by Eliza Graham
‘I find them hard at times,’ I admitted.
But his recognition that our interview work could be taxing helped to lift some of the tension I’d been feeling this morning. My shoulders suddenly felt lighter.
‘You haven’t forgotten our team night out on Saturday?’ William asked.
I had, in fact. Our research unit didn’t broadcast on Saturday, which made it the night we could visit cinemas and theatres. Usually we stuck to nights out in Bedford. Travel to the capital was considered wasteful unless essential, so since I’d started working for Beattie I hadn’t returned to London in my time off.
‘A film and then dinner at a French restaurant in Wardour Street.’ William was reading from his notepad. He blushed. ‘I know it’s strange writing down the details of a night out, but that way I know it’s really happening.’
‘Certainly seems like a long time since I’ve gone up to town.’ We were turning into the drive to Mulberry House. When we went inside, Father Becker was alone in the office, reading St Augustine and making notes, running a hand through his hair, looking as though the words on the pages were as fresh for him as they were the first time he’d read them. Perhaps that was what my father meant by having a living faith. I’d be seeing Dad after the meal out, as I was to stay the night in Putney on Saturday.
I’d only just removed my jacket when I heard the crunch of tyres over gravel. Beattie himself, returning with Micki from the local cage. I watched them carefully through the window, having got into the habit of observing my boss ahead of his arrival in our office, trying to assess his mood. His face seemed relaxed. Micki, too, seemed jaunty.
She burst into the room with her usual energy.
‘Did it go well?’ I asked.
‘Ja! ’ She looked at me and grimaced. ‘Ach, auf Englisch.’
We were encouraging her to start conversations in English whenever possible. The Saturday evening trip to the cinema was going to be an incentive to improve her fluency.
She looked at Father Becker meaningfully and turned her back.
‘This.’ She made a quick obscene gesture with her hands. ‘Not just the ratings, either. You should have heard what they said about officers misbehaving at brothels.’
A new medical programme will assure the health of our finest seamen as they relax in ports. Enjoying deserved breaks from active duty has brought with it various risks of infection, but our doctors are now stepping up to the vital task of examining workers in the establishments our sailors visit . . . I could write the news item in my head.
We had no evidence that any such medical programme had started, but it didn’t seem unbelievable.
‘She did very well,’ Beattie said, coming in. ‘Sat in the interviews looking like a sweet young thing – some of them were clearly wondering what the hell she was doing there. Then she asked brilliantly obscene questions and they let slip the most wonderful details. The Ali Baba nightclub in Hamburg, the Chat Noir in Saint-Nazaire – all kinds of notables pawing naked girls, nasty diseases, stabbings, wallets stolen.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘There’ll be a couple of bottles of something nice on the table when we have our meal out on Saturday.’
Father Becker was watching Beattie, his face a mask. How could a clergyman bear to listen to the kind of smut we’d been casually throwing around?
10
I’d planned on dressing up for the night out. Taking trouble to do my hair more elaborately, putting on a burgundy silk dress and applying a few drops of the precious scent I’d been saving would put me in the mood. Being a civilian, having a night out in the West End, spending a day at home.
On the Friday night, before we left for the studio, Beattie called me into his office. ‘Micki,’ he said. ‘She’s a potential problem.’
I nodded. ‘She’s not supposed to leave the village, is she?’ It was one of the conditions of her working with us.
‘It’s not technically forbidden for the Germans here to go to London, if they’re accompanied by their seniors, but it can create bureaucratic issues if IDs are demanded. Tell her to keep her mouth closed.’
‘She’ll be discreet. What about Father Becker?’
‘He’s Swiss, why would he bother any policeman? He’s much more likely to trip over the kerb in the blackout and split his head open. You and William both being in uniform will give a reassuring appearance to the group.’
‘Uniform? But—’ The burgundy dress suited me. The warm colour drew attention to my eyes and hair and away from the burnt cheek. And I could have worn a veiled hat with it.
