by Jan Casey
Making the most of the last hour or so before the blackouts needed to be drawn, she parted the curtains and looked down on Tottenham Court Road. So many people out and about and not all of them hurrying to and from work; they looked too happy and excited for that to be the case. The war had not deterred people from having a good time, quite the opposite – it seemed to have boosted their capacity for amusement, especially in London. Look at all of them, she thought, walking with great determination to who knows where to meet who knows whom to do who knows what. A woman on the opposite side of the street threw herself into the arms of a man in uniform who returned her public display of affection without any sign of chagrin. In fact, if his roaming hands and dappy grin were anything to go by, he was relishing the attention. When they drew apart, they linked arms so tightly it was difficult to tell one of their ashen-coloured coats from the other. A group of girls laughed their way in the other direction, flipping their hair and flinging their hips from side to side as three American soldiers gave them the once-over.
Sighing, Viola stepped back from the window and into the dull room. She had recently finished Faro’s Daughter by Georgette Heyer and the next book waiting for her was Frenchman’s Creek, Daphne du Maurier’s latest. Or she could reread the partially completed thesis Fred had left behind in his Cambridge rooms. She knew all the idiosyncrasies of his writing; his rhythms and cadences and turns of phrase and having the manuscript close at hand gave her much comfort. But she’d read through it, corrected and edited it so many times that she wasn’t sure she could face it again. Not tonight.
She wondered where all those happy young people were going. Dancing, she supposed. That was all the girls at work seemed to talk about. Even Lillian, who Viola had never before heard mention a waltz or a foxtrot or a jive, regularly joined one or other of their many colleagues on a dancing night out. They had persuaded her to join them once or twice and the music was good, but the endless garrulous talk about who was dancing with whom and who they hoped to dance with and who had the best footwork and who had asked for whose address did not interest her in the least. Lillian said it was because she was so faithful to Fred. Well, of course she was and that made her feel guilty when she did agree to dance with a few select young men who asked.
Viola remembered a gangly man with fleshy earlobes who took her for a twirl after asking three times. Afterwards, he bought her a drink and they stood together at the bar. There were a few grey hairs at his temples and his hands were clean and looked strong. ‘I work in the War Department,’ he said. ‘In a reserved role. For now. And you?’
Viola put her finger on her closed lips and said, ‘Shhh.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He nodded to let her know he understood she could say no more.
Then, before he could waste any more time or money on her, she thought she ought to tell him about Fred. ‘And I have a fiancé. Or at least, someone I’ve promised myself to.’
He didn’t look disappointed at all, but smiled in a way that led her to believe he thought her unworldly. ‘That’s a rather old-fashioned expression,’ he said.
Viola chose not to reply and thought about how to move the conversation on, but her admirer got in first. ‘So, which regiment does he belong to? Or is he in a reserved occupation like me?’
‘Neither,’ she said. ‘He’s stranded in Germany.’
The young man moved backwards sharply, as if avoiding a punch. He paled and his eyes narrowed. His features could no longer be described as nice. ‘Germany?’ he repeated. ‘How did that happen?’
When Viola finished explaining with sketchy details, the man straightened his tie and said, ‘So, your fiancé-to-be is part German.’
‘Yes.’ Viola nodded. ‘But he’s also…’
‘Excuse me,’ the man said and turned his back on her. Viola followed him with her eyes and watched as he chatted to a group of young men who stared in her direction without compunction then closed ranks.
*
When she had returned from Paddington the flat was cold and empty, Lillian having left for a night out with June and Harriet. They had been getting ready around Mum packing to leave and Mum had seemed to enjoy the ensuing chaos. ‘Will you be joining them later?’ she’d asked. ‘I would in your position.’
‘Probably not,’ Viola had answered, feeling a wash of loneliness at the thought of being on her own. ‘They’re going to a dance hall and I don’t always like to… I can’t always… join in, I suppose.’
‘Does dancing make you feel disloyal to Fred, dear?’ Mum had said. Then with a small touch to Viola’s hand she’d added, ‘None of us wants you to be a martyr. Or a saint. Especially not Fred.’
Hurt had stabbed at Viola but it dissipated in the bustle of getting Mum to the station and on her train. But alone in the darkening flat, Mum’s words came back to her and she allowed herself to feel the full throttle of offence. Surely that was not how she came over? As a persecuted, tormented sorry-for-herself soul? If that was the case, Lillian would have mentioned it, wouldn’t she? Viola would ask her at the first opportunity; Lillian would tell her the truth. But Mum would never be cruel in what she said, Viola knew that. The words she used were always well thought out and meant to steer her children through the pitfalls in their lives. Perhaps she merely hated seeing Viola so desolate when Lillian, Harriet, June and everyone else out there was making the best of a horrendous situation.
Retrieving Lillian’s old brown cardigan from the back of a chair, Viola wrapped it around herself against the chill. So this was the exciting life she’d entertained hopes for in London: the occasional night out to the pictures or the pub, looking at what little there was in the shops, mending and making do, trying to be creative with rations, being evasive about Fred. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. But there is always my job, she rationalised, and the fact that I am doing the right thing.
