“Aldridge?” Tierney asked with a crooked grin.
“Yes.” He would, at the very least, be first.
“I’ll take you over,” Tierney volunteered. With a glance at Liz, he added, “I’ll come back for the ice. I promise.”
“I can drop her on the way,” Liz insisted. She had a hand on her neat arrangement of curls and seemed to be trying to check her reflection in a round mirror on the far wall. Olive wondered if Aldridge had any idea the sort of effect he was having on this girl.
“I wouldn’t recommend it. He’s likely in no mood to be friendly,” Tierney said, indicating Olive with a flick of his gaze. Both women rolled their eyes, and Tierney tugged Olive away.
“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder before leaning into Tierney to murmur, “You know she—”
“It’s painfully obvious to everyone but him,” Tierney confided.
* * *
Major Boom gave the object in his hands a measured twist, then leaned forward and carefully set it on the edge of his desk, directly in front of Aldridge. It looked to be a short, barrel-bottomed cousin of an everyday Thermos, complete with smooth brown cap, which was marked in grease pencil with a series of letters and numbers. A quiet, rhythmic ticking now filled the silence.
“That will go off in five minutes,” Major Boom announced.
Olive felt certain she hadn’t heard right, and her brow wrinkled in confusion. Go off? As in explode? Her gaze shot to Aldridge, but he seemed unfazed. In fact, his face in profile was expressionless, beyond a subtle lift at the corner of his mouth. No doubt, after her recent experience on the drive, he expected her to react poorly. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Bravely ignoring her twinge of uncertainty, she widened her smile and switched her focus back to Major Boom. This would likely be her one and only chance to convince the powers that be that she would be more useful in the know than out of it. No matter how much Captain Aldridge was determined not to trust her.
“The FANYs do a fine job keeping us all right as rain,” said the head of Station XVII. “You’re looking much improved, Miss Bright. Do you need a drop of whiskey to settle your nerves?” he offered, pulling open the bottom drawer of his desk.
“No thank you, sir. I’ve quite recovered.” Her gaze slid distractedly over the untidy surface of his desk, which was littered with screws, pencils, and wire of varying gauges. Teetering on the near edge was a condom packet. Olive dropped her gaze and promptly noticed another on the floor at her feet. Schooling her features, she glanced curiously at the round-faced commanding officer, but the ticking proved too distracting, and she couldn’t help but wonder what she’d let herself in for. It hadn’t occurred to her to plan her arguments, and now she couldn’t think, her thoughts consumed by the unassuming device, which might very well explode in . . . How much time had already passed?
The CO seemed to be experiencing no such worries, his arms resting casually on his desk. “Perhaps you were unaware that Captain Aldridge is my adjutant here at Brickendonbury, which means that he’s acting on my authority.” He eyed her critically, his fingers steepled.
Olive stayed quiet, fairly certain she could feel Aldridge shooting a telepathic “I told you so” in her direction. She didn’t turn but flicked a peripheral glance towards the corner of the desk and resisted the urge to tip up the little watch face pinned to her jumper.
“But on occasion,” he went on, “I find him a bit more cautious than the situation calls for. Make no mistake, we are in a dickens of a situation, and if you ask my opinion, embracing the unexpected is our best chance to come out on top.” He leaned forward in his chair and, with his voice lowered confidingly, declared, “You, my dear, are entirely unexpected.”
“Thank you, sir,” Olive said, hoping this was the correct response. She couldn’t help but feel buoyed by possibility. She sat forward nervously, wondering if this was yet another test. Her head was starting to ache, and she wanted nothing more than a strong cup of tea far away from ticking devices and critical eyes, but she needed to bear up and present a competent, determined front. She drew a deep breath. “I’m flattered that . . . Baker Street”—it felt distinctly odd using that identifier—“approached me to provide pigeons for operations critical to the war effort.” She swallowed, her gaze flitting away from Major Boom’s gentle, encouraging demeanour toward the little device, which had begun to look ever more threatening. She could feel her heart rate rising and her pulse beat beginning to thrum at her throat. “However,” she said tightly, “Captain Aldridge is quite firm on the point that the entire business is ‘need to know.’ ” Now she did flick a glance at him. “And rather adamant that I don’t.”
