Olive scoffed. “If the entire village knows your real name, why do you need a code name?”
“The entire village doesn’t know my real name,” he said carefully.
She stilled, narrowed her eyes. “Aldridge isn’t your real name?”
Holding her astonished gaze, he swung his head like a pendulum, one corner of his mouth edging up a bit more with each change in direction. Olive couldn’t deny that smug suited him—he was as devilishly attractive as he was exasperating. “Afraid not. Neither is Jameson. And Jamie isn’t even close.”
Olive took a moment to consider this new information. Then she sat forward, lifted the lid of the candy jar, and selected an aniseed ball. Then she carefully replaced the lid, sat back, and popped the candy into her mouth. His expression didn’t change, but Olive imagined there was a tick she couldn’t see.
“Why all the subterfuge?” she asked frankly, her words only slightly garbled.
“If one of our agents should be captured . . . tortured for information, we don’t want the enemy to be able to identify any other agents or officers.”
“I see,” she said soberly.
He seemed uncomfortable in the sudden silence and quickly broke it. “I have a more traditional code name than most, for the purpose of liaising with civilians, as well as other government departments.” He paused, then added, “Jameson was a Scot, making Irish whiskey. It’s just the sort of misdirection we encourage around here. Although some of the men—Tierney in particular—don’t like its formality, so they devised an alternate.”
“I think I’ll stick with Jamie,” she said. “Although Tupper has a certain appeal.”
“I come from a long line of sheep farmers,” he said dryly.
Remembering how difficult it had been to get him to relinquish the story of his scar in the darkness behind the village hall, she didn’t press, certain she wouldn’t have any success while they were seated squarely on opposite sides of that tidy desk.
“They were clamouring to call me Mutton,” he added.
“I suppose with a name like Tupper, you’ve developed something of a reputation with the ladies,” Olive said, biting the inside of her cheek. He coloured a flattering shade of rosy pink. “Or are all the code names here similar in theme? I met Casanova already.”
“That’s not a code name,” he said abruptly, “rather a nickname bestowed by one of the FANYs after an . . . incident. His code name is Pimpernel.” At Olive’s look, he merely shrugged, then cleared his throat. “Now, shall we get on with things?”
Olive held up a finger. “Are you even a captain?”
“Rest assured, Miss Bright. That part is real.”
Her lips twisted ruefully. “Was the bomb your idea?”
He seemed taken aback by the suggestion. “Why would you think that?”
“You’ve made no secret of your opinions, Jamie.” The name was said pointedly, as they were making a new start. “You don’t have much regard for the abilities of my birds or my disagreeable attitude and flippant mouth. Maybe you wanted to see me squirm.”
A mask suddenly came down. His eyes, a moment ago lit with wry amusement, now looked flat and angry. “Miss Bright,” he said, with an edge to his voice that lifted the hairs at the back of her neck, “my personal feelings for you and your pigeons are of no consequence. Men with far greater authority and military expertise than I have given the orders. My job is merely to ensure that they’re followed. It is not, under any circumstances, to harass you for my own amusement.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly feeling as if she’d offended his honour. The admission should have settled the matter, but the words niggled at her in their ambiguity, and she couldn’t help but wonder what his personal feelings might be. It doesn’t matter. Focus, Olive.
“Besides,” he continued, “I bloody hate those homemade bombs. It’s honestly all I can do not to toss them out the window as soon as he arms them.”
Olive’s eyes widened, and she leaned avidly forward. “But why does he?” she demanded. “Arm them, I mean?”
“He’s a bit of a menace.” He said this with obvious admiration. “A genius mind, but a menace all the same.” Aldridge extended his arm and distractedly nudged the third report from the bottom in a stack of ten or so back into alignment. Olive bit back a knowing smile. “The CO is a consummate inventor, with considerable military training in explosives, which is why he was chosen to run Station Seventeen.”