Beattie was looking at me coldly. ‘Anything else, Hall?’
We managed the train journey to Euston without attracting any unwanted attention. When we changed at Bletchley Micki wrinkled her nose up at the stains on her seat and covered it with her handkerchief before sitting down. I remembered Grace being equally fastidious. Father Becker and Micki then pretended to read The Times and Tatler respectively, showing their tickets to the inspector on the train with brief nods. An elderly couple got on at one of the stations between Bletchley and Euston and made approving clucking noises at William and me. ‘Such a fine sight, you young ’uns doing your bit.’ The woman peered at my cheek. ‘And such a price you pay for it.’ The sympathy was kindly meant, but I wished I was wearing my hat and veil tonight.
From Euston we made our way by Underground, the train’s windows boarded up, to the cinema in Wardour Street in Soho. Nobody paid us much attention. Perhaps in the city we stood out less obviously.
‘We’re an odd bunch,’ Micki whispered. ‘Two in uniform, one in a smart suit, one in a dog collar. And me.’ She was wearing a dress and jacket I’d lent her.
‘You look lovely,’ I told her. ‘And give us a much-needed air of normality.’
She grunted but looked pleased.
A black GI stepped out of an alley, a young woman clinging to his arm, arguing with him, her glottal, nasal accent peppering his southern drawl with objections to whatever it was he was proposing. Her thin jacket barely covered the top of her pale chest. Father Becker stopped and stared until the woman scowled at him.
As we entered the cinema Beattie pulled out a large box of violet creams from one of his capacious pockets. ‘Don’t say I don’t spoil you. You won’t believe what I had to do to get my hands on these.’ I noticed that Micki was careful to position herself next to Beattie. My heart always melted a little when she revealed herself as being little older than a schoolgirl.
William sat next to me, giving a discreet but appreciative sniff.
‘It’s called Vol de Nuit,’ I whispered. ‘Appropriate that you like it.’ It had been named after the pilot and writer Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s Night Flight. The glass bottle had a propeller in relief on its surface. I explained these references. William looked puzzled for a second but then gave me a warm smile.
‘A present?’
Patrick had given me the scent. ‘That’s right.’ I looked at the screen. ‘It’s starting.’
Father Becker and Micki seemed to find the comedy playing out on the screen utterly incomprehensible at times. Beattie laughed heartily. For someone with such a sophisticated mind he seemed very fond of humour that verged on the slapstick.
We went on to dinner in a small French restaurant across the road. From the remarks made by the French-Jewish proprietor as he took us to our table I gathered that he owed Beattie his place on one of the last boats out of Bordeaux at the time of the German invasion in 1940. This perhaps explained how the restaurant was able to offer us beef fillet.
When we’d finished our apple tarts and emptied three bottles of claret – one of which was accounted for solely by Beattie – we re-emerged onto the street.
My stomach felt pleasantly full and my head woozy as a result of the claret. I hadn’t experienced anything similar since Beattie and I had been in Lisbon. He glanced at me briefly as we set off and gave a half-smile. I wondered if he ever thought about that night.
We walked towards Shaf
tesbury Avenue two abreast, Micki and I, then Father Becker and William, with Beattie himself striding ahead. I was going on alone to Leicester Square for the Piccadilly Line. The others would catch a taxi to Euston. We approached the gloomy emptiness of St Anne’s churchyard. A group of five or six soldiers lurched towards us, absorbed in their own quarrel about a bet.
One of the soldiers, a corporal, tripped on the invisible kerb, regaining his balance by throwing out an arm in the direction of Father Becker. ‘Bloody blackout.’ He peered at Becker. ‘That a dog collar?’
The others in the group stopped. ‘So it is,’ one of his companions said. ‘Bless me, father.’
Father Becker seemed paralysed. ‘Walk on,’ William told him quietly.
‘Hear my confession, father?’ another private asked.
‘He hasn’t got all night,’ the first soldier said. His companion glowered at him. Their fists rose and they tumbled into the road, punching at one another. Micki and I passed them, walking faster now. The remaining three jeered at the brawling pair.
