‘This is our man,’ Armitage said, nodding approvingly at Grainger. ‘Dicky, this is G. He runs the French section.’
‘Privilege to meet you, sir.’ They shook hands.
‘G’s chaps have an op coming up in France and they think you might be useful; the Americans are involved. I know you’re good with Americans – get on with them – that sort of thing.’
‘How bad is your eyesight without those specs?’ G asked, motioning to Grainger’s glasses.
‘Ha, you’d better tell him,’ Armitage grinned.
‘They’re fake, sir, plain glass. I only wear them to make me look older. It’s my face; it makes me look too young, people don’t take me seriously – refuse to serve me in bars, things like that.’
G let it pass without comment. ‘Good to have you on board. Charlie has told me about some of your scrapes. I think you’ll get on well with what we have in mind.’
Half an hour later he left. As he passed the girl at the desk she looked up and smiled. ‘I wonder what hare-brained errand they’ve sent him on,’ she thought to herself. ‘Shouldn’t think he’ll come back; looks too wet behind the ears.’
Seeing her smile Grainger hesitated for a minute. ‘Go on,’ he thought, ‘dare you to.’ He turned round and smiled back. ‘Don’t suppose you’re free for a date tonight? Take in a movie, perhaps a restaurant – I hear Prunier on the Haymarket is very good.’
She shook her head. ‘My night in I’m afraid – got to wash my hair.’
He shrugged and laughed. ‘Just thought I’d ask; can’t blame a chap for trying.’
‘Sorry,’ she said and started banging away on the typewriter in front of her, casting her gaze down to look at what she was copying, avoiding any further eye contact.
In the lift he made up his mind to go home for the weekend, see his parents and just take some time off, read a book and slob out in front of the fire.
Outside again it was already beginning to get dark as he hailed a cab. He would go to his flat in Upper Tachbrook Street, change, then find some diversion for the evening. ‘Shame about the girl,’ he thought.
His flat was on the top floor and it was cold. The Victorian sash windows didn’t quite fit; they rattled when the wind blew from the south east, which was most of the time. It whipped across the Thames from Vauxhall, bringing in the soot and the smell of Nine Elms shunting yard on its freezing breath. He lit the gas fire and stood there in front of it still with his coat on, rubbing his hands to warm them more quickly. The phone rang; it was too late to go running errands at this time of day. Ignore it, he thought; it’s probably Charlie Armitage – MI5 worked all hours.
Grainger had known Charlie Armitage nearly all his life, ever since his childhood. His father and Armitage had been together at school and so he was as much a family friend as a boss. Grainger had joined the civil service after Oxford, the Home Office – not a lot else you can do with a degree in classics, he always joked. Then the war came along and he got scooped up by Charlie and drafted into MI5. Ironic really; his father had some quaint idea it would be safer than joining one of the regular services, but it turned out he’d been put into more scrapes than if he’d been shoved into the rear-guard at Dunkirk. His father had been in the last show; he wanted his boy to have a safe war. That was the price he paid for being an only son. His sister, Jo, had joined the WAAFs and was driving some Wing Commander around when she wasn’t dodging bomb craters in a Bedford ambulance or clearing up the trash on a runway after a raid.
He let the phone ring; whoever it was would get tired and hang up. The phone stopped. ‘Good,’ he shouted. Warmed, he took off his coat, went to a second-hand oak bookcase, took out a bottle of single malt Scotch whisky and poured a generous measure into a glass. He slumped down into a large battered armchair, sinking into the worn out upholstery, and took a sip of the whisky, savouring its peaty tang in his mouth before swallowing it. He flipped open the lid of a silver cigarette box sitting on a low table beside the chair, selected a cigarette and lit up. The room was beginning to warm. He held the glass tantalisingly under his nose, catching the aroma and smiled quietly to himself, wondering what sort of op it was they would dish out to him. All he knew was it would be in France.
The phone rang again. ‘Bloody hell,’ he shouted at the instrument, ‘don’t you know when to give up!’ He got up and lifted the handset. ‘What!’ he said abruptly into it. There was silence for a moment and then the caller at the other end started laughing.
‘Had a bad day have we?’