Olive’s eyebrows rose with eager curiosity. “So, Baker Street is developing and testing new explosives for the armed forces?”
“Yes, but not all of that is happening here,” he replied. “Baker Street is the code name for a rather widespread organisation under the purview of Mr Churchill himself. Explosives and other weaponry are being developed at Station Twelve, whereas Station Seventeen is dedicated to sabotage training”—he raised an eyebrow—“one aspect of so-called ungentlemanly warfare.” He frowned at the cup holding his pencils and stretched out a finger to nudge it ever-so-slightly to the left. “However,” he went on before Olive could interrupt, “the CO keeps up his hobby and likes to keep the rest of us on our toes. Thus, the explosives.”
“That might justify their presence on the lawns or in the moat, but not in the offices, where they might put people at risk,” she insisted.
“I can assure you, no one is ever at risk. The CO has an uncanny knack for knowing the second a fuse will run out.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Olive said, not at all mollified. “He doesn’t do it very often, does he?”
“He pulls out one of his ‘pets’ for every training class. But don’t worry. You’re not a trainee.”
“But I need training,” she reminded him warily.
“Not the sort we specialise in here.” With a sigh, he rose, adding, “It might be easier if I just show you.”
She stood and, as he opened the door, inquired, “Do I even want to know why there are condoms scattered about his office?”
“I don’t know,” Aldridge said cagily. “Do you?”
Chapter 10
Sunday, 4th May
The ride home was exhilarating, and not simply because she felt triumphant. And vindicated. And the tiniest bit smug at having thwarted Captain Aldridge’s best efforts to keep her out of it. That all would have certainly been worthy of a spontaneous whoop of joy, but the loan of a motorised Welbike had been the icing on the cake. With her bicycle disastrously mangled from the spigot mortar, and herself covered in cuts and scrapes, Aldridge had evidently been moved to pity. Which was how she found herself buzzing along the empty roads of the estate, with permission to take a shortcut home.
Aldridge had promised to bring her bicycle around in the car the following day—along with the much-awaited pigeon feed—then drive her to Forrester’s to drop it off for repairs. Until she had the use of it again, she’d been offered the loan of the collapsible motorbike, which had been designed by someone in the Baker Street organisation. She’d asked no questions, merely accepted with alacrity. Now, bumping smartly down the lanes, she strove to get her story straight before dinner.
She was to tell her father and Harriet that one of the girls working at Brickendonbury had got pregnant and been sent off. They needed someone to fill in quickly and were willing to give her a chance on Aldridge’s recommendation. She was to do secretarial work but couldn’t discuss it, having been required to sign the Official Secrets Act. This would be an extension of the pre-existing cover story, which they’d been instructed to maintain as long as possible.
While her father, at the very least, was aware of the occasional explosions on the grounds of Brickendonbury, she was forbidden from revealing that the manor house was now a school for industrial sabotage that included lessons in machinery, demolition, and silent killing. She sobered, a chill crawling over her skin, at the memory of Aldridge casually walking her across the lawn to watch Danny Tierney demonstrate various ways to incapacitate an enemy, first with
a faceless muslin mannequin trussed up in a German uniform, and shortly thereafter, opposite a sober-faced volunteer sporting visible bruises. In the wake of that business, the detonations had, ironically, felt rather cathartic. But she couldn’t admit to any of it, nor to the fact that she’d be trained in radio communication, ciphers, nursing, and mission preparation. They wouldn’t have any idea what she was getting up to in the halls of her old school.
They’d touched on her role as pigeoneer, as well. Aldridge had shown her the specially designed containers—each equipped with its own parachute—that would drop the pigeons into occupied territory alongside the agents. He’d also shared the brief packet of instructions Baker Street had issued for the use of carrier pigeons. Despite the need to add a few minor notes in the margins, an effort that had prompted an inscrutable look from Aldridge, she’d felt more optimistic about the entire endeavour than she had thus far. The remaining preparations would all be up to her.