The larger of the fighters landed a left hook on his opponent, who fell onto the road, narrowly missing Father Becker, who gave a surprised gasp as he jumped out of the way, more nimbly than I might have anticipated. The three men on the pavement turned their heads at the sound.
‘A bit rough for you, are we, father?’ one of them asked.
‘You’ll need to hear my confession now, padre,’ the larger man said. ‘Look what I’ve done to him. I’m a sinner.’
The smaller soldier sat up, a hand to his bleeding nose.
‘I am afraid that it is not possible,’ Father Becker said, sounding distinctly German. Just how drunk were this group? Too far gone to notice?
‘Not very Christian, father.’
‘Walk on,’ I said. Any moment now military police or the ordinary variety might appear and want to check papers.
The larger soldier pulled a torch out of his pocket and shone it at us. His mouth dropped as the beam hit my face. ‘Bloody hell.’
The corporal grabbed me by the shoulder, spinning me round. ‘Let’s have a proper look at you.’ I tried to wriggle free but he was strong. ‘Did you fall into the stove, darling? I don’t mind. Let’s have a kiss.’
Father Becker’s fist seemed to curve through the dark out of nowhere. The corporal landed on his back on the pavement, his mouth still open in surprise.
‘Come on.’ William pulled me forward. We moved quickly round the corner into Shaftesbury Avenue, regrouping in a large doorway out of the soldiers’ sight while Beattie looked for a taxi.
‘That wasn’t a very priestly response, father,’ Beattie said.
‘I boxed as a boy.’ Father Becker seemed dazed, brushing down his dark coat even though it was spotless.
‘Thank you for helping me,’ I told him. He regarded me with eyes that seemed almost resentful.
‘I shouldn’t have done that,’ he said. ‘I blame myself for drawing attention. I must cover up my clerical status.’ He flicked a final speck of invisible dirt off his coat.
‘Yes, you should,’ Micki said. ‘Can’t you keep your eyes open for trouble?’
He looked around, as though expecting to see more enemies coming at him.
I was trembling and tried to hide this from the others. I thought I was used to my face, to the attention it drew, to the fact that random drunks on the street could comment on it. Would they do the same to a man with a similar disfigurement? I doubted it. It was only if you were female that your looks were up for public comment.
Micki pressed my hand gently. I knew she would have come to my aid just as effectively as Father Becker but was observing the need for discretion Beattie had impressed on her. She gazed at William, a slight frown on her face. ‘What is it?’ I asked quietly.
‘William was watching you, Anna. Even when he was walking ahead with Beattie, I saw him look over his shoulder to check you were right behind. Father Becker jumped in before he could do anything about those soldiers, though.’
‘Probably just as well. We might have caused a mass brawl in the street. William was keeping an eye on both of us, surely?’
Her brows were knitted. ‘Drunks are unpredictable. You need to be a step ahead. I should have expected them at this time of night, and looked down the road for places to run to.’
I imagined she had done this many times in cities across Europe.
‘I wanted to tell those men to fu— to go away, but I knew they’d hear my German accent. Like Father Becker when he forgot he wasn’t supposed to say anything in public.’ She grimaced. ‘Idiot. But that left hook of his was something else, I’ll give him that.’
I shivered at the thought of the drunken group identifying two German spies apparently at large on the streets of London, meting out what they’d imagine was an appropriate response.
‘I have this.’ Micki opened her bag and showed me something metallic inside.
I stared at the kitchen knife, which I recognised as belonging to our landlady at Lily Cottage.
‘I only borrowed it,’ Micki said, mistaking the expression on my face.
I wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to arm herself with a knife on the streets of London but knew tonight’s events would convince her otherwise. She was still frowning. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Father Becker . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He seemed almost panicked. Then suddenly he was furious.’
Beattie had managed to hail a taxi and beckoned to Micki, preventing me from asking her more. ‘Keep the men safe on the train home,’ I said.
She winked.
