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‘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?’
