to hear a ragged voice whispering in her ear: It doesn’t matter if Bill Benson dances or not. He isn’t Tim. Tim is dead! He will never come back; you know he won’t.

She was grateful that Sam returned at that moment, carrying three glasses on a tin tray.

‘Y’know, Tatiana – there’s one good thing about being a wounded hero! You get served first!’

She took a glass, then said, ‘Bill,’ and he turned in the direction of her voice. ‘Your drink …’

He held out his hand and she arranged his fingers round the glass, then said, ‘Cheers!’ even though his hands had not been burned and could have almost been the hands that once touched and gentled her body.

Did you hear me, God? Why …?

Keth tapped on the door and pushed it open.

‘Hullo, sir. Come for your homework?’ asked the pleasant-faced ATS corporal.

‘Please. But tell me, Corporal, why are all the army girls around here sergeants but you?’

He felt pleased that his voice sounded so normal.

‘Because I’m not old enough. You have to be twenty-one in this setup. Only three months to wait!’

She looked very young; certainly not twenty and three-quarters. He wondered how much she knew; how far she was trusted, until she turned the dial on the safe to the left and right, then handed him a folder marked ‘237’.

‘This is yours, Captain. Will you sign for it, please?’ There was a docket stapled to the front of it and she wrote the date, the day and the time on it then offered it for his signature. ‘And will you sign the office copy, too?’

‘You look very young to be working in a setup like this.’ Keth initialled the second copy. ‘Do you find it a strain?’

‘No, sir. My own choice entirely. I wanted, initially, to be sent out into the field, but –’

‘Work for SOE, you mean? An agent?’

‘I work for SOE now,’ she smiled. ‘But yes, one day I’d like to go to France.’

‘But why?’ She was too young, too pretty, too vulnerable-looking.

‘For the same reasons as yourself, I suppose.’

‘Hey! Don’t get any ideas about me! I’m here because I made a bargain. I owe them one – and I suppose I’m going because I know more about – well –’ he faltered, ‘I’m going because I know more than most about what this particular trip entails. I’m certainly not going because I like danger, or anything like that. I want to get it over and done with, then settle into my boring routine again. And get married,’ he added, almost as an afterthought. Which was stupid, really, because he had become Gaston Martin only because he so desperately wanted to marry Daisy. ‘And should we be talking like this, Corporal?’ he asked more severely than he intended to. ‘What I mean is – well – will our conversation be reported to Himself in authority?’

‘No, sir,’ she said softly. ‘Not by me it won’t.’

‘Thank you.’ He smiled, relieved. ‘But tell me why someone like you should want to go on active service with SOE? Working here you must surely know what it entails?’

‘Yes, I do. But I love France, you see. All the special things in my life happened there. We went there a lot before the war, on holiday and every year to the same pension. I learned to swim in France when I was four. France was a happy place for me and my brother.

‘Then my parents sent me to school there, to finish me off, as they called it. I went when I was sixteen. When I came home for my seventeenth birthday they wouldn’t let me go back; they thought we’d soon be at war, you see, and home was the safest place to be. I’ve been trying to get back ever since.’

‘A young man?’

‘Partly,’ she said, without even the hint of a blush. ‘There was someone I was fond of, but his letters stopped. I suppose I’d be happy just to know what has happened to him – if he is still alive. But really, I just want to go back to France. Can you understand?’

‘Yes, I can,’ he said softly, knowing they shouldn’t be talking so intimately and that probably the place had hidden microphones. ‘But do you think –?’ His eyes swept the walls and ceiling.

‘They might be listening in?’

‘Nothing would surprise me here.’

‘No. This room is all right.’

‘But not Room 22?’

‘I didn’t say that. And, sir – can you go there now? They said I was to tell you.’

‘I’m on my way. ’Bye, Corporal.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

He closed the door softly, walking slowly across the bare, echoing hall, turning left towards the staircase. He should have asked her name, he supposed; would have, had he even remotely imagined she would give it to him.

But how could she want to stick her neck out – walk headlong into danger; or be parachuted into it, or flown into it, or go there by submarine?

Because she loved France, she said and because there had once been someone special there. It was, he supposed, why Keth Purvis was about to do something equally stupid. Because he loved Daisy. Love, he supposed, was the most powerful motivator of all – unless it was hate.

He knocked twice on the door of Room 22 and a voice called to him to enter.

Reaching for the ornate iron door handle, he wondered how much more he would know by the time he left.




7 (#ulink_95ba5233-8966-5a57-97ce-08baf79e8bb5)


Keth lolled in the armchair, feet straddled, legs stiffly outstretched, and glowered at the pile of clothes on his bed and the cheap suitcase at the foot of it.

He was annoyed. Damned annoyed. With himself, but most of all with the slab-faced stranger who had made him a laughing stock. Because not only, it seemed, was he an idiot when it came to parachuting; now he had gone one better.

Half an hour ago he had acted – or was it reacted? – like an absolute fool and all because Slab Face had caught him unawares.

He jumped to his feet and strode to the window, kicking out childishly at the case as he passed it. One lock on it was broken. He would have to tie it round with string, he supposed.

He stared moodily across the grounds to the dense pinewood beyond. The clothes on the bed were all secondhand and he wondered if they had been washed. Did they have jumble sales in France and did SOE send a bod over regularly to buy up old clothes?

But he was being childish, not entirely because of what had happened in Room 22, but because, if he were completely honest, this stupid, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here mood of bewilderment was because he was afraid. He had always been afraid, only now was the first time he’d admitted it.

In Room 22 he’d been greeted with a nod by the civilian with whom he’d drunk brandy last night. The stranger who sat behind the desk – the one with the face like a concrete slab – had not even nodded, indicating with a frugal movement of his hand that Keth should sit in the chair facing.

‘We will conduct this interview in French, Captain. Name?’

That had been the start of it.

‘Gaston Martin.’

‘Age?’

‘Twenty-five.’ Easy. Just two months younger than himself. ‘Born the third of September.’ That was easy, too. The day war started.

‘Mother?’

‘Belle.’

‘Father?’

‘Jules Martin. Killed 1917.’

The questioning was rapid; his answers without fault. He let himself relax because his French was better in every way than that of his interrogator whose French was too perfect, too correct. Parisian French. Learned at university, no doubt. But Keth Purvis spoke the language with mam’selle’s Normandy accent; used her clichés and her colloquialisms and she had told him his pronunciation was almost perfect.

That was when his complacency was shattered.

‘Mon capitaine!’

Keth had turned his head sharply in the direction of the voice, his guard completely down, to gaze across the room, eyes questioning. That was when it happened.

The blow to his face caught him unawares. He turned, startled, knocking over his chair as he lunged across the desk.

‘What the hell!’ He grabbed at the coat lapels with angry hands, heaving the man to his feet. ‘What was that in aid of?’

Slab Face did not reply. Still shaking with anger, Keth hissed ‘Tell me!’ at his brandy-drinking companion, who shrugged without even moving his position.

‘I’ll tell you!’ With a practised move, the interrogator freed himself from Keth’s grasp, then delivered a chopping blow to his shoulder that sent him reeling across the room to fall, legs in air, near the door.

‘Get up, Captain,’ the voice drawled and because apart from being reluctant to continue the conversation from floor level, Keth needed to look his tormentor in the eyes; calmly, and without wavering, and listen to the offered explanation. Slowly he rose, dusting his sleeve, pulling straight his jacket. Then he took three steps to stand in front of the desk, jaws clamped tight.

‘All right! I’m listening!’

‘Sit down, please.’ A command, not an invitation. ‘So, Captain Purvis …’

‘Why?’ Keth demanded, all at once realizing his cheek throbbed painfully and wondering how soon it would show bruising.

‘Drink?’

‘Thank you, sir, no.’

Without moving a muscle of his face the man turned to the table behind him and poured from a decanter. Then he sat down, sighed, and said, ‘Why did I hit you? So shall we take it that you, an Englishman in German-occupied France and posing as a native, is asked for his papers by a passing patrol – which often happens, I might add – and something prompted the corporal in charge of that patrol to take you in for – er – questioning. Just a routine arrest to let his superiors know he was doing his job efficiently.

‘Let us say that I was the young, zealous officer who asked questions of you – perhaps, like the corporal who brought you in, a little overzealous because I had no wish to be sent to the Russian Front. And I would have to admit that you seemed genuine. Your answers were correct, though not too readily offered; your whole attitude, I might have thought, was entirely that of Gaston Martin.’

Keth waited unspeaking.

‘Then I, who might have been a Gestapo officer, slapped your face, unexpectedly and seemingly without reason. And not only did you let your guard down, but you reacted exactly as your interrogator hoped you would. It’s the oldest trick in the book and you signed your own death warrant when you fell for it!’

‘Yes, but dammit, how was I to know? Wouldn’t you, I mean?’

‘You mean, dammit wouldn’t I have been annoyed, too, and the answer is yes, I would! But a Frenchman – Gaston Martin – would have called him all kinds of a pig, in French, maybe even spat in his face. Yet you, mon brave, reacted in English! One sudden slap, and your cover is blown!’

‘Okay. So I know now. It won’t happen again.’

‘It had better not. In this line of business, second chances aren’t very thick on the ground.’ The man with the face like a concrete slab emptied his glass, then left the room without a sideways glance at either of those remaining.

There was silence as the door closed softly and they listened to the unhurried tread of receding footsteps.

‘There’s a name for people like him!’ Keth muttered to his companion of the previous evening.

‘There is.’ The unknown, unnamed man who wore civilian clothes and poured generous brandies allowed himself a small smile. ‘But one day you might have reason to be grateful to the miserable bastard for saving your life. So how about a quick one before lunch? I’d like you to eat with me in my office. There are a few things to go over before you leave.’

Keth almost demanded to know when, exactly, but his new-found, painfully acquired caution warned him to wait.

‘Thanks, sir. I’d like that.’

He had tried to smile but could not, because his heart was hammering still, though whether from anger, or the sudden realization that even an unimportant operative could not close his eyes to what could happen, he did not know. In this setup, he was forced to admit, there were no milk runs and even the most straightforward in-and-out job was no piece of cake.

Now, in his room, he turned from the window and stared again at the neatly folded clothes; clothes, he supposed, that those in charge of such things would expect a French labourer to wear: well-worn trousers, a jacket and shirt, collar attached. Brown shoes which looked as if they would fit – he hadn’t tried them on yet – and a raincoat.

He snapped open the one good lock on the case to find underwear – none of it new but clean, at least – a pair of working trousers, overalls and a cap. He’d have bet on a beret, though he was now prepared to admit that the people here knew what they were about.

To complete Gaston Martin’s worldly goods were two towels and a spongebag – even that looked used – and inside the bag a razor, shaving soap, a toothbrush – new! – and a cake of dentifrice in a silver-coloured tin.

Before he left he would be given a cheap, French-made watch and franc notes and coins. Not too many, of course, because labourers weren’t expected to carry a lot of money. Gaston Martin probably lived from job to job within the boundaries of his work permit and what was left over from the purchase of his strictly rationed food, he would doubtless spend on wine. Red wine, Keth decided.

He made a note to ask more about his ration card. His food-ration documents bothered him almost as much as his claustrophopic mode of transport to an isolated inlet north of Biarritz.

He found himself wishing he had been allowed to bring a photograph of Daisy because in his present state of perplexity he found he could not bring her face into his mind’s eye, nor hear her voice nor her laugh at will. Something to do with shock, he supposed, or apprehension, or a mix of both. All he could remember was the way her hair slipped through his fingers and the feel of her lips on his. Her face, though, and her voice were gone from his rememberings. What a mess. What a damn-awful mess!

He reached for his cap and slammed shut the door of his room behind him. He needed to walk. He would walk around and around the grounds until some perplexed sentry asked him what he was about. And when he was tired of walking, he would write to his mother and again to Daisy; tell her how much he loved her and wanted her. Hell, how he wanted her!

Briefly he returned the salute of the sentry on the garden door, then stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets in a most unsoldierly way, began to walk along the crunching, gravelled paths in the direction of the distant hills, wondering just how near to them he would get before being stopped.

What was Daisy doing now? His diary was at Castle McLeish so he had lost track of her watches. The wireless was freely available here, so he was fairly sure there had been no air raids on either Liverpool or London.

He kicked out at a stone on the short-cut grass beside the path, trying yet again to bring Daisy’s face, her smile, into focus. But she remained elusive, so he straightened his shoulders, set his arms at an easy swing, and began to walk the boundaries of the grounds.

So he was nervous and apprehensive, but who in his right mind wouldn’t be? He was a mathematician, a back-room boy. He was a breaker of codes and not one iota brave. Not for him flying a bomber over Germany in the blackout; not for him prowling the seas in a submarine nor dropping out of a plane at the end of a parachute. He was lucky that he knew his limitations and being brave – foolhardy – was not one of them.

So he was going to occupied France and knew now where he would be put ashore and that he would be picked up and hidden away until he was needed. He was not being asked to take undue risks. Even the Enigma machine would be brought to him by some foolish brave man – or woman. Then he would be brought out again with the precious package and if he couldn’t do something as uncomplicated as that for Daisy; do it, even, for the merchant seamen who risked their lives every time they left port, then it was a poor lookout.

Wherever you are, my darling, he whispered with his heart, it’s going to be all right for us. I’m all kinds of a fool, but we will be married on my next leave and nothing on the face of the earth will stop us because I love you, love you!

It was then that it all came right and he was able to recall her smile, hear the softness of her voice as she whispered that she loved him too; that she would always love him and yes, they would be married. Very soon.

It was at times like this, he insisted as he walked briskly back to the forbidding stone house that was forbidding no longer, that he had to believe. But believe in who, or what? In God, perhaps; in miracles? On this early October afternoon he needed to believe in miracles and yes, in God too. It was all down, he supposed, to loving Daisy so much and if conditions meant taking a calculated risk, then she was worth it.