‘Dennis?’
‘Got it in one.’
‘I thought you were in Malta?’
‘I was. Got back yesterday – bloody cold here. Anyway I thought I’d just touch base. Fancy a spot of tuck?’
‘Why not – how about the Pie Room at The Newman Arms? Haven’t had a pie in ages.’
‘See you there.’
In the summer he would have walked to the West End but it was grim outside. So instead he found a cab on the rank just round the corner by Victoria station. It was less than five minutes to Rathbone Street where the pub had stood, barely unchanged, since the eighteenth century. Inside it was warm and bright; he lingered for a moment savouring the rich smell of food, which added to his comfort. A crowd of early evening revellers had congregated in one corner, dressed for a night at the theatre, he thought. Nobody seemed to care that there was a war on; people just carried on doing what they had always done and hoped they wouldn’t get hit by a bomb. Besides, the Blitz seemed to be over. Jerry had eased up on the night bombing since September; nobody was sure why but operations intelligence thought Hitler had been persuaded to go after Atlantic convoys.
He made his way up the narrow wooden staircase to the Pie Room. Dennis was sitting at a table nursing a pint of bitter. He was a tall, languid man, now nearly 30, with thick dark hair and finely pronounced cheekbones. His RAF uniform had been carefully cut to an unusually smart fit for service clothing, remodelled by a tailor he knew just off Savile Row. They’d met at Oxford and kept up the acquaintance; Dennis had started seeing Jo shortly after they’d come down from university but they hadn’t seen each other since his squadron had been posted to the Mediterranean and he’d been shipped out to Malta.
‘Squadron Leader,’ Grainger hailed him jokingly.
‘Dicky, how are you? Still skulking around in that anarchist’s cloak?’ He laughed. They sat down and after a moment a waitress came by and they ordered two beef and ale pies.
‘How is Malta?’
‘Difficult; not enough planes, not enough spares, not enough ammo; lots of Jerry though. Shall I go on?’
‘How long are you back for?’
‘A couple of weeks. I ferried a kite back; they’re going to fit it out for reconnaissance, no guns, just cameras – all a bit naked – can’t say I’d fancy it myself. I thought I’d go down to Sussex and see Jo before I go back.’
‘You’d better or I’ll never hear the last of it.’
‘I thought I’d go this weekend. Will you be there? Could give you a lift if you like – I’ve got the use of the old man’s Lagonda.’
After they had finished the pies Dennis got out a pipe and settled back against his chair.
‘So what about you?’
‘Same old thing. They’ve shunted me over to SOE, some show in France; I don’t know what yet. I go down to Beaulieu next Monday; suppose I’ll find out then.’
‘Found a girl yet?’
‘Not really – I’m still looking but not much luck at the moment.’
‘You should get rid of those silly specs then. Girls don’t go much for goggle-eyed chaps, you know.’
Grainger laughed and took off the glasses, holding them up to the light and admiring them. ‘Funny thing really, I’ve got used to them. Feel sort of undressed without them.’
CHAPTER 4
Southern England
Late Saturday morning they set out for Sussex, making their way through Croydon and onto the Brighton
Road. The day was grey with a threatening sky laden with lumpy dollops of cloud that hung low over the South Downs; inhospitably damp and penetratingly cold – not hard and bracing, just unpleasant.
‘There’s a travel rug on the back seat, throw it over your lap,’ Dennis had instructed him as he got in. The dark green leather seat had been cold when he sat on it but now the car was getting warm inside. ‘The Pater’s had a new heater fitted,’ he went on, ‘but I’m not sure how good it is; stops the windscreen misting up though.’
Croydon marked the end of the London suburbs. Now the solid middle-class homes of accountants and bank managers started to thin, their expansive well-manicured front lawns giving way to unmade verges and the open country road. The winter bare trees were stark where they lined the route; spikey and ragged without their leaves they jutted up, prodding with their woody fingers into the low sky, rickety like badly erected scaffolds.