Major Boom chuckled, but Olive pressed on, not caring that she was hurrying, stumbling over words, possibly even gabbling.
“But, sir, I respectfully disagree. Keeping me at arm’s length, and very much in the dark, causes problems and creates obstacles. If I’m not given the details of a mission, how can I select the best-matched birds or tailor their training? My impromptu cover story cast Captain Aldridge in a romantic role, and I’m not at all certain that it can hold up.” Olive hoped the man in question noted the barb. “Particularly with the current friction between us.” Another sharp sideways glance at the little device, which seemed suddenly to loom large in the room.
“And finally,” she said, the pitch of her voice rising as the words tumbled urgently out of her, “unless the tide of the war begins to turn, I expect women will be conscripted before too long.” She paused, and a little smile hovered for a moment before flitting away again. “As it stands, my involvement with Baker Street is to be kept a closely guarded secret, so it won’t offer any sort of excuse. I’ll be expected to sign up. Whether it’s factory work, the Land Army, or the ATS, I won’t have time for pigeons. That responsibility will fall to my father.”
As she paused, she realised her pulse now matched the infernal ticking, as if she herself was poised to explode.
“And as I understand it”—she heard the quaver in her voice and struggled to keep it steady—“my father is considered somewhat of a liability. Which means your arrangement with our loft would be at an end.” She leaned in, fighting her own frustration. “I believe our pigeons can make a difference. They are champion racers, brilliant homers—every bit as accomplished as their pedigree and racing history would lead you to believe.” She paused for breath, knowing that if her next words didn’t convince them, she’d failed in her reckless mission. “They are not, however, self-sufficient. And while I am prepared to do whatever’s necessary, their ultimate success depends on the pair of you trusting me more than you currently seem to.”
She desperately hoped her little speech hadn’t come across quite as self-important and melodramatic as it had sounded. Flicking her gaze to the corner of the desk, she raised a hand to the plaster on her forehead; it had begun to itch.
Up until now, Aldridge had remained silent, but now he spoke up, his tone wry with disbelief. “And in deciding to trust you, we’re to overlook the fact that you pedalled past the posted signs warning everyone to keep out?”
Damn the man! Hadn’t she been punished for that little indiscretion quite enough already?
“Perhaps,” she allowed, her voice tight, “I was overeager and a bit foolhardy in coming here, but there was no other choice. My liaison has proved to be quite mulish and dismissive of any input I offer.”
Aldridge snorted, but Major Boom’s face remained impassive as he rolled what appeared to be a large ball bearing back and forth between his fingers, shifting his gaze between the pair of them. Olive ground her teeth and felt her jaw harden into a rigid line. She wasn’t about to back down. The fact of the matter was, they had come to her, had asked for her despite the disadvantage of familial affiliation. In theory, that should factor in her favour, and yet, as the ticking laboured distressingly on, she grudgingly conceded that she could not claim the upper hand in this conversation.
Olive flattene
d her hands on the tops of her knees to suppress the fidgety bouncing of her legs. Neither man seemed even remotely concerned that five minutes had surely dwindled down to nothing, but Olive’s pulse was all but roaring in her ears.
No longer concerned about saving face, she was poised to crawl beneath the desk, but the older man moved first. With his free hand, he hefted the unassuming little device and, with all the casualness of tossing a ball to a dog, flung it through the open window. It had just cleared the hedge when it exploded into a rollicking fireball, which spun out over the lawn, and somersaulted down the slope, to break the smooth blue-green surface of the moat.