He was going to France and coming safely back! Oh, too damn right he was!

‘So how did things go, last night?’ Sparrow demanded as they cleared the table after supper. She was downright curious if only because Tatiana had volunteered nothing on her return from the theatre – except that the music had been lovely.

‘Just fine,’ Tatiana shrugged.

‘And you didn’t get yourself upset?’

‘Of course not. Why should I?’

‘No reason at all – except that you are upset! Is it the new one – the blind one? Did you find it all too much?’

‘No, Sparrow. Oh, no.’

‘Then tell me.’ She filled the bowl with water then added a fist of washing soda. ‘Because the first time you took an airman out you were full of it, and wanted to go on helping Joannie’s lot.’

‘And I still want to.’ Tatiana watched, fascinated, as the older woman lathered a block of primrose soap into a sud. ‘I really do. It was just that – well, it all seemed so spooky. Not spooky-frightening but spooky-strange, sort of. And rather nice.’

Sparrow continued her lathering without comment, agitating the water into bubbles.

‘You see, Sparrow, I’m trying to tell myself that something wonderful hasn’t happened – and it has. I told you about Tim?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘Well last night it wasn’t Tim, exactly. He was called Bill Benson. And he was Scottish and just about Tim’s height. And he had fair hair, too, and –’

‘And he was an air-gunner, like your Tim was?’

‘Yes.’ She picked up a plate, drying it ponderously. ‘It threw me, at first.’

For just a little while it had been too much to accept. It got so out of hand that in the dimness of the theatre, when Bill leaned close to whisper to her, he sounded so much like Tim she had wanted to get away; push past everyone, run out and never go back.

‘So now you’re going to pretend it’s your young man come back to you with his face burned?’

‘No, Sparrow! Don’t say that! It’s cruel!’

‘It’s fact, girl, and you’re being morbid! Your young man hasn’t come back. The one you took to the theatre last night wasn’t Tim. And I’m not being cruel about their poor faces. Far from it. I think they should all have a medal, Lord love them! But don’t get entangled, Tatiana. Your mother put you in my care and I won’t have you getting yourself upset all over again. And maybe this Bill has a young lady – maybe even a wife. Did you think to ask?’

‘I didn’t, Sparrow, because it isn’t important,’ she said softly, though she knew as soon as she spoke that it was important because she was so certain in her dreamings that the young man who sat beside her had some part of Tim in him, that she had wanted to reach for his hand, entwine her fingers in his, just as she and Tim always did in the intimate, shoulder-to-shoulder darkness of Creesby picture house. Would have, only a voice, very much like Sparrow’s, had called a warning, and she was forced to tell herself it was not Tim who sat beside her and that even to think such a thing was being unfaithful to his memory.

But for just a moment, until she regained control of her feelings, Tim had not died in a crashed bomber on Holdenby Pike. Tim survived, dreadfully burned and blinded, too, her foolish heart insisted, and had come back with a different name. And even his name was uncanny. Tim Thomson. Bill Benson. Even the cadence was there.

‘Well, if it isn’t important, you’ll maybe stop trying to rub the pattern orf that plate and shift yourself so we’ll be done in time to listen to Tommy Handley! And maybe it’d be better if our Joannie sent you someone different next time.’

‘No!’ She said it much, much too quickly. ‘I mean – well, I promised Bill and Sam I’d see them both again next week. We got on well together the three of us, and Sam is such a help with Bill. I couldn’t go back on my word, Sparrow. Not the word of a Sutton.’

‘Well, if you say so. Only don’t go filling your head with day dreams or you’ll get hurt again – especially if he’s married. And there was a letter for you from Liverpool. I left it on the hall table. Did you see it?’

Sparrow knew Daisy’s handwriting; had known Daisy since she was a little thing in her mother’s arms, and living in Hampshire.

‘Sorry – I didn’t look, actually. I’ll read it later. And don’t worry about me, Sparrow – though I’m glad, really, that you do. It was just that meeting Bill Benson last night was a bit of shock, that’s all. I’m fine now. It’s all under control. I know what I’m doing.’

But did she know what she was doing, she thought that night as she lay snug and cosseted in bed and thought about Tim Thomson and Bill Benson. Because she didn’t know what she was doing if she were scrupulously honest, and to say she did was like spitting into the wind, which was a very unladylike thing to do – apart from being messy!

She turned over with an exaggerated sigh, then plumped up her pillows. Frightening though that meeting had been, she knew there could never, ever, be another man in her life after Tim. And that was a pity, really, because never to be able to fall in love again was a terrible thing to have to accept; like becoming a nun and not being able to go back on your word.

But those three wonderful months she and Tim spent together were worth a lifetime of being alone. Indeed she was, she thought, very lucky to have met Tim at all. If she hadn’t gone to the dance at Holdenby Moor aerodrome she would never have have known the joy of loving completely and being completely loved in return.

She smiled softly and sadly and said good night to Tim as she always did, then made her mind a blank, because she must not think about Bill Benson. Perhaps Sparrow was right and Joannie should ask some other volunteer to take him out on the town.

Trouble was, she had promised, and anyway, next week she would most probably wonder why she had ever thought Bill Benson was in the least like Tim. There could never be another Tim Thomson. Not ever. It was as simple – and awful – as that.

Drew and Kitty leaned against the landing-stage railings, thighs touching, hands clasped, gazing across the river to the Cheshire side. Sharp against the skyline the jagged outlines of bombed buildings were gentled by a setting sun that scattered the river with a sparkle of rubies.

‘Kind of beautiful, isn’t it?’ She smiled up at him. ‘If it wasn’t so sad, I mean. Wish I could paint. It’s so dramatic.’

‘Then I’m glad you can’t because knowing you, your canvases would either be terrible, or very good indeed.’

‘And in this case,’ she pointed to the wartime skyline, ‘scary. Y’know, honey, it’s like we’re standing back, looking at something we’ve no power to do anything about; all of us puppets, having our strings pulled.’

‘We’re nothing of the kind! You and I are living, breathing people. We have minds of our own and we’re going to be married,’ Drew said firmly. ‘And one day, all this will be behind us. Last time, Mother said, when they thought their war would never end, it was suddenly all over.’

‘Sure, and they had to pick up the pieces and wonder if it had all been worth it, just as our generation will wonder.’ She turned her back on the stark outlines that were already being dimmed and softened around the edges by the blocking out of a scarlet sun behind a tall, distant building. ‘And I know we have minds of our own, darling, but sometimes there’s no choice but to do things we don’t want to.’

‘Like?’ He pulled sharply on his breath.

‘Like me coming over here to work with ENSA and being willing to go anywhere, kind of …’

‘So you are leaving Liverpool! Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because I didn’t want to spoil tonight, I guess. Because in a few hours you’ve got to be back on board and next time you dock I’ll be gone. To London.’

The river ferry came broadside on to the landing stage and they looked down, not speaking, to watch the gangway fall with a clatter and people hurrying across it.

‘Let’s not go dancing.’ It was Drew who broke the uneasy silence.

‘No. Let’s go back to the digs.’ To Ma MacTaggart’s cheap theatrical lodgings; to Ma, who never thought to remark that the bed in the room Drew took for the night was never slept in.

‘Mm. You can tell me about it, then.’ It wouldn’t seem so awful when they lay close, and warm from loving, Kitty telling him she was to be based in London as they feared she might be; would not seem so bad when they were so relaxed they could imagine London to be only a sixpenny tram ride away. ‘And London will be good for your career – all the theatres.’

And the bombing, his mind supplied, because it would start again, nothing was more certain. When Hitler was done with Russia the full force of the Luftwaffe would be hurled at Britain once more. Not that Hitler was getting all his own way there now. The German armies had been halted and held, and in some places thrown back. And Moscow was no longer threatened, though Leningrad’s siege had yet to be broken.

‘What are you thinking about?’ Kitty whispered. ‘You sure were scowling.’

‘I was thinking about the war in general and Russia in particular and how it might not always be very safe when you get to London.’

‘I’ll be just fine, darling.’ There was a churning of water between the landing stage and the ferry as it made its way back towards the Cheshire side. ‘For one thing, I’ll be with Sparrow and Tatty, and for another I’ll be out of London on tour a lot of the time.

‘On tour,’ she giggled. ‘Sounds like I’ll be doing the provincial theatres before the show opens in the West End, when really we’ll be playing gun sites and aerodromes and village halls; any place there are men and women in need of cheering up. You’ve no idea, Drew, what a wonderful audience they are. They stamp and whistle like crazy. It makes me feel real good, like I’m a star and they’ve all paid pounds and pounds just to see me.’

‘You always did like an audience, Kitty Sutton. You knew even when you were little how to play to the gallery. Do you know what a precocious brat you were?’ Smiling, he tweaked her nose.

‘Guess I must’ve been pretty awful,’ she laughed.

‘You still are. You come into a room like a force-eight gale, demanding to be noticed – just like you slammed into my life that night on the dockside. Suddenly I knew what it was like to be hit amidships by a torpedo.’

‘And I love you too.’ She reached on tiptoe to kiss his lips lingeringly which was something nice girls shouldn’t do in public, then they began to walk towards Bold Street and the little street off it, where Ma MacTaggart lived. Now, Drew thought, he had another picture of Kitty to store in his memory and take out and live again when they were apart.

Kitty, silhouetted against a red evening sky and the stark, bombed buildings on the far bank of the river; Kitty so beautiful that it made him wonder why it was him she loved and not someone as good to look at as herself; Kitty’s English half that loved the Mersey and to stand at the Pierhead watching the river ferries that churned across it. Kitty, warm and flamboyant, whose lips silently begged him to make love to her each time they kissed.

He had been so ordinary before the night he saw her behaving so badly in the too-small, too-cheap red costume. That night he fell in love with his Kentucky cousin; deeply, desperately, in love. What Gracie would call, he supposed, a hook, line and sinker job. Kathryn Norma Clementina Sutton, his raison d’être.

He quickened his step, the sooner to get to Ma’s and the bed he would share with her. They would love, then she would fall asleep in his arms, her ridiculous baby-soft curls tickling his nose. And in the morning when she opened her eyes and smiled and said, throatily, ‘Hullo, you,’ they would make love again because it would be the last time for only God knew how long.

He took her arm and she demanded to know what the hurry was and he told her she knew damn well.

‘And, Kitty, hear this! Next time I get long leave we’re getting married and no messing – even if it’s a special licence job!’

She said that was fine by her, because maybe being deliciously unconventional and doing what nicely-brought-up girls shouldn’t do every time they found themselves within spitting distance of a double bed was wearing a bit thin now.

‘You’re right, Drew. Reckon we’ve come as far as we can and I guess you should make an honest woman of me. Come to think of it, it might be nice to be Lady Sutton.’

She stopped walking and gazed up at him with eyes so blue and serious and appealing that he took her in his arms, right there in the middle of Bold Street, and kissed her hard and long.

And didn’t give a damn who saw them!




8 (#ulink_4524168f-413a-5c13-bfb3-c9fe45cb2fc5)


Keth stood unmoving in front of the mirror and, unmoving, Gaston Martin stared back. Those who kitted him out had done a good job, he grudgingly admitted. The clothes fitted; even the shoes and the socks, of which one pair was neatly darned, could have been worn by himself – times past, that was, when Keth Purvis wore darned socks and cheap, well-worn shoes.

Yet he must forget his other self. He was Gaston Martin now. In the pocket of his belt was five hundred francs in notes; in his trouser pockets a knife, a handful of small coins and a packet of Gauloises, even though he did not smoke. Inside one of the three very ordinary buttons on his jacket was a compass, though why a compass was necessary if he was to be taken to a safe house, hidden away, then returned to his point of departure, he had no idea.

In a brown paper carrier bag which he was told to get rid of at once if there was even the slightest risk of being picked up, were carefully packed valves and a small, heavy packet. Valves for wireless operators to replace broken ones – valves were notorious for their fragility, it seemed – and spares for the firing mechanisms of two automatic revolvers. Just to be carrying such things gave reality to his journey; a shivering awareness that began when he was checked and checked again for incriminating evidence by a man who could once have been a police detective.

No English brand names on any of his clothing; no London Tube tickets or bus tickets in his pockets or evidence that his underwear and handkerchiefs had been laundered in England. Laundrymarks were a big giveaway, the man said as he left, satisfied.

Keth dug a hand into his trouser pocket, bringing out the coins, placing them on the window-ledge to familiarize himself with their values. The coins made sense to his mathematical mind; tens were easier to calculate than twelves; you just stuck in a decimal point. Twelve pence to the shilling was all wrong, really.

He turned as the door opened to admit his inquisitor of yesterday; the man Keth had dubbed Slab Face and against whom he still felt resentment, even though his cheek had not bruised.

‘You’ve had your final check?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Feeling all right?’

‘No, but I’m working on it.’ Why did the man irritate him so?

‘You’ll be leaving in the morning about ten; arrive at the naval base about eleven. When you sail will be up to the submarine people. Their ops room will work out your expected time of arrival and tell us so we can alert our people at the other end.’

‘Seems all very straightforward, sir.’

‘We like to think we know what we are doing, Captain. Good luck.’ He held out a hand and Keth was surprised its grasp was firm and warm. It comforted him until the man turned, hand on the door knob and said, ‘You’ll be given your D-pill in the morning, by the way.’

‘My …?’

‘Dammit, man – do I have to spell it out?’

‘But I hadn’t thought –’ Keth stopped, all at once feeling real fear.

‘What hadn’t you thought?’

‘That I was all that important. No one told me about anything like – well, that …’

‘Then you should have been told. And we do not consider any of our operatives unimportant, Captain. You are being sent to France because you have special knowledge of the machine you are to bring back with you and not because of your prowess as an SOE operative – nor your ability to survive under questioning.’

‘No, sir.’ He was doing it again: putting him down.