Jonathon, it had been agreed, was to be kept in the dark as much as possible, fed bits of information only as necessary. Being deemed assistant pigeoneer was probably one of the great thrills of his young life, but telling him any more than was strictly necessary could jeopardise their arrangement.
As she turned through the gate of Blackcap Lodge, the Welbike spitting up gravel behind her, she realised with a colourful curse that she’d entirely forgotten her intentions regarding Miss Husselbee’s notebook. Initially frazzled by being shot at in the lane, subsequently thrilled at the opportunity to sign up as a FANY, with additional responsibilities, and finally distracted by all that was going on under her nose at Brickendonbury, it had utterly slipped her mind. She’d simply have to wait until the following day. In the meantime, perhaps there was an opportunity for a bit more sleuthing. It occurred to her that Miss Husselbee could have already mailed the April diaries back to Mass Observation. A quick stop by the post office would determine whether those pages were now officially out of reach. Otherwise, she’d need to find them. Their absence must be a clue.
Jonathon ran around the side of the barn, no doubt drawn by the puttering roar that had announced her arrival. His eyes boggled. “Where did you get that?” The words were loud in the sudden silence as Olive killed the engine. “And what happened to your face?”
Olive touched the plaster at her temple. “Captain Aldridge loaned me the bike, and the other is a long story. Quick, go and tell Harriet it’s only me, so she doesn’t get up and come looking—and don’t mention my face. I’ll meet you in the dovecote in a moment.” Grinning like a hooligan, he took off running for the house.
She rolled the Welbike to the far corner of the barn and leaned it against the wall. Humming to herself, she tramped around to the dovecote, shut the door firmly against any prowling felines, quickly clapped a hat over her tousled locks, and surveyed her troops. A moment later, Jonathon tumbled in, and the door slammed behind him.
“Harriet said to tell you she’ll be eagerly awaiting the details,” he said in a rush.
“Naturally,” Olive said with a cagey smile. “Now, what do you want to hear first?”
Eventually, they got around to the details she’d squeezed out of Aldridge regarding the pigeons’ first mission, with departure scheduled for the following Sunday night. They had a week to get the birds prepped and ready.
“They’re to be parachuted into Southern France. That puts the flight home at around five hundred miles.”
What she didn’t tell him was that they’d be dropped near Pessac, just outside of Bordeaux. She’d need to look at a map for a more accurate calculation, but the estimate would do for now. Olive’s gaze darted from perch to nesting box as she began to narrow the field of candidates.
“They’ll be dropped in the early morning hours, so with any luck, the first will be released in full light. All the birds are going to need to be trained in night flying, but we can’t worry about that for this mission. There’s simply no time.”
“They don’t know how to fly at night?” Jonathon asked, eyes boggled.
“They know how,” she clarified. “They are disinclined to do so. We’ll need to make it worth their while,” Olive said with a wink.
She paced the circumference of the dovecote, her hands behind her back, as she spoke aloud, half to herself, while Jonathon stood beside the ladder. “This mission is a test,” she said quietly, “and in order to convince Baker Street to continue our arrangement—and supply the birds with much-needed feed—we’ll need to make a strong showing. Careful selection is paramount.”
The birds had always been freshly evaluated before every race, she and her father gauging their speed, endurance, reliability, and general health before choosing which ones to enter. Going forward, there would be additional considerations, and the full responsibility of selection would fall on her shoulders. She suspected these missions would all involve parachute drops into occupied Europe, likely Belgium, Holland, or France. That meant the return flights would be arduous and fraught with peril. The birds would face vicious winds off the Channel, ruthless natural predators, and enemy fire, because the Germans were well aware of the importance of carrier pigeons, and snipers were instructed to shoot on sight. It was imperative that she choose carefully and prepare those selected as best she could in the time available, which was liable to be severely limited.