South of Redhill they found a pub and, having pulled onto the forecourt, got out and made their way through the dank air into the warmth of the saloon bar. Inside the low-ceilinged room a log fire burned resolutely in a large open hearth. They found a table and chairs close by. Dennis got two pints of bitter from the bar and carried them back to the table, then went back to fetch a plate with some hunks of margarine-smeared bread, an indifferent piece of Cheddar cheese and two scotch eggs. The cheese looked as if it had been around for a while, but these things were scarce so nobody would turn it away. ‘Sorry, Dicky, best they had,’ he said, putting the forlorn offering on the table in front of Grainger.
‘There’s a war on,’ Grainger smiled, picking up a scotch egg and examining it. ‘Do you suppose it’s fresh?’ He broke it open and looked at the powdery yoke tinged grey at the edges. ‘Ah well, here goes. I’ll probably be grateful for something like this next week.’
‘Is that when you’re off?’
‘Uh, huh,’ Grainger nodded, his mouth bogged down by the dryness of the egg. He washed it away with a gulp of bitter beer. ‘Got a week of training at Beaulieu with SOE. They want me to jump out of a plane. Can’t stand heights – I’m acrophobic you know.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, I am.’
‘Couldn’t they send you in a sub?’
‘Claustrophobic, even worse.’
At this Dennis laughed and shook his head. ‘So how would you prefer to go?’
‘Ah,’ replied Grainer, about to stuff the second half of the egg into his mouth. ‘No contest there. Boat train from Victoria – Pullman class, of course; pity it’s suspended for the duration. Civilised way to travel – by train, you know. S’pose I’ll just have to jump.’
His father’s house was a few miles outside Horsham at the end of an unmade lane; just two ruts worn down by the constant passage of cars. There was a little wooden sign where the lane joined the road, inscribed with the name of the house, ‘The Anchorage’. The ruts had become deeper over the years; a strip of earth rose up in the middle, crowned with an untidy mop of oil-stained grass, a victim of encounters with the black greasy undersides of the traffic that passed over it.
It was late afternoon when they arrived and it had started to rain. The Lagonda lurched up the lane, the suspension groaning as the wheels picked their way awkwardly over the rutted surface. Jo had seen the headlights and was standing at the front door waiting. She was of medium height, well rounded – ‘blessed with an ample figure,’ she joked. Her mid-brown hair was a mass of unruly curls and she had a generous rosy smile. The rain was falling faster as they got out of the car and went round to the boot to get their bags. It fell thick and slushy, smacking onto their shoulders and hats, each plump droplet making a little popping noise on impact – it was on the verge of becoming sleet.
‘Come on,’ she shouted, ‘you need to make a run for it!’
Inside, a fire had been lit in the hall and another was burning in the living room. Jo dragged Dennis off to find a comfortable sofa, letting out a theatrical laugh as she went; a roundly exaggerated giggle full of suggestion. Grainger wandered into the kitchen where his mother was preparing vegetables for the evening meal. He kissed her, a perfunctory peck on the cheek, then went to the larder and found himself a piece of cheese, which he proceeded to gnaw on.
‘How’s father?’ he said, after he’d emptied his mouth.
‘Upstairs, dear,’ she replied, not looking up from her chores, ‘having his afternoon nap. Do you want something to drink?’
‘Yes, why not? A brandy would be nice.’
His mother stopped peeling, ‘Really, Richard,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘I rather meant tea or coffee. Isn’t it a bit early for anything stronger?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll get one later.’
She looked disapprovingly at him. ‘That’s the trouble with this war. It’s an excuse to slip into bad habits. Everyone’s drinking far too much.’
‘Charlie Armitage sends you his best,’ he said, changing the subject.
‘How is Charlie?’ She went back to peeling potatoes.
‘Well enough. He’s sending me off again next week – obviously can’t say where.’
‘I wish you weren’t doing this sort of thing,’ she said in a mildly admonishing tone but without much real conviction. There was little point – he would do what he wanted anyway. ‘I’ll be glad when this war is over and you can get a proper job.’
‘Mother, this is a proper job.’
‘No, no,’ she said brusquely, ‘a proper job is one where you catch a train in the morning and go to an office, and then you come home at night and have dinner. That is a proper job – not jumping out of aeroplanes or skulking around foreign countries in the middle of the night. No girl in her right mind will have you if you carry on with this sort of stuff, you know. Then where will it all end?’