‘You have more knowledge than you think. Under duress not only would you tell them why you were in France, but before they’d finished with you you’d have told them about Bletchley and how much we know already about their Enigma machine. They think their signalling system is safe because they change the code every day, but with persuasion you would tell them that we are breaking their army and air force codes whenever we want to, and that soon we hope to be breaking their U-boat signals, too.’

He paused, breathing deeply and loudly as if allowing time for his words to be given fullest consideration.

‘So that is why, before you leave, Captain, you will go through your final briefing, be given your codename – Gaston Martin’s codename – and advised where best to hide your pill. And that when you swallow it you will be dead in fifty seconds.

‘I have had grave doubts about sending you, but it is too late now to do anything about it. But of one thing I am sure. You, as an individual, are of little value; what you know is. Never forget that. Good day to you. Good luck.’

Keth stood transfixed, wanting – needing – to yell, ‘Bastard!’ at the top of his voice, wanting to tell him to find some other fool to do his dirty work. But he did not because now there was no going back and anyway, all at once he seemed incapable of speech or movement. All he could be sure of was his love for Daisy and his need to hold her close.

Damn Slab Face! Petulantly he swept the coins from the window-ledge and into his pocket. And in the morning when he left this place, he would not think of Keth Purvis nor his mother, nor Rowangarth. And especially he would not let himself think of Daisy because Gaston Martin was going to France and only when he returned could Keth Purvis be himself again.

‘I love you, Daisy,’ he said out loud. ‘I’ll love you till the day I die.’

Then he thought of the D-pill and wanted to weep as he had not wept since the day his father died, but instead he sucked in his breath and said very slowly and deliberately, ‘Wherever you are, my darling – take care …’

Grace Fielding gave the apple a final polish then laid it carefully on the rack. She knew all about the storage of apples and pears now; had no need to ask instructions. Yet the trouble with grading and wiping and storing fruit for the winter, Gracie frowned, was the time it gave her to brood; think that for three days had there been neither a letter nor phone call from Bas – which was unusual.

The crunch of footsteps on the path sent her hurrying to the door and down the wooden steps of the apple loft to find not Bas, nor Tilda, who had said she would call in for apples, but a tall army sergeant who smiled and said, ‘Afternoon, miss. Can you tell me where I can find Mr Jack Catchpole?’

‘He’s over yonder in the far corner, seeing to the winter chrysanths.’

She pointed to where late-flowering chrysanthemums, grown to bloom at Christmas, were being transferred into pots, ready to be carried into the shelter of a greenhouse at the first sniff of frost on the air. But Catchpole, who missed nothing, was already advancing, garden fork in hand, in the direction of the trespasser.

‘Afternoon, sir.’ The soldier held out a hand which was reluctantly taken. ‘Sergeant Sydney Willis. Would you be the orchid expert I’ve been hearing about?’

Catchpole’s expression softened. He liked being addressed as sir and having his undoubted knowledge in the cultivation and propagation of orchids deferred to.

‘Happen I’m the gentleman you’m looking for.’ He laid aside his fork and reached for his pipe to clamp it, empty, between his teeth. ‘But you wasn’t expected, sergeant,’ he admonished in order to establish that visits to his garden were strictly by appointment.

‘No. I’m sorry, but I took the chance, in passing, of finding you. I was told of your experience with orchids, you see, and –’

‘By who?’

‘By sergeant Tom Dwerryhouse. I was talking to him in the pub. Famous for your orchids, he said, and being a gardener myself I took the liberty of calling. Leeds Corporation Parks and Gardens,’ he added hastily, eager to establish a rapport. ‘Keen to learn more about orchids, they being a favourite of mine.’

Catchpole, mollified, returned his pipe to his pocket, dolefully remarking that he’d clean run out of tobacco, but if the sergeant would care to stay for a sup of tea, his apprentice would soon be making one. At which, Sergeant Willis offered a fill from his own pouch, then settled himself eagerly on the proffered apple box.

‘You have a fine garden, Mr Catchpole. I envy you.’ He gazed with a practised eye at near perfection.

‘’S now’t like it should be. No specialist growing now on account of there being no coke for heating the glasshouses. Time was when I had two under-gardeners and at least three ’prentices.’ His eyes took on a yearning look. ‘But nowt’s the same with two dratted wars to contend with, though my land girl is a grand lass and willing to learn. Had me doubts when Miss Julia landed me with her,’ he murmured through a haze of tobacco smoke, ‘but her’s got the makings of a gardener in her if she don’t go getting herself wed like most females do.’

It was then that Tilda, in search of her apples, appeared by way of the small back gate, eyebrows raised questioningly at the stranger who had inveigled his way into the garden.

‘Now then, Tilda! Gracie’s got your apples. Her’s in the shed, mashing a pot of tea.’

‘Who’s he, then?’ Tilda demanded in a whisper to which Gracie whispered back that he was a gardener, or had been in civvy street, and was here to see the orchid house – she thought. And when she had delivered two mugs of tea she gave Tilda the bag of apples, remarking that as far as she knew the sergeant’s name was Sydney Willis and he came from Leeds.

‘But you’ll stay for a cup, Tilda? The kettle’s almost boiled again. Think I can squeeze a drop more out of this pot. I should have brought those apples to the house, but I was running late this morning,’ she offered when they had settled themselves in the shelter of the now empty tomato house from which there was an uninterrupted view of the two men. ‘And you know what a stickler for time-keeping Mr C is.’

Which wasn’t true, really. She was late this morning, there was no denying it, but only because she had hung around, waiting as long as she dare for the red Post Office van – which hadn’t come, of course.

To which Tilda replied that it was no trouble at all to collect them, it being a nice afternoon and she having time on her hands on account of there being little with which to cook; demanding to know more about the soldier who seemed to be getting on like a house on fire with the crusty head gardener.

‘Don’t know any more’n I’ve told you,’ Gracie blew hard on the hot, pale liquid in her mug, ‘’cept that he said he worked for Leeds Corporation.’

Tilda nodded, keeping to herself the knowledge she had gained in a passing glance; that the soldier belonged to the Green Howards, a Yorkshire regiment; that he was middle-aged, like herself, and like herself was showing signs of greying in places though he was tall and straight and wore a Clark Gable moustache with great aplomb. She nodded again, sipped her tea, and wondered if he was married.

She was still asking herself the same question as she skirted the wild garden on her way back to Rowangarth, and it came as a pleasant shock to hear her name being called in strong, masculine tones.

‘Miss Tewk! Wait!’

She turned to see the soldier, bearing a carrier bag of apples.

‘You forget them, miss,’ he smiled. ‘I volunteered to deliver them.’

‘Oh! That’s very – er – kind of you.’ She felt the flush of colour to her cheeks because she’d been so interested in Catchpole’s visitor she had clean forgotten the apples. ‘But you shouldn’t have gone out of your way, sergeant.’

‘Sydney,’ he corrected, smiling, ‘And I didn’t go out of my way, exactly. I offered to bring them because I wanted to ask you –’

‘Yes?’ Tilda whispered, snatching on her breath.

‘To ask if I might call on my next spot of time off.’

‘Oooooh!’ She felt distinctly peculiar.

‘I’d like a closer look at that grand avenue of lindens over yonder, you see. Mr Catchpole told me his grandfather planted them more than fifty years ago.’

‘Now that I couldn’t say.’ Tilda, distinctly disappointed, found her tongue. ‘You’d have to ask Mrs Sutton’s permission for that, her being in charge whilst Sir Andrew’s away at sea. I could mention it to her, though I’m sure it’ll be all right if Mr Catchpole says it will – him being head gardener.’

‘He did give me permission, Miss Tewk. I just thought it might be nice to have the pleasure of your company, you being familiar, so to speak, with the trees on the estate. He did mention that Rowangarth has some very fine English elms.’

‘We have. On the far edge of Brattocks Wood.’

A walk in the woods with a soldier – next Wednesday, weather permitting, at half-past two, she thought tremblingly as later she fretted over unaccustomed lumps in her bechamel sauce.

She wondered yet again if Sergeant Willis was married and knew, deep within her love-starved heart, that he was, which was just Tilda Tewk’s bad luck, she supposed, sighing deeply. She, who had always wanted a gentleman friend of her own, had never been lucky in love, there being so many young men taken in the last war and plain girls like herself shoved to the back of the queue. She had given her young heart to the Prince of Wales, him so boyishly handsome and with such a wistful smile. Her love for him was pure and from a great distance and she had only removed his picture from the kitchen mantel when Mrs Simpson got her claws into him.

At one time, Tilda pondered, as she squashed another lump against the side of the pan with her spoon, she had longed for a husband and children, then downgraded her hopes to perhaps just one passionate love affair. And since passion had never chanced her way, she had long since decided to settle for a dalliance, however brief. Now it seemed as if her prayers had been answered in the handsome form of Sergeant Sydney Willis and she would walk in Brattocks with him on her next afternoon off and show him the elms and the old, propped-up oak that folk said was almost as old as Rowangarth itself – if looking at trees was what interested him, that was. And if asked, she would continue their friendship until he admitted he had a wife and children when, as had happened with the Prince of Wales, she would be forced to give him up.

But until that happened, she decided with stiff-lipped determination, she would make the most of what the Fates allowed and be thankful for small mercies. And a dalliance.

‘I hoped you’d come.’ Alice dried her hands and took off her pinafore.

‘You knew I would.’ Julia pulled out a chair and leaned her elbows on the kitchen table. ‘It’s just a year now since …’ She glanced at the clock on the kitchen mantel.

‘Since we were celebrating your wedding anniversary and Mother-in-law’s birthday. And then the bombers were shot down and –’

No need for words as they clasped hands across the table top; no cause to say that Reuben, whom Alice looked upon as a father, and Mrs Shaw and Jinny Dobb had died that night. Nathan’s father, too.

‘How’s Nathan taking it?’

‘Not too badly. He asked prayers for them all at early Communion and for the two aircrews who died. He’s over Creesby way tonight. A young wife six months pregnant in need of comfort, he said. She got a telegram this morning. Husband killed in the Middle East. Should have gone myself. I know what the poor woman is going through,’ she said flatly.

‘Of course, love,’ Alice said gently. ‘I went through it as well, ’cept that Tom came back. I took flowers to the graves this morning – had a little weep. And I won’t forget Lady Helen, either.’

‘It was a swine of a week, wasn’t it? Four deaths and two of our bombers, then Mother died too, just days after. It was as if the old ones had had enough. Two wars in anyone’s lifetime is cruel.’

‘I’ll be there if you want me, Julia, like always – if Nathan won’t think I’m interfering, that is.’

‘He won’t. You and me have always remembered things together. Mother’s first anniversary isn’t the time to stop. And I’ve booked a call to Montpelier Mews; told the exchange that if no one answers at Rowangarth I’d be here – that’s okay, isn’t it? Don’t want to block your line or anything.’

‘You won’t be. Daisy got through half an hour ago to let me know she hadn’t forgotten – sent her love to you, too. And I’m glad you’re ringing London. Folk are inclined to forget Tatty and her airman. She’ll be a long time getting over that night. By the by, Daisy met Drew and Kitty; briefly, she said. They were both fine, though Drew will be back at sea now.’

‘And Kitty away to London. Well, at least she’ll be good for Tatty, and Sparrow will have two of them to fuss over.’ Julia pushed back her chair as the phone in the passage outside began to ring. ‘That’ll be my call.’

‘Then remember me to them all – and say special love from me to Tatty, won’t you?’

Alice filled the kettle and set it to boil, wondering how many times she and Julia had shared a comforting cup.

Too many to count, she thought sadly. Far, far too many.




9 (#ulink_0c28bdf0-c106-56e9-95ee-49468362da5c)


‘There now, lovely girl!’ Lyn Carmichael was kissed and hugged. ‘Home for a week this time, is it?’

‘A week and a day, Auntie Blod. Am I welcome?’

‘As a pound of black-market butter! Of course you’re welcome, cariad. There’s foolish to ask!’

‘No butter, I’m afraid, but I’ve got a card for a week’s rations with me. Oh, it’s good to be home!’ Lyn hung up her raincoat. ‘I’ve brought some dirty shirts and collars, if you don’t mind …’

‘I’ll do all your stuff on washday. Get yourself upstairs and out of that uniform. And where on earth did you get that hat?’

‘It’s a cap, not a hat – our new, official-issue Wren-type headgear. Like it?’

‘No, I can’t say I do. The old hats were more ladylike to my way of thinking.’

‘And very fuddy-duddy. We all think the new ones are cute, sort of.’

‘Saucy! But I’ll bring you up a jug of water for a wash. Want it out of the tap, or the butt?’

‘The butt, please.’ Lyn liked to wash her face in rainwater.

‘I’m out of toilet soap, cariad. Mine’s down to a sliver.’

‘I’ve brought my own and there’s a soap coupon with the ration card. Oooh, Auntie Blod – let’s pretend the war is a million miles away? Let’s shut it out for eight nights and seven days, shall we? Let’s you and me just talk and talk?’

‘We’ll do that, merchi. Talk about everything under the sun.’

And about Kenya, too, she thought grimly, because ever since she had known the truth about, well – things, Lyn had clammed up when Kenya was mentioned, just as she went all poker-faced when Drew Sutton’s name came into the conversation.

Talk, because there were things to be brought into the open whether the stubborn little miss liked it or not. And before so very much longer, too!

Keth sat in the back of the camouflaged army staff car feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Beside him was a fresh-faced lieutenant and driving them, a staff sergeant who looked as if he’d be a good sort to have beside you in a backs-to-the-wall situation, Keth decided.

The man at his side he wasn’t so sure about. A youngster, really, who would doubtless report back to the stone house that Gaston Martin had been safely delivered to the 15th Submarine Flotilla.

Keth studied the passing scenery. It was especially beautiful to one who was to leave it. Bracken and heather were taking on their autumnal colours; the hills shaded from grey to purple to black, with slants of sunlight slicing between them to glint on the little loch to his right.