I waved a farewell to the others and cut through Gerrard Street and the narrow roads and alleys leading to Leicester Square. Almost as soon as I’d turned off, I regretted not staying on Shaftesbury Avenue. It might be spring but the night air had grown chilly and mist was forming. I heard footsteps behind me and turned. I thought I made out a male figure, possibly uniformed, but he vanished before I could be sure. I walked on, faster, certain I could still hear someone behind me. Had one of the soldiers from Wardour Street followed me?
Leicester Square was only a minute away. It had been badly damaged in air raids, but there would be more people milling around. Nobody could hurt me in public.
I reached the square, still keeping up a brisk pace. The station was seconds away. Footsteps sounded out behind me. A group of sailors were singing a song that would have made even Beattie blush. A girl with a high-pitched whine was telling her friend exactly what she’d done for her American boyfriend in exchange for various luxury items.
I found another shop entrance and pressed myself into it, waiting. I heard only the intermittent engines of taxis and buses. When I’d counted to fifty I continued to the station. The ticket office was quiet and the newspaper sellers had gone. I bought my fare down to East Putney, planning on taking the Piccadilly Line and then changing onto the District Line at Earl’s Court. Casting a final look over my shoulder I headed through the barrier for the escalator down to the platform. By the time the District Line train crossed the Thames, the carriages would be almost empty. If someone were trailing me, I might be vulnerable. I heard the footsteps again, their uneven pattern.
Turning for a last time before I stepped onto the escalator, I saw a man’s silhouette the far side of the barrier, his back to me. Uniformed, impossible to make out the colour in the gloom, but wearing a cap of some kind. The figure moved away from me.
With a sense of relief I let the Underground and its wet-newspaper, bad-drains and stale-clothes odour swallow me up.
11
My father seemed pleased to see me. ‘Such a short visit, though. I’m afraid tomorrow morning is busy – we’re holding the service at the Methodists’ at half-eight.’ He gave a slight smile. ‘A bit early for you, darling?’
‘I’m sure I’ll manage.’ I tried not to groan. I’d forgotten that the church-sharing necessitated by the incendiary damage to Dad’s church meant such a brisk start on Sundays
.
‘You came alone from the West End?’ He looked concerned. ‘I hear stories about unruly soldiers. Sometimes civilians, too. It’s distressing to hear of people looting bombed houses, making everything even worse.’
The professional voice inside me made a note: was the same thing true in German cities? Could I write a piece about the authorities putting on additional police patrols around bombed premises to reassure citizens?
In the morning I managed to drag myself out of bed, finding a dress in my wardrobe to put on in place of my uniform, and even a pair of stockings I’d forgotten about. I had nothing to wear over my shoulders. The morning was chilly and we’d walk to the Methodist church. I doubted the stand-in would be very warm when we reached it; they’d have turned off the heating for spring. After a moment’s thought I went into Grace’s bedroom and found a light wool jacket I’d bought for her in 1940, just before the Germans had invaded France.
Would Dad mind me wearing my sister’s clothes? I could just tell him it was mine. He was hopeless about remembering who had worn what. In my childhood I would never have dreamt of lying to my father. Now it seemed such an easy thing to do.
As I came downstairs Dad was packing the Gladstone bag he took with him when he travelled for services. ‘I hope you don’t mind me wearing this,’ I told him. ‘It was Grace’s but I don’t have anything else.’
He gave me a brief stare. ‘I’d forgotten she had it.’
The jacket was light green, not a shade I’d worn much as it had always felt like Grace’s colour, contrasting so well with the copper threads in her hair. Not wearing RAF blue was such a relief I would gladly have worn a banana-yellow or bilious-pink garment.
Dad’s service was brief, his sermon cut down to less than ten minutes. The congregation comprised mainly loyal, elderly parishioners.
‘Your work continues to be productive?’ he asked, as we walked home. ‘I don’t like to ask too many questions.’
‘I’m writing a fair bit,’ I said. ‘I enjoy it.’