The thought of getting back to her office created an invigorating energy strong enough to cause a grin to spread across her face. She took down the du Maurier from the shelf for later and stretched out on the couch, an ashtray and cigarettes close by. Wriggling her toes in her stockinged feet, she pictured how she had left her desk on Friday evening. Neat piles of fresh paper, her pens and pencils in a pot, envelopes of various sizes in a tray. In a locked drawer there were documents that were not regarded as highly secretive and could wait until later to be dealt with; her personal things like lipstick and a hanky; a list of names and numbers of the government officials who worked from offices close by. There were two typewriters side by side, both cleaned and covered with care. A piece of equipment that enabled someone to record their voice into a machine for her to listen to and transcribe was equally pampered with its own grey dustcover.
Then there was the miraculous machine that recorded the relentless sound of the voices of Hitler, or others from his mob, proselytising on German radio that she had to listen to and interpret for the government. And oh, if they could be believed one would think the Axis was winning in the most glorious manner, with the plump, well-fed civilians of Germany skipping and dancing around towns and fields untouched by Allied bombs. But of course she didn’t believe a word they said. Nor did anyone. It was all disgusting propaganda.
The large office was manned solely by women, most of them quite young and from a background of assisting with foreign language teaching. They were, of course, managed by men who rushed in and out all day with documents that needed to be translated urgently. There were also telegrams, propaganda leaflets, foreign news, radio announcements and newspaper articles that needed to be transcribed to English. And in between, the inexorable tirade of news from Germany to be typed up and sent to the higher-ups. Each document had to be stamped with the time and date and initialised by the translator and strangely, the constant thunk-thunk was reassuring rather than intrusive. The office was a hive of activity, but like a swarm of bees they each knew their role and went about their business in a structured manner with the lowest level of buzz possible.
Lillian’s desk was next to the boarded windows amongst those interpreting French. Amanda was on the wall at the back with the Italian speakers and whenever Viola heard them talking, she thought of Matteo and hoped his life was not too dreadful in the internment camp. June sat in the same section as Lillian and Harriet was one of the four who translated Russian. The largest and busiest area belonged to Viola and the other German analysts who sat closest to the door and were kept occupied without respite every day.
Hours went by without her thinking about anything else but the job at hand, which was an enormous relief. As soon as she took off her coat in the morning, a document would be propped in front of her and she was asked to translate, as a matter of urgency, a newspaper article that quoted verbatim a speech by Hitler. Throwing aside the cover of her typewriter, she would begin to hit the keys in time to the rhythm of the German that she read; there was but a moment’s delay between the two activities. When she was halfway through the article, another man would appear with a radio transcript that he said should take priority over what she was doing. Leaving the page in the typewriter, she moved to her other machine, banged out the document, then went back to the original article. ‘Thank you, Miss Baxter.’ ‘Excellent, Miss Baxter.’ ‘Well done, Miss Baxter.’ And although she wasn’t being singled out by any means, the words were gratifying to hear and affirmation that she was doing a good job.
Closing her eyes, she laid her head back on a cushion and realised that, thanks to the visit from Mum, she had not heard the grating, disturbing, screeching Nazi voices that followed her home and invaded her waking and sleeping moments for the entire weekend. ‘Part of the job,’ all the girls said. Although it was worse for her and the other German translators as they worked with the enemy’s language rather than the tongues of those countries that had merely followed Hitler’s lead.
Her packet of cigarettes was empty so she searched the counter and table tops and hunted through a few drawers hoping to find a cigarette or two that Lillian had left behind. But none leaped out at her. And there was no gin in the flat, although she felt very uncomfortable buying that when she was by herself. She would have to go out and face the throng if she wanted to smoke during the long evening ahead with her book. But pride would not let her do so without looking presentable, so she pulled a brush through her thick wavy hair until it was tamed and rather shiny; it had grown to just below her shoulders since she’d been in London and was due another perm, but she quite liked it the way it was. She thought Fred would like it, too.
Looking in the mirror, she put a tortoiseshell comb first behind one ear, then the other. She turned this way and that, took out the second comb and felt happy with the result. Her face had changed shape, she thought, but almost imperceptibly. Where once her cheeks had been round, they were now more hollow and womanly, which in turn allowed her eyes to appear larger and rounder. Perhaps it was the result of rationing or pining or a combination of both. The overall effect might have made her look gaunt and a bit emaciated, but instead everyone commented that she looked striking and sophisticated. She applied eyebrow pencil, one sweep of mascara and a muted rather than siren shade of red lipstick, a tiny touch of rouge on the tips of her cheeks and that was all she needed. Discarding the faithful brown cardigan, she pulled on a cream-coloured blouse and her dark green coat.
Those few adjustments actually lifted her spirits and she wondered if that was why the others made themselves up, or went dancing – to feel better. Could it be that easy?
George regularly spent his leave in London visiting Lillian, even though they both denied there was anything between them. June had a chap fighting in El Alamein. Harriet was fancy free but had lost one brother to the war and another was in the Navy. And yet, they got on with their lives, seeming to make the most out of each other and what they did have here and now. That attitude was probably what Mum was referring to when she said Viola should not expect herself to be a martyr or a saint.