He was no longer afraid. He had asked for a posting home and was given it, with conditions attached. This was where the pay-off started, and after his first wave of terrified disbelief, Daisy was still worth it.

The car slowed and pulled over to let a farm tractor pass. It was driven by a land girl and she smiled and raised her hand. Not unlike Gracie, he thought, wondering at the normality of the encounter; trying to imagine what the girl would think could she have known that inside that car was a man who was on his way to occupied France. But everything about this morning was precious and normal save Gaston Martin.

Last night, instead of sleeping, he had carefully calculated Daisy’s watches and was almost sure that until Friday she would be working a week of nights. Which meant, of course, that on Friday morning, instead of sleeping, she would be on the train, heading home on one of her unofficial weekends.

They all did it, it would seem, after a week of night duties. Authority turned a blind eye to an entire watch disappearing without trace and without a leave pass, too. Perhaps they accepted that it was only a matter of time until one of the miscreants was stopped by a naval patrol, and that would be that. In the rattle, Daisy said, for going absent without leave and AWOL usually merited at least one week’s stoppage of privileges and extra duties in quarters. But until someone was caught, then what the heck, she had laughed. Live dangerously! And for the coming weeks, Keth Purvis would be living dangerously, though if he were caught it would be something altogether different.

Yet why should he be caught? He had worked out the odds against it and they were in his favour. He had also accepted there were millions of men and women doing military service with all its attendant dangers: young girls on gun sites, or manhandling barrage balloons, and men and women of the fire service and rescue teams, who put out fires or dug with bare hands to free women and children from shattered houses even though bombs were still falling.

It was all a question of which way the dice fell and your name and number. It had been the same in his father’s war. ‘If your name and number was on a bullet, lad,’ he’d once said, ‘it would find you sooner or later. No use worrying meantime.’

Keth smiled inside him as a clump of late-flowering foxgloves slipped past the window to remind him of Brattocks Wood. They comforted him, too; made him think that Someone up there was wishing him luck – Godspeed, he supposed.

Yet did God exist? Most times, his father had said, you didn’t believe – especially when you’d had near on four years in the trenches and blamed God for letting it happen. Yet there came a time to believe, Dickon Purvis had conceded gravely, and that was when you were in a foxhole in the middle of No-Man’s-Land with shells screaming over your head. God was a good sort then to have beside you.

So now that Gaston Martin was on his way Keth felt calm and glad, almost, that from here on every passing day was one day nearer to lifting the phone and whispering, ‘Hullo, you. Guess who loves you?’ And now he had accepted that he was just as brave and every bit as afraid as millions of other men and women, he would do his best – better than his best – to get back safely with the Enigma machine our merchant seamen were so desperately in need of.

‘Nearly there, sir.’ The driver put an end to Keth’s broodings.

‘Where is there, Sergeant?’

‘Am I allowed to say?’ The question to the young lieutenant.

‘Don’t see why not. We’re about two miles from Loch Ardneavie. Once there was a thriving yacht club there – sailing boats and dinghies – but it’s all changed now. No more pretty little yachts nor weekend sailors messing about in boats since the Admiralty collared the entire loch. It’s bursting with submarines, now. HMS Omega. The Fifteenth Flotilla, and to which Staff and I are to deliver you.’

‘You seem well informed,’ Keth observed drily.

‘I’m not telling you anything Gerry doesn’t already know – sir.’ He emphasized Keth’s rank after the mild reprimand. ‘Anyway, that’s just about it. What happens when you get to Omega – well, your guess is as good as mine. And I’m well informed because I’ve been here before. The last time was with a woman – a WAAF officer.’

‘And a real good-looker, wasn’t she, sir?’ the staff sergeant offered.

‘They send women!’ Keth was shocked.

‘Why not, if they volunteer? But look over there.’ He pointed in the direction of a shimmer of water below them. ‘We’re missing the town. Coming in the top way. That’s the head of the loch you can see. Saw some smashing Wrens at Omega last time we came.’

‘Surely they don’t have Wrens on submarines?’ Keth was becoming uneasy.

‘No! They have them on the mother ship, though,’ the lieutenant laughed. ‘And they crew the dinghies and launches. Lovely little bottoms …’

‘My fiancée is a Wren,’ Keth said stiffly, ending the conversation abruptly as they dropped speed to drive through a small village, then on to the loch where the car drew up at the head of a long jetty.

The sergeant opened the rear door and Keth got out to stare across the vast stretch of water, his shabby suitcase and the carrier bag at his feet.

All at once it was very real and he knew there was no going back. And all at once he knew he didn’t want to call it off. He wanted to go; get it over with. Luck didn’t enter into it. Now he felt no fear; merely a vague apprehension and a niggling irritation that getting to this point of departure had been such a long-drawn-out affair with everything checked and checked again. Just as if he were a village idiot from wildest Yorkshire and had to be watched every inch of the way.

The lieutenant tapped on the door of a low, square building at the top of the wooden jetty. It had a small sliding hatch in it which was immediately opened.

‘Good morning, sir.’ The face of a Wren appeared. ‘Can I help you?’

‘You can indeed! Will you let someone know we would like to get on board.’ He nodded towards the great ungainly ship at the centre of a cluster of submarines. ‘Transport for three if you’d be so kind, Jenny Wren.’

‘Don’t let him fool you,’ the sergeant said softly to Keth. ‘He likes to put on a Jack-the-lad act but he’s a damn fine operator. Been to France three times already. Not as stupid as he makes out.’

‘Can do, duckie?’ smiled the lieutenant.

‘Can I have your names?’ asked the Wren.

‘No names, sweetie; no pack drill. Just let your lot know we’re here. They’re expecting us.’

‘Very well. I’ll get a signal over to the bridge. You can walk down the jetty if you like – the gates are open. Watch out for the iron ladder when you climb down into the launch, sir – the rungs are very slippery.’

The hatch was slammed shut and a bolt pushed into place. One smashing Wren was having no truck with the charming lieutenant.

‘Send a signal to Omega, will you?’ she called to a signalman. ‘Shore Station to quarterdeck. Please send boat. Two pongos, one civvy.’

The sergeant picked up Keth’s luggage, then fell into step as they walked briskly down the jetty. From behind them came the flashing click of an Aldis lamp; ahead of them lay the 15th Submarine Flotilla to whom he would be handed like a parcel, Keth thought wryly, for onward transmission to France.

The air that swept the sea loch from the mouth of the River Clyde was salty and fresh, and it made him wish that Daisy could be here and not three floors underground where most times the air was stale and dusty.

Unspeaking, he followed the progress of a launch as it rounded the stern of the mother ship. It was crewed by women, dressed in sailor’s trousers and thick, navy sweaters. All were undeniably attractive. They handled the launch that bucked through the waves as if they had been born to it and when one of them jumped ashore, rope in hand, Keth noticed she did indeed have a lovely little bottom. All at once he was glad that Daisy worked three floors down in Liverpool and out of the gaze of lecherous lieutenants. And he was even more glad that just as soon as he got back from France they would be married. When he got back – not if!

Mealtimes, Blodwen Meredith considered, presented the best opportunities for what she called essential chats because if what she said didn’t suit Lyndis, it was hardly likely the girl would flounce off in a huff, leaving a half-eaten meal on the table. And today was the day for such a chat.

‘Well, that’s the last of the tomatoes till next year I shouldn’t wonder.’ She placed a bowl of salad on the table. ‘Remember once you could buy them all the year round.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me you’ve been writing regularly to my father since –’ Lyn left the sentence hanging in the air, concentrating on cutting a piece of cheese.

‘Well, you know now,’ came the defensive reply, Blodwen wondering how it was that her daughter seemed able to read thoughts. ‘I told you last time you were home we’d been in touch.’

‘But not regularly. Are you having an affair with him – again, I mean?’

‘Affair! How can we have an affair with me here and him there? And as for again – well, since it never finished as far as I was concerned, you can call me an old fool.’

‘No, cariad, I’d never call you that. Do you remember once telling me that you can’t stop loving someone to order? Well, you were right.’ Lyn gazed at her plate. ‘I won’t ever stop loving Drew, so who am I to say you shouldn’t still love my father – though what you see in him is a mystery!’

‘But you’re not me, are you? And you might as well know we’re going to be married.’

‘Married! Then why didn’t he tell me when he wrote?’

‘Because he doesn’t know. He won’t have got my letter yet. But I reckon the time has come, now that our Fan is gone, God rest her, for him to make an honest woman of me.’

‘You’d propose to him?’ Lyn speared a forkful of lettuce with great concentration.

‘I would. I have. I wrote a while back, suggesting it. When I get his reply I’ll know if he still wants me.’

‘B-but what good would it do either of you?’ Lyn spluttered. ‘You just said it yourself; you’re here and he’s in Kenya.’

‘Not a lot at the moment, I’ll grant you that, our Lyn. But this war isn’t going to last for ever and I’ve always had a fancy for your father; never wanted anyone else.’

‘So you’d marry a man who was engaged to one woman and carrying on with another? Because that’s what he was doing!’

‘Yes, but it takes two to make love, merchi, and I didn’t say no to Jack even though he and my sister had named the day. And I couldn’t tell him about you being on the way because I didn’t know till they were married, and him gone to Kenya. So I’m not losing him again. As far as I’m concerned, I’d have him tomorrow if he’s willing. Can you understand?’

‘Yes, I can. I know that if Kitty Sutton ever ditched Drew I’d be there waiting, pride on my sleeve – damn fool me!’

‘Well, that’s the way it goes. There’s no pride in loving. And I’m sorry about your Drew.’ She pushed back her chair. ‘Oh, come you here and have a bit of a cuddle. Your Auntie Blod understands how it is and she’d give anything to see her girl happy.’

‘I know you would,’ Lyn sniffed. ‘And I’m glad you’re my mother. I truly am.’

Keth looked again at Gaston Martin’s cheap watch, then lay back on the narrow bunk, hands behind head. This cramped sleeping space was where he had spent the better part of four nights and three days since sailing from Loch Ardneavie. It stood to reason. A submarine was a tight ship to run and there was no room in all the clutter of wheels and tubes and wires and instruments for a wandering civilian.

Soon they would be there, off the French coast. Enemy-occupied France. HM Submarine Selene had brought him safely this far and in a few hours he would be put ashore.

He would be glad to see the last of this bunk; had endured near-claustrophobic conditions only because he knew they could not last and because each night the submarine would surface to recharge the batteries and listen-out for any signals bearing Selene’s call sign.

That was when the welcome rush of cold air filled the boat, replacing air gone stale; was when submariners walked the upper casing, filling their lungs with damp salt air.

Some remained within the confines of the conning tower to smoke the cigarettes forbidden them when submerged. Everyone kept a careful lookout for intruders; for swift enemy E-boats and reconnaissance aircraft. At such times, when it seemed they were the only beings on a never-ending sea, Keth would close his eyes and let the quiet of the night wash over him, his mind a blank.

Few spoke when Selene rode on the surface. Sound carried far at sea. Some believed you could smell a man sucking a peppermint almost a mile away or see the glow of a cigarette end.

Keth blinked into the darkness, trying to define where the horizon merged with the land mass. A scudding night cloud covered the moon and someone said softly, ‘That’s more like it.’ Moonlight was not always a friend.

‘How far away now?’ Keth asked of the First Officer.

‘Far enough, but until we take you in we’ll stay in water deep enough to dive in.’

Number One. That really was his name. Not Tom nor Dick nor Harry. Not even Sublieutenant Smith, or Jones. Everyone with whom Keth came into contact was nameless and he, in return, was called Captain. Best that way, he supposed. What Gaston Martin didn’t know he couldn’t tell.

‘Do you want to eat, sir?’

Keth shook his head. Lately, he hadn’t even thought about food. These few remaining hours his thoughts were of the pill hidden in the cuff of his shirt; that obscene, fifty-seconds death pill. He thought, too, about Omega, the safe and solid mother ship, far away now in Loch Ardneavie and to which, before so very much longer, Selene would return. Without him.

Dot-dash-dot. Dit-da-dit. The letter R flashed from the shore and to which, when he landed he would reply with four short flashes: H – his own sign. For Hibou, owl, Gaston Martin’s codename. Someone, code-named Hirondelle would meet him. Hirondelle, a swallow. He wondered who thought up codenames.

‘I think you should eat, Captain.’

‘Maybe you’re right.’ Best he should. Only God knew when his next meal would be – and where. Keth felt his way carefully down the conning-tower ladder, then made for the galley.

‘Fancy something hot, sir, or a sarnie?’

The sea cook spoke with a Liverpool accent and it made Keth think of Daisy.

‘Whatever is going, thanks.’ It would all taste the same.

‘Mustard on your beef?’ The cook was buttering large slices of bread.

‘Please.’ The man was trying to be kind, Keth thought; sorry for the poor stupid sod they would soon put ashore. Rather him than me, mate!

Keth carried the plate to his bunk. He would never forget this bunk nor the fuggy, blankety smell of it. It had been his womb and soon now they would cut the umbilical cord.

‘They’re looking after you, then?’ Selene’s skipper, wearing canvas pumps, creased trousers and a navy-blue sweater, appeared. ‘You’re okay?’

‘Fine.’ He was not fine.

‘We’ll go further inshore about midnight when the tide turns. A leading seaman will be in charge of the dinghy. You’ll take your orders from him. He’s all right – done it before.’

‘Good,’ Keth shrugged.

‘Sparks has just had a signal from your lot. Everything’s okay at this end. No problems.’

Keth thought about Castle McLeish and the stone house. Of course there would be no problems. How could there be? Slab Face did not tolerate problems.

‘You’ve got your stuff handy, Captain?’

‘Ready and waiting.’ One suitcase; one brown paper carrier bag.

‘And you’ll go through your pockets beforehand? No duty-free cigarettes …?’