Olive jerked violently in reaction, the memories of her ambush on the drive still uncomfortably fresh. Outwardly, she recovered quickly—long before her frantic pulse would return to normal—just before Aldridge slid his gaze in her direction, his sharp eyes assessing. Both men remained imperturbable. When no one spoke, Olive was left to ponder whether that sort of recklessness was commonplace or if it had simply been an exhibition for her benefit. It likely wouldn’t behove her to mention it either way, so she waited, a brittle smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Major Boom let the ball bearing roll away from him until it lodged itself between the handles of a pair of pliers lying atop a roughly cut strip of metal that appeared to be somewhat tangled in a ball of twine. He laced his fingers and focused his spectacled gaze solemnly on her face.
“Quite right, Miss Bright. I do see your point. You’ve come to us mostly vetted, your father a well-respected veterinary surgeon with decorated service in the Great War, and your mother, Captain Aldridge tells me, a member of the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry, working on the front lines as an ambulance driver.”
Olive felt a familiar spark of pride zip through her and sat up straighter. “Yes, sir. My mother was considered something of a hero in her unit, and I hope to live up to her legacy.”
Aldridge’s pencil was scraping busily over a page in his notebook, but she ignored him.
“Of course,” said Major Boom, a kind smile spreading over his features. “You have an admirable pedigree and an impressive array of accomplishments in your own right.” He pulled a sheet of lined paper towards him, then tipped his head to run his spectacled gaze quickly over it. Once done, he laid it neatly in front of him before raising his eyes to meet hers. “The only female accepted at Stratton Park School for Boys, right here at Brickendonbury Manor, long-time assistant in your father’s surgery, prodigious experience in the breeding and training of racing pigeons, and a brief stint at the Royal Veterinary College, which was”—here he tipped his head down again—“unfortunately cut short when the Germans went on the warpath.”
Olive lifted her chin, her breathing settling and her heart rate bumping back to normal.
With a glance at Aldridge, he came to the denouement. “I’m willing to take a chance on trusting you with more responsibility and the details of these missions, Miss Bright, if you’re willing to take a job here as a FANY.”
A thrill shot through Olive, and she sat eagerly forward in her chair, pressing her lips together to keep from babbling with excitement and thereby prompting him to rescind the offer. Major Boom had paused, letting that news sink in, but when she would have answered—a calm, measured reply—he ploughed on.
“As far as anyone outside of Brickendonbury is concerned, you’re a regular girl, with all the responsibilities of the rest of them. And mind, we will expect you to pull your weight in that regard. You’ll need training, but that can wait until this pigeon business is ironed out a bit. It’s important that we get right on that, Miss Bright.” He rubbed his chin, seemingly deep in thought, then suddenly stood, sending his chair rolling backwards on its castor wheels. Aldridge rose also, and she followed suit.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, beaming at the round face, the twinkling eyes, and the little pinked ears. She’d already forgiven him the nerve-rattling explosive.
He brought his attention back, as if from somewhere far away, blinked, and offered a distracted smile. “Right, then. Aldridge here will handle the rest. Any questions, any problems, he’s your man.” He pulled a rag from his pocket and wiped it back and forth under his nose.
Judging by the captain’s palm-up gesture, that was their cue to leave, and she preceded him to the door. Major Boom had begun muttering to himself, and Olive glanced back the moment he mentioned pigeons.
“I wonder if they could carry miniature explosive charges . . .”
Her attention was so diverted that she collided with a suave-looking man who was passing in the hall. He caught her by the shoulders to steady her.
“Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. The fault is entirely mine.” His accent was French, and his eyes were deep chocolate brown, fringed in thick, dark lashes.
“You can let her go now, Casanova,” Aldridge said drily just behind her.
The man, whose wiry strength was well hidden beneath an olive jumper and utility trousers, stepped back, slipping his hands innocently into his pockets.
Olive smiled distractedly at him and let herself be led along by her crusty companion. After a moment, she tugged on his arm, pulling him to a stop in the centre of the hall. “He can’t possibly be planning to endanger my birds by arming them with bombs,” she snapped accusingly.