She smiled to herself. Not a huge beam, but enough to lighten her demeanour a tiny bit more. Checking her handbag for money, keys, handkerchief, she made her way down the narrow stairs to the street.
The nearest tobacconist was on the corner of Oxford Street but instead of turning in that direction, Viola turned right towards Soho. Now that she was out, she could do with the fresh air and exercise. If anything, there were more people about than earlier in the evening; all dressed up and full of themselves. It felt good to be out amongst the crowds. There was a lot of laughter and she could hear music from a couple of underground clubs that seemed to be springing up all over the place. It was cold, but not freezing and the earlier rain had left a lovely, freshly washed smell on the air that cut through the smoky residue that lingered day in and day out.
Suddenly, she thought she heard someone shouting her name. But of course it couldn’t be. She looked around but didn’t see anyone she recognised amongst the throng. Then again, a bit louder: ‘Vi, wait.’
Viola turned and there was Lillian running towards her, out of breath and red in the face. Laughing, she said, ‘I tried to catch up with you but had to resort to running. How undignified. Where are you off to at such a fast trot?’
‘Nowhere really.’ Viola shrugged. ‘I needed cigarettes and thought I’d make the most of being out with a quick walk.’
‘You and your walks,’ Lillian said. ‘You’ll have legs like my tree trunks soon.’ Lillian looked from Viola’s long, slender legs to her own sturdy pair and laughed again.
The rain had given way to sleet so they moved into the shelter of a shop doorway. ‘But what are you doing, Lil? I thought you were going to a dance.’
‘The resident band didn’t turn up and the stand-ins were terrible.’ She pulled a face. ‘So we’re in The Black Horse.’
‘Well, you’re not.’
‘You are a clever one, Vi, aren’t you? I was on my way home to drag you out.’
Viola knew she would never forget the kindness of that simple gesture. She started to express her thanks, but Lillian took her by the elbow and they ran together through the heavy crowds and the light hail; two girls like any others, enjoying themselves on a night out.
*
They were much more subdued and business-like the next day at work until the office was packed with crowds of men flapping documents and files, waiting to read about how the world had reported the failure of Operation Barbarossa. There was frost outside, but the room was stuffy and uncomfortable and Viola’s fingers slipped over the keys of her typewriters. She had two sets of documents on the go, four others piled in order of importance and the unceasing voice of Hitler to translate. All the men were talking in loud, booming voices, calling over each other to colleagues. But she remained single-minded and meticulous and handed over one set of papers at a time to the men who had provided them, then glued herself to her chair and transcribed the broadcasts.
Gradually, the office was vacated of its visitors and she and Lillian sat slumped in their chairs, smiling at each other across the room. The steadier pace was welcome then, for a few minutes or hours, until another crisis would have the office clamorous again. How girls in jobs that never varied dealt with the tedium was beyond her.
It was difficult not to be able to discuss what she did with anyone outside the office, apart from Lillian and the other girls. But they knew it was very dangerous to talk about anything work-related in the pub or a café or taking the air on a park bench or waiting for a bus. One evening, a group of them had been sitting around a table in a quiet pub and a colleague named Phyllis or Peggy or Penelope ducked her head low and started to talk in loud whispers about something she had translated that day. Viola and Lillian and all the others shushed her but she would not be hushed.
‘Will you keep your voice down?’ Harriet had said.
The tattletale looked over her shoulder and said, ‘Why? There’s no one here.’
‘You never know who’s listening,’ June said. ‘Haven’t you seen the po
sters?’
‘Besides,’ Viola chipped in. ‘We’ve all signed the Act, haven’t we? And we don’t want to hear it. Not here or anywhere.’ She looked around the table. ‘I, for one, will get up and leave if you persist.’ The others all nodded in agreement.
The following day at the office, the girl was ignored by everyone who had been out with her the night before. And in a more dramatic turn, she was called into the manager’s office and never seen again. Someone had reported her. But whether that someone was one of their number or a big ears in the pub never became public knowledge. But good riddance to her.
Viola had learned, as had her friends, to deal with the situation by either drawing her finger across her tightly closed mouth or holding it against her lips and the pantomime seemed to do the job. Initially, she thought it might be perceived as giving her a certain amount of mystery, but in reality it left her on the side-lines during a number of conversations.
When she was alone in the flat, or on one of her walks, or on the skeleton night shift at work, she often thought about the fact that she really should be used to being on the periphery, but time and time again the reaction she inflamed in others both surprised and upset her.
She liked to sit in a comfy chair in the corner of the ladies’ resting room during her break, a book in her hand and a cup of tea on the low table in front of her. There were no windows in the room, so there was no telling what the weather was doing outside, but the first few days of March had been bitter and she could feel the icy cold seeping through the brickwork. Viola shivered and cuddled into herself, the thought of the next chapter of her book making her feel warm and cosy. The door opened and two girls swung in, jostling and laughing. They were dressed for an evening out but had small overnight bags in their hands in which, Viola presumed, they carried more sombre clothes for their shift at work. Viola had seen them previously, but not been introduced, so she marked her page and smiled at them. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You look as if you’ve been having a good time.’