‘I don’t smoke.’

‘Nor submarine lollies?’ The lemon-flavoured sweets a submariner sucked when cigarettes were forbidden.

‘Nothing at all like that, but I’ll check.’

‘I’ll leave you then. You’ll want to get your head down for a couple of hours.’

‘Might be an idea. Thanks a lot.’ Sleep? Oh, no!

Think of Daisy, then? No, no, no!

Think instead of dit-da-dit, and hibou and hirondelle; think of Gaston Martin and the leading seaman who had done it before.

He chewed on his sandwiches. They were tasteless and hard to swallow.

All at once, Keth wanted it to be midnight.

‘I thought you’d be alone.’ Julia offered a spoonful of tea in a twist of paper. ‘Tom home-guarding again? Put the kettle on, there’s a love.’

‘You on your own too? Is Nathan out then?’

‘About the Lord’s business. I suppose you’ve got to accept that when you marry a parish priest.’

‘Tell me,’ Alice arranged cups on a tray, ‘I’ve often wondered: what’s going to happen when the war is over – to you and Nathan, I mean? When he took holy orders he couldn’t have known he’d inherit Pendenys.’

‘No. Nor half of his mother’s money either. But when it’s all over and the Army give back Pendenys, I’ll worry about it. I couldn’t live there, not for anything!’

‘Drew’s going to want Rowangarth,’ Alice persisted.

‘I know. He and Kitty living there will make me feel better about leaving it. I suppose Nathan and I could live in the bothy – when the land girls go home,’ she said absently.

‘Had you thought –’ Alice filled the small earthenware pot, ‘there’ll be a second-generation Clan for you. Drew’s children, I mean, and Daisy’s.’

‘And Bas and his brood.’ Julia’s eyes took on a yearning look. ‘Coming over every summer and Christmas …’

‘Bas isn’t married yet. Give the lad a chance!’

‘He will be,’ Julia smiled smugly. ‘And talking about courting – Tilda’s got a follower!’

‘What? Our Tilda?’

‘Oh my word, yes! Name of Sydney. She met him in Catchpole’s garden. He’s with the Green Howards, guarding Pendenys – and he’s single, would you believe! His father was killed in the last war and he looked after his mother till she died two years ago.’

‘Then here’s to Tilda and Sydney.’ Alice raised her teacup. ‘She was always a romantic; always had her nose in a love-book, as Mrs Shaw called them. I’m glad for her – even if nothing comes of it. Tilda was very kind to me when I came home from France – till Miss Clitherow put her foot down, that was.’

‘But wasn’t everyone kind?’

‘Not exactly. I’d been a servant at Rowangarth, like themselves. You couldn’t blame them for being a bit wary – Miss Clitherow, especially. She put me very firmly in my place. I was no longer Alice Hawthorn; I was the future mistress of Rowangarth. But how is Miss C? Haven’t seen her lately.’

‘Her rheumatism is bad – and it’ll get worse when winter comes. When she came back from Scotland I thought she’d be just fine in one of the almshouses, but now I think she’ll be better staying at Rowangarth – after all, she’s got every right. She’s lived there longer than I have. But what news of Daisy?’

‘She’s fine. Had a letter this morning. Drew rang her. You’ll know Kitty has gone to London?’

‘Mm. Another for Sparrow to fuss over.’

‘Daisy was a bit puzzled. Said Keth’s letters are arriving all higgledy-piggledy; completely out of date order. But maybe some of them were posted in Kentucky, she thought.’

‘Probably. Amelia is always glad to see Keth. And I still think he’ll get home sooner than anyone expects.’

‘Doing a Jinny Dobb, are you?’ Alice laughed. ‘By the way, Daisy has written her first cheque! Made her go all over queer, she said.’

‘What did she buy?’

‘Nothing, it seems. She thought about all that money in the bank and nothing in the shops to buy, so she drew out five pounds; just about as much as the Wrens pay her in a month! She’s taking Lyn out when she gets back from leave, she says.’

‘I liked Lyndis,’ Julia murmured, ‘what bit I saw of her, I mean.’

‘But you like Kitty better?’

‘Kitty is adorable! I shall hand Rowangarth over to her with never a qualm.’ She jumped to her feet as the dogs outside set up a barking. ‘There’s Tom back, and just look at the time! Eleven o’clock.’

‘Watch the blackout, love,’ Alice called as Tom stomped into the kitchen in his army-issue boots. ‘And see Julia home, will you?’

‘No! I’ll be fine, thanks all the same. There’s an almost full moon tonight.’

‘Aye. It’s grounded the bombers. Bright as daylight, out there. But I’ll walk you as far as the wild garden, Julia.’ Tom didn’t hold with a woman walking alone in Brattocks Wood; not even when moonlight made a mockery of the blackout.

‘Mind the leaves.’ Tom offered his arm. ‘They’re falling thick and fast, now. It’s slippy underfoot, tonight.’

‘I wonder if that man in the moon knows there’s a war on.’ Julia looked upwards.

‘Not if he’s got any sense he won’t,’ Tom laughed, offering a hand as she climbed the stile. ‘Good night, lass.’

‘’Night, Tom.’ She reached on tiptoe to kiss his cheek then ran swiftly across the lawn, turning to wave as she reached the side door because she knew he would stand there until he saw her safely in. Briefly she closed her eyes.

‘Thank you, God,’ she whispered, ‘for Tom and Alice.’




10 (#ulink_dfde391a-210c-5116-8205-3e91cfb2a6dc)


‘Ten past ten,’ Daisy said as they stood outside Hellas House. ‘Shall I go in now, or shall we hang on till half-past?’

‘Not in any hurry, are you? I’d like a chat.’

‘We’ve been chatting all evening, Drew!’

‘Yes, but not about –’

‘Not about Lyndis? She’s on leave – but you know that.’

‘I know she’s on leave, Daiz. You wouldn’t be out with me otherwise.’

‘No. Not like the old days.’ Not when once he always took them both out, Daisy brooded, and Lyn had fallen badly for him. ‘Seems awful that you and I can’t meet as much as we’d like to, but I’ve got to think about Lyn’s feelings.’

‘I know. And I liked her a lot. If Kitty hadn’t happened along, I should think the three of us would still be going out together every time we dock.’

‘You’re missing Kitty, aren’t you? Poor love – I do know how it is. But London isn’t Washington. You’ll see her soon.’

‘On my next long leave, I suppose. Hope she can get time off. I’ll go to London if she can’t, though I’d rather go home to Rowangarth. I miss it, Daiz.’

‘Well, you can’t have it all ways! And surely ENSA will give Kitty leave? After all, you’ve got a wedding to arrange. But it’s Lyn you want to talk about, isn’t it? And you’d best be sharp; I’ll have to be in, soon.’

‘How is she, Daiz? I’m not so big-headed as to think she’ll have gone into purdah over me when she could have any bloke she wanted.’

‘Except Drew Sutton.’ Daisy set her mouth button-round.

‘I’m sorry about that. The Rowangarth Suttons seem good at it – falling heavily and suddenly, I mean.’

‘And what would have happened if Kitty hadn’t come along? Be honest, Drew.’

‘It would have been Lyn, I’m almost sure. There was something holding me back, though.’

‘Someone called Kitty. And Lyn didn’t just like you, Drew. She was mad about you. I think she still is, though she’s getting good at pretending she isn’t.’

‘I wouldn’t have hurt her, Daiz. Not for anything.’

‘You mean you wouldn’t have deliberately hurt her? I know that, but you did, Drew, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.’

‘You can be quite bossy when you set your mind to it!’

‘Sister’s privilege. And I’m as sad about it as Lyn is because I like Lyn and Kitty – and you, too, you great soft ha’p’orth. I’m piggy-in-the-middle, I suppose. But c’mon, bruv; give me a hug and a kiss.’

‘I’ve enjoyed tonight.’ He circled her in his arms, laying his cheek on hers. ‘Take care of yourself. See you.’

‘You too, Drew Sutton. When are you sailing?’

‘Morning tide. And remember to say hi to Keth for me, next time you write.’

‘I’ll do that. Careful how you go, sailor. Be lucky.’

She stood at the gate of Hellas House until he rounded the corner. He didn’t turn and wave. Sailors never did. They never said goodbye either.

Her eyes filled with tears; not for Drew nor Lyn nor Kitty but for herself, because she loved Keth so much and wanted him so desperately.

Take care of Keth, won’t you – and Drew? she pleaded silently. And God – when is this war going to end?

‘I really must get this lot cut.’ Tatiana wound strands of hair round her finger, pinning them flat to her head. ‘Yours suits you short, Kitty.’

‘Mm. Easy to look after, too. When you’re out on the road there never seems to be a hairdresser around.’

‘That’s because a lot of them have been called up,’ Tatiana laughed. ‘Shampooing hair isn’t regarded as war work exactly!’

‘Guess you’re right.’ Sighing deeply, Kitty lay back on her bed, hands behind head. ‘We’re going to Norfolk tomorrow, doing a show for the Air Force, there. Then after that we’ll be in Scotland. Some godforsaken place called Scapa.’

‘Scapa Flow. We’ve got a lot of ships, there.’

‘But not a minesweeper called HMS Penrose. Oh heck, Tatty! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve been trying like mad not to mention Drew. You know I wouldn’t hurt you for all the world, don’t you?’

‘I know. And, Kitty – I want you to talk about Drew. I don’t know how you can not talk about him. I used to talk to Daisy and Gracie all the time about Tim. They’d alibi me so I could meet him, you see.’

‘Y’mean you never took Tim home? Why ever not?’

‘Because Mother was like that. I suppose it’s the Russian in her; overprotective. And as for the Petrovska! Well, only a Romanov would have been good enough for me – if they’d never left St Petersburg, that is, and if that rabble hadn’t murdered the Czar-God-rest-him.’ She crossed herself devoutly, fluttering her eyelids, mimicking her grandmother. ‘But I wanted Tim the minute I saw him.’

‘Guess it was like that for Drew and me too. We’d grown up together – well, twice a year together, kind of – and then, after five years we meet at a crummy dockyard concert and Wham! Both of us! Suppose I realized it first. Drew was mad at me for showing too much. But what the heck – I was wearing a borrowed costume!

‘Guess there was a lot of me oozing out,’ she giggled, ‘but the other sailors just loved it! Drew was real mad at me, though, and said I was common, so I said I was sorry and all at once it came right.’

‘And was it marvellous, like for me and Tim?’

‘We-e-ll, Drew was a bit sniffy, but it was only because he didn’t like those sailors ogling me. In the end we went back to my digs. That was when we decided we’d fallen in love.’

‘And you stayed together all night?’

‘All night!’

‘Wish Tim and me could have.’

‘Poor Tatty. You never – not once?’

‘Yes, but not all night. I told him I loved him, but in Russian at first. Then we got to talking about me being too young to marry him and him thinking he mightn’t live long enough to wait for me – tail-gunners take a lot of flack, you know. Anyway, we decided it was going to happen between us and Tim said that when it did I wasn’t to worry. I wouldn’t have cared if I’d got pregnant though I suppose now it’s best I didn’t. When Tim was – was killed, my period was five days late, but it didn’t seem to register. I was too numb.’

‘You’d have been just fine, Tatty. The Clan would’ve stood by you.’

‘I know that. But imagine Mother trying to hide the shame of it in Holdenby – and as for Grandmother Petrovska! She’d have had me whipped! But Aunt Julia and Uncle Nathan would have been all right about it – I know they would. And I could have kept the baby. Grandfather Sutton left me Denniston House and some money, too.’

‘We were all very sad about Grandfather. When Aunt Julia wrote to tell us we just couldn’t believe it. Not so suddenly and cruelly, I mean. And we couldn’t get across for the funeral either. Pa was real cut up about it.’

‘Tim died the same night; probably about the same time, though it wasn’t Tim’s bomber that crashed on the village. It came down on the pike. I wish I knew how to ill-wish, Kitty. Those German pilots who shot up the aerodrome that night would be dead now if I could do it. D’you think I’m peculiar?’

‘Of course I don’t!’

‘The Petrovska thinks I am. She doesn’t like my Englishness. Uncle Igor is the better for knowing, though. We’ve got quite close lately. He told me things …’

‘What things?’ Kitty’s eyes sparked.

‘Oh, nothing like that!’ If only I could tell you, Kitty. If only I could tell anyone! ‘He told me things about living in St Petersburg before the revolution and the way life used to be for the rich. Sometimes I’m glad the Bolsheviks kicked them out!’

‘I reckon they call them Commies now,’ Kitty offered.

‘I know. But she still calls them Bolsheviks; the rabble, the great unwashed! I’m glad my mother married an Englishman, even though she wasn’t happy with him.’

‘She wasn’t?’ Kitty breathed. ‘Ooooh! Do tell.’

‘No! I mean – there’s nothing to tell. Not actually.’ Hell, she’d nearly let it slip! ‘What I meant was that she must have been unhappy, starting four babies and only me living. And it must have been awful, having Grandmother Clementina for a mother-in-law.’ Her cheeks burned. She must watch her tongue, in future! ‘But I don’t want to talk about them. Let’s talk about us and how glad I am you’re here, Kitty. It’s a shame you won’t be able to meet my airmen just yet.’

‘Your wounded pilots, you mean – the ones you take out?’

‘My burned aircrew, poor brave loves. Sam is getting over it a bit. He’s going to have hospital treatment soon; see if they can make him a new nose, he says – a better one.’

‘And the other one, Tatty?’

‘The other one – Bill – is the reason I can bear to talk about Tim; the reason why seeing you so happy with Drew doesn’t make me want to end it all.’

‘End it all! Gee, Tatty, don’t ever think of that!’

‘I wanted to, once. When I knew Tim really wasn’t coming back and after I realized I wasn’t going to have his baby. If there’d been a pill I could have swallowed – something not painful – I’d have taken it.