People detoured around them: FANYs garbed in smart belted jackets and skirts, carrying folders or cardboard boxes of supplies, men dressed as Casanova had been, looking rather shabby due to the varied holes, scorch marks, and grease stains marring their clothes. Many of them were chatting in languages she didn’t recognise, and some sported painful-looking bruises. She frowned, her curiosity further piqued.
“He won’t,” Aldridge insisted, taking her by the elbow. Olive released the breath she’d been holding and hurried to keep up with his long strides. “The logistics would be impossible.” He forestalled any comment she might have made by adding, “There are a thousand other things you could, and probably should, be worried about. Don’t waste time on that one. He has countless new ideas every day. The vast majority fade from his mind at the first hint of failure.” He turned and met her eyes, held them until he was certain his meaning was clear. She and her birds would be expected to prove themselves. Otherwise, they’d be promptly dispatched to make way for someone or something that would.
As they reached the last door on the right, he gestured her in. A map of Europe covered one wall, with coloured pushpins marking various points in France and Belgium, and a pair of filing cabinets stood sentry in the far corner, beside a window that looked out over the east lawn.
They stood staring at each other as he shut the door, each, no doubt, braced for a difficult discussion. He looked frustrated, whereas she felt as if the day’s wounds were being healed by licks of triumph.
“You might as well sit down,” he said, walking around her to settle into the chair behind his desk. Instantly, one mystery was solved. On the edge of the desk sat a candy jar half full of aniseed balls—no wonder he smelled like liquorice. Whereas the massive desk in Major Boom’s office was crowded with clutter, this one had nothing out of place. Olive had a rebellious desire to muss something, merely to watch his reaction. With effort, she mastered it but refused to abandon it altogether, planning instead to hold it in reserve. She sat primly to face him.
He’d propped his elbow on the arm of his chair and shifted his head so that he could rub a hand over his lower jaw. “You talked a good game in there—a little patriotism, a little extortion—all of it with a bloody plaster stuck to your head. Quite literally.” The last was delivered with an amused scoff. When Olive made to protest, he held up a weary hand, and she popped her mouth shut again, narrowing her eyes. “He was charmed, quite utterly. You didn’t even flinch when the bomb went off, and I will admit that very few men who march through that office can say the same.”
Olive had a sudden, desperate need to know if he’d been one of that number, but she didn’t ask. Judging by the look
in his eye, he had expected the question and was marginally surprised that she hadn’t voiced it. She thrilled in even the tiniest victories where he was concerned, no matter how absurd.
“You may have convinced him to take you on,” he continued, “but don’t believe for an instant that he won’t frog-march you off the estate himself if you’re argumentative, insubordinate, or just plain badly behaved.”
Glancing down at her hands, fisted in her lap, Olive could no longer contain her frustration. “Why,” she demanded, whipping her head back up to meet his eyes, “do you have to be so starchy, stuffy, and bloody severe? You didn’t want me here, but here I am. Not, as you might imagine, to make your life difficult, but because someone believes I have something to offer. Isn’t that what this war is about? Bridging the gaps in every way possible, finding solutions in the unlikeliest of places, trusting each other to do the right thing? All of us are fighting this war in countless little ways. I want the chance to do something bigger. That’s why I came. Why I skirted the warning signs on the drive.” She winced at the memory. “Admittedly, not my best idea,” she murmured sotto voce, earning a wry grin from Captain Aldridge. “Why I endured the relentless, entirely menacing ticking of a homemade bomb less than two feet away from me, until I could stand it no longer and was ready to dive behind the desk rather than risk being blown to smithereens.”
He shot her an assessing glance but didn’t reply.
“If you’re looking for an enemy in everyone you meet, Captain Aldridge,” she told him rather huffily, “then you’ll have a much harder war to fight than the rest of us.”
He exhaled sharply and stared down at his desk for a long moment before meeting her eyes. “I would say you might as well call me Tupper, but seeing as you’ve got your heart set on Jamie, why don’t you stick with that?”
“Tupper?” she asked, eyebrows shooting up.
“We all have code names on the estate, the officers and agents at any rate.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 17