After dinner he sat in the library with his father. The fire crackled as it consumed the dry beech logs piled on it, sending showers of incandescent ash spiralling up the chimney, sparkling like fairy dust as it made its way to the cold outside night. There they sat, each with a large glass of brandy and an aromatic cigar, slouched in the comfort of the buttoned leather armchairs that had been there since his childhood, and raked over the inconsequences of their recent lives. ‘Tomorrow,’ he thought, ‘I shall sleep in late then spend the day reading a book.’
Sunday morning looked better. The sky shone blue, cleared of all the traces of rain and there was a crisp frost on the lawn; if there had to be one this was how he preferred his winter. ‘We’ve got lots of eggs, Richard,’ his mother said as she set the table for breakfast. ‘The hens are laying well. Why don’t you take some back with you? You too, Dennis; do have some.’
There had once been a farm at The Anchorage but ten years before the war at the beginning of the Great Depression years his father had taken the view that they should give up the general mixed arable business the family had pursued for three generations. Now they just keep a few chickens and a couple of goats for milking. His colonel’s pension from the First War kept them comfortable and they didn’t really need to carry on farming, but he liked to have something to do and it gave him a sense of purpose. So every day he carried buckets of mash and drums of water around a field, dotted with A-frame hen coops, to feed and water the birds. Then he would go into the barn where he led Daisy and Bella, the two brown and white goats, and there milked them.
‘Why don’t we go down to the village for a pint after brekky?’ Jo suggested as they assembled at the table. ‘It’s nice out there now – it would be a good walk. How about it, darling?’ and she tugged on Dennis’ arm. He grinned sweetly back at her, a silly indulgent grimace.
‘How long’s your next tour, Dennis?’ Grainger senior asked.
‘Well, Colonel …,’ he liked to be called by his old rank – anyone from major upwards was entitled to carry it on after they were demobilised, ‘… not quite sure. A lot depends on Jerry. I’ve put in for a UK op but I’m not sure if I’ll get it.’
‘Want to be closer to Jo, eh?’ the Colonel winked at his wife. ‘What about wedding bells you two?’ he said bluffly, without a thought to the embarrassment his daughter and their guest might feel. Jo looked sheepishly at him and then at Dennis, but neither said anything and the conversation moved on to the air raids.
‘They’ve got a lot less frequent,’ Grainger observed without much interest; his mind had been diverted to the prospect of next week’s training and he’d set to wandering about the mission when he got into France. For now he knew nothing about what came after the jump.
‘I think the tide may be turning.’ Dennis was confident. Like a lot of the pilots who had come through what Churchill had dubbed the ‘blood, sweat and tears days’ he now had the feeling they were on the winning side.
Late that afternoon, as the sun began to turn watery and the light faded, the two men dumped their bags on the rear seat and climbed back into the Lagonda. ‘Jolly nice weekend,’ Dennis said with a slightly wistful tone in his voice. ‘I like these little jaunts – you, me, Jo, your parents.’
‘When are you going to pop the question?’
‘To Jo?’
Grainger gave him a sideways look. ‘Is there somebody else?’
‘No, of course not. It’s just – well, we’ve both decided it’s probably for the better if we wait till this war is over. Either of us could cop it at any time; don’t want to get our lives too entangled. What about you? Isn’t it about time you found a girl?’ Grainger brushed it aside with a wave of his hand.
‘No seriously,’ his friend persisted, ‘I can’t remember when I last saw you with a girl on your arm. What’s going on? Not turning into a celibate are we – thinking of taking up the cloth?
Grainger shrugged, ‘don’t have a lot of girls in MI5; not that you’d want to meet in a quiet alley on a dark night.’
At this they both laughed but after that nothing more went between them and the rest of the journey passed in silence. At Upper Tachbrook Street Grainger took his bag and said his farewell. It was nearly nine o’clock, too late for dinner and too early for supper, so he decided he would go out to a pub, have a drink or two, then a little later find a restaurant and eat something. Tomorrow he would have to start the mission training.
The Girl in the Baker's Van Page 5