‘But now there’s Bill. I’m not in love with him – it’s nothing like that. But when I’m with him I can pretend he’s Tim. Bill’s got no features, really, and he was blinded. But his hair is like Tim’s hair and his accent, too. And he’s an air-gunner like Tim was.’

‘You mean that when you’re with him,’ Kitty breathed, ‘you act out a fantasy? Bill is Tim, really – is that what you’re trying to say? But, Tatty, that isn’t fair! Not to you nor to Bill! What if he falls in love with you? Or what if you fall in love with him?’

‘So you do think I’m peculiar? I knew you did!’

‘No I don’t, Tatty! I truly don’t! But what if your Bill is married, eh?’

‘He isn’t. He told me so. He hasn’t got parents, even. He’s got no one in the entire world! And now he’s blind! Well, at least he can’t see his poor face!’

Tears filled her eyes, then ran unchecked down her cheeks and Kitty was at her side in an instant, holding her tightly, rocking her, hushing her.

‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, Tatty. Heck, if only I could do something – anything! I can’t bear to see you like this! Please, honey, don’t upset yourself.’

‘I’m not upset. And I was fine till I told you. My own fault, I suppose, for even allowing myself to think Bill could be Tim. I tell myself that Tim is dead, but the minute I see Bill, hear his voice, take his arm – because he can’t see, so I have to – then it’s Tim I’m with. But sometimes I want him so much, Kitty, I feel real pain! He isn’t a prisoner of war, or even missing. He’s dead! It’s so cruel and uncaring and – and final!’

‘Tatty, what am I to say to you? There’s nothing I can do to help. I’d do it if I could. But if you want to go on with your fantasies, then I hope I’m there for you when the bubble bursts and you have to accept it isn’t Tim.’

Now Kitty was weeping but for whom she did not know. For Tatty, was it, and Tatty’s tearing grief? Or was it for herself, because she was too happy and couldn’t even begin to imagine how it would be if one day a telegram came to Rowangarth and Aunt Julia had to tell her? Oh, please not Drew.

They held each other tightly, then Tatiana pulled away, sniffing loudly.

‘You look a mess, Kitty Sutton. Your mascara’s run all down your cheeks. Serves you right for having mascara when we can’t get it in here!’

‘You look pretty rough yourself, Tatty. Guess we’d better wash our faces and powder our noses or Sparrow’s going to notice and you know what she can be like!’ Kitty forced a smile.

‘But you won’t tell Sparrow I was crying over Tim and don’t ever tell her about Bill, or her Joannie won’t let me do escort duties any more.’

‘I won’t tell. And I think you’re very brave, honest I do.’

‘So I’m no longer that brat Tatiana? And don’t deny it, I was a whinge. But that spoiled-rotten kid has grown up now and knows what she’s doing. Well, mostly she does. It’s just that at times like these she sometimes goes to pieces still.’

‘You can borrow my cold cream if you’d like,’ Kitty whispered, offering a pot. ‘Go on! It’s okay. I brought loads of make-up over with me.’

So Tatiana said thanks, she’d like that, and since her cousin was in such a generous mood, how about the loan of her dusky-rose lipstick next time she went out?

And Kitty laughed, relieved, and said, ‘Sure, honey. Anything you want! Be my guest!’

The Commanding Officer of HM Submarine Selene stood on the bridge within the conning tower, his first officer at his side. The stars were gone now, and drifts of low cloud streaked the horizon.

‘Everything close up, Number One?’

‘Yes, sir. Dinghy inflated. Crew at the ready.’ He lifted his binoculars, sweeping them from left to right and back again. ‘Seems quiet, over there …’

‘Yes.’ The CO did not like operations such as this. It was his first drop and he resented hazarding his boat, engines stopped, silhouetted against the skyline. Syrtis usually put agents ashore – knew how it was done. Apart from the seaman loaned from spare crew for the trip, no one on Selene had a clue about such things and he wondered why the SOE bod couldn’t have parachuted in!

Below, clinging to the running rail on the upper casing, one of Selene’s seamen held fast to the dinghy; beneath him a sailor climbed the ladder to the bridge, the SOE man at his heels.

‘Any questions, Leading Seaman?’

‘Thank you, sir, no. Think we’ll make for that far headland – get to the lee side of it.’

The headland cast a long, wide shadow and the sailor had done it all before, knew that there they could blend into shadows and the sea, on the lee of the jut of rocks, ran calmer.

‘Recognition signal R-Roger. Dit-dah-dit.’

‘Got it. Reply with H-Harry.’

‘All set, then?’ The submarine commander turned to Keth. ‘Climb over. I’ll pass your case to you. And the leading seaman is in command of the dinghy. Take your orders from him and don’t try to pull rank.’

‘I will – and I won’t. Thanks a lot, skipper.’ Keth offered a hand which was shaken firmly. ‘Best press on …’

His throat was dry as he arranged himself in the bows of the dinghy, his case wedged between his knees, arms clutching the bag of precious spares. He felt nothing; neither hope nor fear. He only knew his mouth made little clicking sounds as he pulled his tongue round his lips and his heart beat too quickly. He could feel its insistent thuds in his throat, his ears and behind his nose.

The leading seaman waited, paddle poised, on the port side of the fat, bouncing craft; a second seaman took his place beside him. From the conning tower came the hoarse whisper, ‘Good luck!’

Keth raised his hand in acknowledgement. The dinghy bucked as, at the push of a paddle, it left the submarine’s side.

Carefully, strokes matching, the paddles cut into the water with hardly a sound, a splash. Keth fixed his gaze on the submarine. He had felt acute discomfort so closely confined on board; now, as the vastness of sea and skyline opened up, he wanted nothing more than to be back in its claustrophobic safeness.

The paddles picked up speed, racing for the shadow on the far side of the headland. Keth sucked in a deep breath, then let it go in little huffs. The seamen knew what they were about.

They reached the shelter of the headland just as the cloud drifted away from the moon and the sea was again lit with silver. The two men breathed evenly, paddles lifting, slicing. The blur that had been France was sharper, darker, now. Keth wanted to cough and swallowed hard on it.

The paddling ceased and they floated in on the breakers to a scraping stop. The younger seaman jumped out, heaving the dinghy onto firm, wet sand, holding tightly to the mooring rope. The elder man reached for the battered case, leaning over to pass it out. Paper bag in hand, Keth swivelled round, then stepped ashore.

‘Thanks,’ he whispered.

‘We’ll wait,’ came the brief reply.

They stood unmoving, eyes ranging the dark of the landmass.

‘That’s it!’ The leading seaman pointed to a briefly flashing light.

Keth reached for his torch. His hand was shaking. He pressed four times on the switch.

‘Right, sir. They’re over there. Stay here, close to the rocks. The beach could be mined. They’ll know the way through if it is. They’ll fetch you. Good luck, Captain.’

Hands grasped his, then he was alone. The seamen dipped their paddles deep, straining against the incoming tide. Soon, they would be back on board Selene; back to the stifling, protecting closeness. Soon, the commanding officer would give the order to start engines and they would make for deeper, safer water – and home.

Keth stood very still, holding his breath then letting it go in a little hiss. Soon someone would take him to a safe house, and soon a signal would go out that Hibou had arrived and the whole thing would be set in motion. It might only take days, or a week, two weeks, but for Keth Purvis, the messenger, the risk was small compared to that of the men of the secret, hidden army of partisans.

Close ahead of him a light flashed briefly and he heard slow, measured footfalls on the sand. Then, to his left, from the shadow of a rock, a voice whispered, ‘Hibou?’

‘Oui. Hirondelle?’

‘You’ve brought them?’ The man picked up the carrier bag.

‘Spares.’

‘Good. Follow behind me.’

Keth walked unspeaking, case in hand, frowning because he had expected a Frenchman and not someone with the unmistakable accent of an English public school. He matched his steps to those of his companion, walking where he had walked, glancing left and right, wondering what next.

‘That’s better.’ Hirondelle stopped, listening, in the shelter of bushes that grew thickly on the edges of a wood. ‘We’ll wait,’ he said, squatting on the springy turf. ‘For your contact,’ he added, almost as an afterthought.

Keth nodded, taking his cue from the other man, speaking as little as possible, pushing his case beneath a low bush though he had no idea why.

They did not wait long. Keth saw the figure, walking quickly and without sound at the side of the path. Despite the darkness, he knew it was a woman.

He watched as she stopped, listening. Hirondelle reached for a twig, then snapped it. The woman began to walk again, eyes ranging the bushes.

‘Hirondelle?’ She stopped and Keth could see she wore short dark socks, and a dark skirt and jumper.

‘Natasha?’

He rose to his feet. Keth did the same, wondering in a surge of panic why they had sent someone so young; sent a girl of no more than fourteen to do the work of a man.

Keth held out his hand; hesitantly the girl took it.

‘I’ll leave you, then,’ Hirondelle said in French, picking up the carrier bag. ‘You know what to do?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered as the man crossed the path then slipped silently into the deeps of the wood.

‘One minute,’ she said softly, ‘then we go.’

‘Right.’ This was stupid. A slip of a girl sent to collect him! What were they about?

‘Sorry,’ she said as if she could read his mind. ‘The patrol went past ten minutes ago. They’ll not be back for an hour. Moonlit nights are not good …’

‘No.’ Keth wondered if Natasha was her real name or her codename. ‘Is it far?’

‘Half a mile inland. We’ll be all right,’ she urged.

‘Yes.’ All at once, Keth recalled a fourteen-year-old Daisy, and felt a sudden longing to protect the girl called Natasha. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Come,’ she ordered, still speaking in French. ‘We go to the village.’

She beckoned with her hand and Keth felt shame for his lack of trust, accepting the risk she was taking.

‘Okay. I’m with you,’ he smiled, and hearing that smile on his voice she turned, returning it tremulously.

They walked quickly across a clearing where recently trees had been felled, making for the denser cover of the woodland. Natasha did not speak but turned often to check he was following or to indicate that he walk on the grassy edge of the narrow path.

‘That is the village ahead,’ she said softly. ‘We can’t walk through the streets; someone might see us and there is a curfew in force.’

‘And they would tell?’

‘They would all tell,’ she shrugged, ‘or we must presume so. But some – just some – might inform. That is why we trust no one. We’ll go across the fields, away from the houses. Dogs might bark, you see …’

They did not cross the fields directly, walking instead in the cover of hedge shadows. Keth marked her fragility as a sudden slant of moonlight held her for a second; a child who should be at home with her mother.

‘This is it.’ She opened a gate and set dogs barking. ‘Sssh!’ She clicked her tongue to silence them. ‘They know me,’ she said briefly, beckoning him to follow her into the shelter of a shed. ‘We’ll wait a moment. You are to stay here with Madame Piccard – Tante Clara. She is a widow, and old. I live with her now.’

‘I see. Tell me,’ Keth whispered, ‘how old you are.’

‘I am sixteen – and a little bit – and I am an unimportant part of – of this, you understand?’

Keth nodded.

‘I carry messages, Hibou. Because I look so young, the soldiers do not suspect me.’

‘But how will your aunt explain me away?’

‘Don’t worry. She has already made it known she is expecting a man to dig her garden. And do I speak too quickly for you, Hibou? Do you understand what I say?’

‘Yes – but it would help if you could speak just a little more slowly.’

‘I will try to remember. And we will speak English, you and I – when it is safe, that is.’

‘Do your parents know what you are doing tonight?’

‘My parents,’ she whispered, ‘are Jewish. That is why I live here with Tante Clara. She is not my aunt and she is not Jewish. When the Germans invaded France, I was sent here from Paris, where we lived, to my mother’s old friend. But for a year now there has been no word from Paris and we think my parents have been – taken.’

‘They’re in prison? And don’t you worry too that you might be arrested?’

‘Not prison. I think they are dead. And I don’t worry too much. I am dark, but I was not born Jewish. I am an adopted child and my nose is small and tilted. It would pass the test.’

‘Test? What is that?’

‘You do not know? People suspected of being Jewish have their noses measured. The Germans have a special instrument for doing it. It’s true! And may God bless the woman who gave me my nose!’

‘So Jews really are treated badly by the Nazis?’

‘Not badly, Hibou; like dirt. I feel I shall never see my parents again. It is why I do all I can to help.’

‘But you are too young to get involved, Natasha.’

If my nose had been a different shape, I would not be too young to be gassed, and my body burned. Ssssh!’ she hissed as heavy footsteps trod the path; footsteps which paused briefly, then went on.

They stood still, breath indrawn, then heard the low muttering of an old voice, speaking to the dogs.

‘It is all right. It is Madame,’ Natasha whispered. ‘She wears boots …’

The footsteps returned and stopped again. ‘Are you there, child?’ The women peered into the darkness.

‘Yes. And he’s here.’ Natasha stepped out of the shadows.

‘Come inside.’ The woman clumped down the path. ‘You are late, Monsieur. I expected you days ago.’

‘I am sorry, Madame Piccard. I had to wait for my papers.’

‘But you’ve got them? They’re in order?’ she demanded sharply.

‘All in order.’ Keth reached in his inside pocket but she held up her hand.

‘No matter. I know who you are, M’sieur Martin.’

‘Perhaps if you could speak more slowly, Tante …’ Natasha hesitated.

‘Of course. He is hard of hearing. I forgot.’ She shaped her mouth round her words as if she really believed Gaston Martin’s deafness, then walked to the hearth, lifting a pan from the hob, stirring it slowly. ‘There is soup, M’sieur, and bread. You will eat?’

‘If you can spare it, please.’ All at once the tension of the past days left him. Here, in this low-ceilinged, lamp-lit kitchen, Keth felt almost safe.

‘What we have, we share. You are welcome.’

‘I have ration cards and, Madame, am I to be told where I am?’

‘You haven’t told him?’ she asked of Natasha.

‘No.’

‘And They did not tell you?’

‘No, Madame. Just that I would be met and brought to a safe house.’

‘Then you are in Clissy. It is as well you know, since you came here by train!’

‘Of course!’ He smiled across the table and Natasha smiled in return with the mischief of Kitty’s smile, he thought in amazement. Kitty, in the summer of ’thirty-seven, with long, black, bobbing curls; hair as black as his own.

He glanced down at his bowl as Madame Piccard and Natasha murmured a grace, then blessed themselves before picking up their spoons. And because he was now Gaston Martin, Keth imitated their actions.

Gaston Martin, he insisted silently. He must tell himself again and again that Keth Purvis was a long way away in Washington. And while he was here in Clissy, he must not allow himself to think of Daisy, because Gaston Martin would not think of her.

He did not even know she existed.




11 (#ulink_073e8f8a-afa3-562b-b098-46fecb525284)


‘So, Anna, they still hold out at Tsaritsyn.’ Olga Petrovska turned off the wireless. ‘The Bolsheviks are putting up something of a fight – at last!’

‘Something! Mama, the Luftwaffe bombed the city almost to the ground. They left little standing, yet the Russians are fighting for every ruin, every cellar; even for heaps of rubble! And when they have no guns, they fight with pickaxes and petrol bombs – women, too!’

‘Ah, yes.’ The Countess picked up her embroidery frame. ‘I read in Picture Post that Nazi soldiers are becoming afraid of the Russians. They are calling them men possessed – devils. Hitler has lost a quarter of a million men. Those Bolsheviks in Tsaritsyn have one ambition, it seems; to kill at least one Nazi each day, every day.’ She jabbed her needle viciously.

‘That is gruesome and horrible! Not all those soldiers are Nazis. Many are decent boys like Drew and Bas! And you must not call it Tsaritsyn. It is Stalingrad. It has been Stalingrad for nearly twenty years.’

‘Indeed? So those soldiers who try to take Tsaritsyn are changing their tune now. They were all fervent Nazis when the war was going well for them and no country stood up to them!’

‘And you, Mama, had not one good word to say for the Communists, yet now you side with them!’

‘I do, Anna, because they are defending Mother Russia. And if they rid it of those arrogant Huns, I will accept they have earned their right to my country.’

‘Even though you will never see our home again – nor Peterhof?’

‘Even though. And I would be proud, Aleksandrina Anastasia Petrovska, to be fighting alongside those women in Petersburg and Tsaritsyn.’

She said it softly, almost as though it were a whispered prayer and it gave Anna the courage to say, ‘Then you will approve of what I am going to do this morning.’

‘Try me.’

‘I – I’m going to Creesby, with all the other women whose surname begins with R or S, to register at the Ministry of Labour. All women of my age have to do war work now.’

‘I see. You will work on munitions or some other demeaning thing! You, a countess born, who has no need to work!’

‘I have every need, Mama. And my Russian title counts for nothing here. I am Mrs Sutton. I was glad enough to come to England to safety so now I can’t refuse England.’

‘It is preposterous! First Tatiana and now you! Those people seem to think they can do as they wish!’

‘They can, Mama. They do! There’s a war on, remember.’

‘Ha! A Petrovska in a factory! Have you seen those munitions workers? They go yellow!’

‘I’ve seen them. Their work is dangerous. They must wear special soft shoes and cover up wedding rings with tape – nothing to make a spark, you see. I hope they don’t send me to that kind of war work.’

‘They had better not! They will hear from me if they do!’

‘They would take no notice, Mama. This is everybody’s war and we must all help to fight it. Drew is fighting, and Daisy and Bas – and Tatiana is in London, braving the bombing.’

‘You owe this country nothing! Your loyalty must first be to Russia, where you were born!’

‘So what would you have me do, then? Will I stow away on a ship going to Archangel? And will I tell them - if I get there safely, that is – that I am the Countess Aleksandrina Anastasia Sutton, daughter of the late Count Peter Petrovsky of the bourgeoisie and have come to make Molotov cocktails to throw at the Germans! Oh, Mama …’

‘Do not be flippant! I can see now where your daughter gets her impudence from!’

‘I’m sorry – truly I am!’ Anna hastened, because her mother’s bottom lip had started to quiver, which heralded either a prolonged burst of weeping or a fit of rage, guaranteed to bring on a migraine. She dropped to her knees beside her mother’s chair, taking her hands. ‘I’m sorry for your Russia and all the poor people there, but now we live in England, and I must work. I’ve no say in the matter. But they can’t send me away from my home because I am a married woman – and married women are not directed into the armed forces.’

‘What about married women with children – you have a child, Anna Petrovska!’

‘My child is nearly grown up. Only women with a child under fourteen years are allowed to stay at home now. Women of my age are being sent to fill jobs to free younger, single women for the armed forces. Almost any useful job will do, as long as I work.’

‘So what is there for you to do in Holdenby, will you tell me, please?’

‘We-e-e-ll, I could help Winnie on the telephone exchange, or I could work at Home Farm or I could – could … Oh dear, there isn’t a lot I could do locally, is there? But I’m sure there will be work in Creesby. The Labour Exchange will tell me where to go, and I’m sure they will bear in mind that our bus service isn’t very frequent and that I don’t get enough petrol coupons to drive there every day. But I mustn’t complain; not when the young ones risk their lives every day.’

And night, too, she thought for no reason at all – except that she was thinking for the first time with real compassion of a young air-gunner who had been given no choice. And of Tatiana, far away in London, who loved him still.

Keth lay down the axe, pausing to wipe his forehead, closing his eyes, breathing deeply on the salt air that blew in cooling gusts.

It was difficult to believe after all the frustrations and delays that he was actually here at Clissy-sur-Mer, less than half a mile from the coast, doing something as safe and ordinary as chopping logs. Then he smiled because it was a long time since he’d chopped logs at Rowangarth bothy.

The breeze was welcome. In all the turmoil of getting here, not once had he given thought to the fact that so much further south it would be warmer. And had times been normal, he supposed that this part of France would have been a holiday resort.

‘Hullo.’ He looked up, smiling, as Natasha walked towards him carrying a fat, earthenware mug of coffee.

‘Good morning, Hibou – or now I think I should call you Gaston. You are honoured. There is very little coffee in the shops, so don’t expect it every day. The Boche takes most of it, just as they think they have the right to all the wine the château produces.’

‘But they don’t get it, of course?’

‘No. M’sieur at the big house sees to it that we locals have our fair share. Tante Clara left me to sleep in this morning because I was up late last night.’

‘And you have missed school?’

‘Ha! I left school a year ago. Book-learning isn’t important at this time.’

‘It was when I was sixteen,’ Keth scolded.

‘Really? Well, as far as I am concerned, school is a waste of time; learning to stay alive is not!’ She went to sit on the chopping block, arranging her skirts prettily.

‘Where is Madame?’

‘Gone to the village to buy your food and to let it be known, I suppose, that her hired help has arrived.’

‘Is that wise, Natasha – and should we be talking like this in the open?’

‘It would be unwise not to let them know you have come. Why shouldn’t they know Tante Clara’s gardener is here? Now, if they walk by and see a stranger, no one will think anything about it.

‘And talking out here is safe enough. The dogs would bark if anyone came.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘This place is a good walk from Clissy. It is why They decided it should be a safe house.’ She touched her nose with a warning forefinger.

‘Who are They?’

‘If I knew I wouldn’t tell you; but I don’t know. There are many people around here who – help, but it wouldn’t do for me to know them.’

‘The Nazis wouldn’t suspect a child?’

‘They would. And when they looked at my papers they would see I wasn’t as childish as I look! But this far they’ve left me alone.’

‘Aren’t you afraid, Natasha?’ All at once Keth remembered the pill in the cuff of his shirt.

‘Of course I’m afraid. It would be stupid not to be. But I don’t intend to go the way of my mother and father.’

She said it with such matter-of-factness that he wondered how anyone so young could have known so much heartbreak.

‘But you know who I am, Natasha, and that Madame Piccard hides people like me, for instance. What about Hirondelle?’

‘Hirondelle? Before last night I hadn’t seen him and I doubt I will see him again. You brought something for Hirondelle, I suppose?’

‘I was told someone would be waiting for the bag.’ Now Keth was wary.

‘There you are then. Next time that man comes out of hiding he will have a different codename. No one knows more than two people at the most. Until you came, Tante Clara was the only other contact I knew. Here in France people like us don’t play games. It is all very serious, though I’m not important. Anyone could be a messenger,’ she said scathingly. ‘I know very little and I like it that way. The less I know, the less I can tell them.’

‘But how would you explain being here, at Clissy, if you were stopped and asked for your papers?’

‘My papers are false, like yours. It wouldn’t do to have a Jewish name on them. My parents took care of it all long before I was sent here. They knew, you see, what would happen to them eventually. And when France was invaded, they sent me to Tante Clara at once. We heard, later, there had been a search in Paris and that every foreign-born Jew was taken away. After that, I had no more letters from them. They probably went to Belsen. I think it is one of those places; killing places.’

‘Natasha! How can you talk like this?’

She rose, shrugging, throwing logs into the wheelbarrow.

‘My papers say I lived at Dunkirk, not Paris, and if anyone asked they would be told my parents were killed there at the time of the evacuation of your army, Gaston. Many civilians were killed there.’

‘Yes.’ He had been in America at the time.

‘It’s strange, but I have had three names in my life. The name I was born with, the name I was given when I was adopted and the name on the papers I use now. The first I do not know. I wasn’t told until the war started that I was an adopted child. When I asked about my parents all they would tell me was that my father was unknown and my mother’s name was Natasha.

‘It’s why I used it when I met you; it is the only name you will know me by. It is unlikely you will get into conversation with anyone from Clissy – you won’t be here long enough – but if you do, you must refer to me as Madame Piccard’s niece.’

‘Very well. But how can you be so blasé about it all? How can you bear to talk about your parents without –’

‘Without breaking down; without weeping?’ She lifted her shoulders in an unchildlike gesture. ‘Because although I tell myself they are dead, I refuse to weep for them until I know for certain they are.

‘When I was three months old, I was adopted. I had black hair and brown eyes – Jewish colouring even if my nose was not kosher. I was reared in the Jewish faith, though now, of course, it is wisest I worship with Tante Clara. She belongs to the Roman Church, and believes in miracles. It is why she thinks I should pray to St Jude. He’s the patron saint of lost causes, you see.’

She said it without bitterness, wheeling the barrow to the woodshed beside the gate, back stiff, head high and he ran after her.

‘I’ll help you stack them, Natasha!’

She turned and smiled – to let him see she was not crying, he supposed – and for the second time since their meeting he felt a wash of tenderness for her. Had he had a sister, he thought, she would probably have looked like Natasha. The same dark hair and eyes as his. Funny, that, when you thought about it.

‘Pass them to me. I’ll pile them up. I’m good at it. When I was sixteen, I always chopped the logs at home. But tell me,’ he felt safer talking to her within the confines of the shed, ‘you said “every foreign-born Jew”. Where were your parents born?’

‘My adoptive parents? In Russia. In Moscow. They got out before the Czar was shot and came to Paris to live. I think my natural mother was Russian, too, her name being Natasha, I mean. She went to the nuns to have me but that’s all I know, except that I was born in Paris.’

‘I know someone who had to leave Russia,’ Keth offered. ‘Were your parents rich, then?’

‘No, though I suppose you might have called them middle class. My Jewish mother was a milliner – had her own shop she told me – and my father was a musician. Most of what they had was taken. What they could carry away helped them bribe their way out of Russia. They never had children so they adopted me,’ she said softly, sadly. ‘I can tell you no more. I would like to know about you, Gaston Martin, but I won’t ask, though I think you were born in the country, the way you can use an axe,’ she smiled as Keth began splitting logs again.

‘The country,’ he nodded.

‘And your French? Where did you learn that?’

‘In school, and then by speaking it to a governess. Not my governess,’ he added hastily. ‘I have no father, and my mother isn’t well off. If I see this war through, though, I’ll make sure she never wants.’

He turned sharply as the dogs began their barking and Natasha ran to the gate, smiling. ‘It’s Tante Clara!’

‘So! You have got yourself out of bed,’ Madame Piccard admonished. ‘Here – take my shopping into the house and be careful of the eggs!’ Then turning to Keth she said, ‘You, too, M’sieur. The kitchen, if you please.’

She clattered down the path, then closed the door behind them, taking off her hat.

‘They know you are here – or they will before so very much longer.’

‘They?’

‘The people who are expecting you. I mentioned in the boulangerie that my gardener had arrived. That was all I needed to do. Now it will go down the line and you will be contacted.’

‘How, Madame?’ Excitement beat in Keth’s throat.

‘How do I know? You must learn not to ask questions. You will not be given what you came for until your way out has been planned. It takes time. Be patient – and meantime do what you came to do – tidy my garden and dig over the vegetable plot! I hope you can use a spade, too?’

‘I can. But how will I recognize my contact?’

‘I don’t know yet. Perhaps tomorrow, when I go to buy more bread, someone there will tell me. You must learn to wait for things to happen.’

‘Patience,’ Keth smiled, because he liked Clara Piccard in spite of her brusque way of speaking; appreciated, too, the risk she ran taking him in. ‘I’ll chop the wood first, then get on with the digging. And, Madame,’ he said as he opened the door, ‘thank you.’

‘Ha!’ The elderly woman made a dismissive gesture with her hand. ‘Your thanks are not needed – and anyway, I do it because I hate Germans. They killed the man I married in the last war. Just a few weeks a wife – I didn’t even have the joy of a child. What little I do is for my Henri. He would want me to.’

Keth closed the door gently. Tomorrow, they might know more. Things were moving and of course, he conceded, plans took time. Messages to be passed, London to be contacted. Here, in occupied France, a wireless operator must always be on the move; must never transmit twice from the same place. He, who knew more than most about the interception of signals, knew that detector vans were always vigilant, hoping to home in on an operator.

He wondered if the valves he had carried were now in use, and, more soberly, if some secret armourer had been able to repair the firing mechanism of two pistols.

Keth looked down at his right hand and the blister already forming there. A long time since he chopped logs, he smiled wryly, wrapping his handkerchief around his hand.

He took up the axe again, thinking that the first day was almost over – day one to be crossed off his mental calendar, his first day as Gaston Martin. To forget that identity, even for one unguarded moment, could cost him his life. And the lives of others.

He raised the axe then swung it with such force that the log splintered into two at the first stroke and flew in opposite directions.

It made him think of the morning the letter came telling him he was not to be given a free place at university. That day he had chopped wood; slammed the anger out of himself.

Yet that was in another life, another country. Now, Gaston Martin chopped wood in a French cottage garden. And waited.

‘Mrs A. A. Sutton?’ called the clerk at the Ministry of Labour office in Creesby.

‘Aleksandrina Anastasia,’ Anna smiled as she walked to the desk. ‘Quite a mouthful, isn’t it?’

‘But lovely names. Unusual.’ The clerk returned the smile.

‘Russian.’ Anna sat opposite at the desk, pulling off her gloves.

It’s Mrs Sutton of Denniston House, near Holdenby? You’ll forgive me for interviewing you immediately you registered, but I have a job I think might suit you; one which wouldn’t entail too much travelling. Do you know a Dr Pryce?’

‘Ewart? But of course! He’s our family doctor.’

‘He’s desperate for help.’

‘B-but I’m not – well, medically minded. I wouldn’t be very good with sick people, I’m afraid.’

‘It’s a clerk and general factotum he needs. He told me he’s given up all hope of ever getting a partner, the way things are, and he does have the district nurse to help ease things. It’s more someone to organize appointments he needs, send out the accounts, and most important, he said, be there when the phone rings. The work would be confidential, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

‘N-no. But do you think I’ll suit? I’m afraid I don’t know a lot about anything.’

‘Whatever work you take – and the Government expects you to take work – might be a little strange, at first. Your details say you have no children.’

‘Not small children. Just Tatiana, and she’s in London.’

‘Then won’t you at least think about working for Dr Pryce? I’m sure you would fit in well.’

‘All right! If he’s willing to give me a try – I’ll do my best.’

‘Then better than that you can’t do.’ The clerk was already filling in a green card. ‘If Dr Pryce decides to take you on, will you ask him to complete this card, and return it to us?’

‘And if I don’t suit?’

‘Then he’ll fill in the appropriate section and return it just the same. We’ll fit you in somewhere else then.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna rose to leave. ‘What would my hours be?’

‘Full time, almost. Eight until four in the afternoon or nine until five. Half an hour for lunch. Sundays off and every alternate Saturday. Your wages you would agree between you. Good luck, Mrs Sutton.’

Later, at Creesby terminus, Anna sat on the bus, waiting for it to start. Already she had decided not to get off at the crossroads but to go on into the village and call on Ewart Pryce. It would have made more sense, she supposed, to ring for an appointment, but the more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea.

It would be her first job. Imagine! Well turned forty, and never been out to work. It made her feel useless; a lily of the field. But Tatiana seemed to be doing well in London; why then shouldn’t Anna Sutton have a job, too?

Ewart was a friend as well as her doctor; she knew he would be a reasonable and kind employer. And she had no choice, did she? It was either the surgery on the Creesby road, or work as a bus conductress or perhaps in munitions. She might even be sent to work in the chip shop! Only one thing was certain: under the Emergency Powers Act she was now required to work, so why not for someone she knew and liked? And being away from Denniston would be a relief from her mother’s demands, though just to allow so unfilial a thought made her blush.

She had pleased – obeyed – her parents; she had married and tried to please and always obey her husband. Now she was a widow and tried to please a society which demanded a strict code of conduct from a woman alone.

But the Government said she must work and it might be rather nice, being at the surgery with most of the patients people she knew. And imagine leaving Denniston in the morning and not returning until late afternoon! She could cycle there, too; no waiting for buses!

The more she thought about her new-found key to freedom, the more giddy she became. She was still high on a cloud when she pressed the bell of Ewart Pryce’s front door.

‘Anna!’ It was opened almost at once. ‘Business or pleasure?’

‘Were you asleep? Did I waken you?’

‘I was just catching forty winks, but I’ll put the kettle on. Have you time for a cup of tea?’

‘This isn’t a social call, but I’d love a cup of tea. And I’m not ill either, so you can wipe the concerned expression off your face.’

‘So tell me,’ he said as they settled themselves at the kitchen table.

‘I believe you want a clerk to work in the surgery and take phone messages.’

‘Y-yes …?’

‘We-e-ll, the Labour Exchange sent me and I’m willing to try, if you are.’ She rummaged in her handbag, cheeks burning, for the card.

‘You mean – but Anna!’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘This is marvellous!’

She knew, even as she offered him the green card, that the job was hers. Now all that remained was to tell her mother.

Clara Piccard swished the curtain over the staircase door, then pulled her chair closer to the fire.

‘The nights are getting colder,’ she remarked. ‘Not the days, just yet, but the nights …’

‘Natasha is asleep?’ Keth stirred lazily, shifting his stockinged feet on the hearth.

‘She had little sleep last night, and after all she is still only a child.’

‘A very brave child. She told me about her parents. Do you think she will ever see them again?’

‘I don’t know. It is in God’s hands. I’m glad her mother sent her to me. I was alone and lonely. The child has made a difference to my life.’

‘But isn’t it strange,’ Keth pressed, ‘that you should know her family – Jewish, and Russian, and you of a different faith and nationality?’

‘Not strange, exactly. When the last war ended I was nursing in Paris. A refugee was brought in, ill with pneumonia and he was in my ward. He and his wife were lonely and bewildered; I was lonely, and bitter. We became friends. They took a small apartment near mine, then from somewhere they adopted Natasha. I loved the little thing. She called me Tante Clara.

‘Two years before this war started I retired and spent my savings on this little place. There were rumours, even then, of war and about terrible things happening to Jewish people in Germany. We decided that if those things should ever happen in France, then I was to take the child.’

‘And now you both help people like me?’

‘We do what we can. I dream, M’sieur, of the day we wait at Clissy station and those two lovely people get off the train. I fear they never will, but still we pray. Are you hungry?’

‘Not particularly, thanks.’

‘The fire is red; I thought to make toast. We never have butter on our toast now, but I have some apricot preserve left from the days when there was sugar to be had. And I need an excuse to go into Clissy in the morning.’

‘Visit the boulangerie?’

‘Exactly.’

Clara Piccard did not cut bread for toast. The urgent knocking on the back door caused her to lay down the knife.

‘Ssssh!’ she said sharply, listening.

There followed three sharp taps on the window, then three more.

‘It’s all right.’ She turned down the paraffin lamp. ‘Stay where you are. Who is there?’ She opened the door.

‘It’s Bernadette.’ A woman with a shawl over her head pushed her way into the room.

‘Who is he?’ the visitor demanded.

‘You know who he is, woman! I told you a man was coming to work in my garden!’

‘I have something to tell you, Clara.’

‘Then tell it. Gaston is deaf. He was a soldier and the big guns did things to his eardrums. You’ve been listening to the wireless, Bernadette?’

‘Yes. The news from the BBC. It seems there is all hell let loose for the Boche in North Africa. A barrage of shells such as this war has never known. I thought you should know.’

‘And that is all?’

‘Isn’t it enough? Now Hitler is getting it on all sides! I’ll listen to the next broadcast.’

‘Then be careful, Bernadette Roche!’

‘What did she say?’ Keth asked when they were alone again.

‘You didn’t hear?’

‘I did, but she spoke too quickly for me. Something has happened?’

‘In North Africa. I have no wireless because I have no electricity. Sometimes I think it is as well. But Bernadette has one – in spite of the fact they are forbidden. She hides it and only brings it out for broadcasts from London.’

‘What if she were caught?’

‘Then someone else would listen. It is essential we do. London sends coded messages for – people, as well. But tonight they tell that there is a great offensive in North Africa and, for once, the Allies seem to have the upper hand!’

‘That’s wonderful news!’ Keth gasped. ‘Do you still have need to visit the bread shop tomorrow?’

‘I do!’

‘Then all at once I am hungry for toast and apricot jam!’

‘So! You are home – at last!’ Olga Petrovska wore her hurt face. ‘You have been out all day and not a living soul do I speak to! Where have you been, all this time?’

‘I’ve been to Creesby, Mama!’

‘That was this morning!’

‘Registering for war work takes time. And I called on Julia.’ She had, but only briefly.

‘Then you will have heard the six o’clock news?’

‘No! What’s happened? I left Rowangarth just before six, and walked home.’

‘There is a battle in the north of Africa. They didn’t say where, but Hitler’s tanks are being pushed back! And serve him right, too, for starting the war!’

‘Have there been heavy losses?’

‘That they didn’t tell us, but I hope many Germans were killed.’

‘Mama! Please don’t! Our soldiers – their soldiers; most of them are young men like Drew and Bas and Keth! Don’t hope for anyone to be killed. Bad thoughts can rebound on the sender!’

‘So you want me to be sorry Germans are being killed when killing is the only way to end a war!’

‘Mama – please …’ Anna closed her eyes wearily. ‘I’m hungry. Have you made anything to eat?’

‘I have not!’

‘Then it will have to be a cheese sandwich and leftover soup. And I’m sorry, Mama, but you’re going to have to learn to look after yourself. I’ve got a job, you see.’

‘So it has come to this! Peter Petrovsky’s daughter in a factory!’

‘No. There was work for me in Holdenby after all. Ewart Pryce needs help at the surgery. I start on Monday.’ She said it almost defiantly.

‘So you not only called at Rowangarth, but at the doctor’s house as well? Never a thought for your mother! And had you realized, Anna, the doctor is a single man!’

‘And I am a widow – and there’s a war on, had you thought?’

‘Is a single man,’ the Countess insisted. ‘What will they say in the village – you and he in that house alone!’

‘I – I don’t …’ Anna shook her head. What was she to say in answer to such an outdated, rather nasty insinuation? ‘I’ll put the soup on,’ she said wearily, quietly closing the door behind her, leaning against it, eyes closed.

Then she set her jaw and marched to the kitchen, holding tightly to her breath because if she did not she would explode! How could her mother cling so tenaciously to the past? Would she never realize that in a country at war everyone was equal; that every man, woman and child was a number on an identity card and without that card no one could buy the food allowed each week in the same exact amounts? War was a great leveller, yet Olga Petrovska lived on the banks of the River Neva still, and spent every summer at Peterhof. And in her faraway dreamings the Czar-God-bless-him still ruled and all was well with her world.

Anna reached for the cheese-grater. The cheese ration seemed to go further if you grated it. Absently she spread margarine thinly on four slices of bread, then set two trays, prettily, the way her mother liked it to be.

Well, whatever her mother said, now, she was going to work! For three pounds a week! Out there was someone who rated her capabilities highly enough to pay her a wage. It was a pleasing prospect, she thought as she carried her mother’s tray to the sitting room.

‘Alice – Mrs Dwerryhouse – has been given war work, Julia told me,’ Anna smiled, in control again.

‘But she already war-works! She sells saving stamps for the war effort and helps run the Mothers’ Union! And she has given her daughter to fight in the Navy! What more do They want of her?’

‘Alice is to work for Morris and Page, that nice shop in Harrogate. Daisy once worked there, in the counting house.’

‘And what is Mrs Dwerryhouse to count?’

‘Alice is to work there Mondays and Thursdays – doing alterations. She was a dressmaker, remember? The rest of the week they will phone her if anything urgent comes in. Julia thinks she will only be busy when the sales are on. People can’t buy a lot of clothes now. Alice is quite pleased about it, I believe. Part time will suit her nicely and the Labour Exchange has agreed to it.’

‘How old is Mrs Dwerryhouse?’

‘A little older than me and a little younger than Julia, I believe. She registered a week ago with the C to Fs.’

‘She gets part-time work yet you, Anna Petrovska, land yourself with a full-time position.’

‘You are right, Mama!’ Anna said as if she had only just thought of it. ‘But we must take what we are given and not complain.’ She hoped her feelings did not betray her because all at once she was looking forward to starting work at the surgery. ‘I must try to remember what Daisy once said when she joined the Wrens; that if anything I can do will shorten the war by even an hour, then I must do it, whether I want to or not.’

She looked down at the tray on her knees to hide the pleasure in her eyes. She hoped she didn’t sound as smug as she felt.

‘After all, Mama,’ she said softly, ‘we must never forget there’s a war on!’




12 (#ulink_b0efb66c-228e-5f2d-9c75-36a2d40f212f)


A war that brought Gaston Martin into her life, into her garden, could not be all bad, thought Madame Piccard.

Her woodshed was full in readiness for the cold weather; her paths had been weeded and wayward shrubs and bushes cut back. Each day when Bernadette came to share the good news the BBC was sending to France, she commended Gaston’s hard work, wishing sniffily that her Denys was as good with a spade. But Bernadette’s husband sometimes disappeared for days on end and she had more sense than to ask where he had been.

‘The Boche is finished in Egypt,’ she announced on her last visit. ‘I thought you would like to know.’

‘You’ll get us all into trouble, listening to that wireless,’ Tante Clara grumbled, though she suspected it was not only news broadcasts Bernadette and her man listened in to. ‘What else did it say?’

‘That Italians and Germans are surrendering in their thousands and that Spitfires and food have got through to Malta, at last. But I must go, make a meal for Denys.’

‘He’s back, then? Beats me where that husband of yours gets to. Has he got a mistress?’

‘Tante Clara,’ Natasha scolded when their neighbour had left, nose in air, ‘that wasn’t kind. Perhaps Denys can’t tell anyone where he goes. For all we know, he may be –’

‘Child! How many times must I tell you that we don’t know




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