Before the war, she and her father would often hold little training races of their own. They’d each select a bird and drive off for the day in whatever direction they fancied. After a picnic peppered with boasts and predictions, the birds would be launched into the air for the great race back home. Harriet was the official, unbiased referee and in charge of recording which bird showed up first. More often than not, Olive’s pigeon edged out her father’s, but he was a good sport about it. Mostly.
Olive smiled at the memory. Petrol had been first to be rationed, and now there wasn’t any to spare for pigeon flight training. Occasionally, she’d send a bird with someone heading to London or to visit family in Yorkshire or Suffolk, but even that seemed too capricious with all that was going on. That left her bicycle, and she could ferry a pigeon only so far under her own power. She was struck with a rallying thought. Perhaps Aldridge could be convinced to make her an extended loan of the Welbike and throw in a petrol allowance, as well. It wouldn’t be an easy task—his acceptance of a pigeoneer into the ranks of Baker Street was already stretching the limits of his tolerance. Olive grinned to herself, confident that she could convince him. And success would be worth every bit of mulish objection she’d have to endure.
A motorbike would greatly benefit her birds’ training regime. She’d be able to transport them much farther afield, which would provide a vastly expanded proving ground for their homing capabilities and endurance training. It would also facilitate night training—so long as she could see well enough in the dark with the headlamp dimmed and shuttered. The whole village knew the NPS hadn’t come calling—and her pigeon training efforts had, of necessity, ground to a halt—but in her new role as a FANY, it was entirely possible she could justify these mysterious jaunts and thereby deflect suspicion, quell village gossip, and keep her father squarely in the dark.
Jamie is not going to like this one bit.
Olive bit her lip. “I really need to settle on what to call that man,” she muttered, skimming the soles of her boots over the gravel as she glanced up at Jonathon. “It’s bad enough we’re keeping secrets. We don’t need to complicate matters any further. He makes it so difficult, though. I can’t possibly call him Jamie when he’s behaving like the lord of the manor, which is probably why I keep reverting to Captain Aldridge.” A quirked grin had cropped up on Jonathon’s face. “Right,” she said briskly. “Let’s make a start.”
By all appearances, the occupants of the loft were ignoring her, busily tending to their mates, their nests, or their stomachs, but she wasn’t fooled. Pigeons were forever curious, and as Olive slid her gaze from one to the next, considering each in turn, t
heir eyes watched her carefully.
“What do you think, Poppins?” Her favourite hen was pacing in her box, her head bobbing rhythmically. “Should we let a few of the boys have a try?” The bird didn’t seem particularly agreeable, prompting Olive to add, “I’ll pencil you in as an alternate.” Her gaze panned the loft. “We need three good racers. First- and second-season birds can be eliminated, and we don’t want to choose any of Father’s favourites, or else he’s bound to notice and make things difficult.”
In the centre of the top row of perches, clearly intent on showing himself to advantage, Fritz gazed down at her. “What about Fritz?” Olive said, glancing narrowly at Poppins. The two had mated the previous year and were quite devoted to each other, but also ferociously competitive. “He clocked some impressive racing times before the start of the war.” Jonathon inched closer to him, staring up. “He’s a big bird and quite strong,” she went on. “His size could give him a considerable advantage in overcoming any potential headwinds over the Channel.” She glanced at Jonathon. “What do you think?”
“Agreed,” Jonathon said solemnly. Olive smiled fondly at him.
A bit of a scuffle on the ground beside her had Olive flicking a glance at Badger.
“You want to throw your name in the ring, is that it?” she said with a twist of her lips.
“He did survive the falcon. He’s a right scrapper,” Jonathon said encouragingly. He’d asked to hear the story many times since she’d first told it. It had bolstered his respect for these humble birds.
While Fritz was a veritable show bird, beautifully formed in unmarred blue, Badger was a scrawny, gimpy grizzled white. But he was a survivor. She’d seen him go into a free-fall spin when a peregrine falcon had closed in behind him, talons extended with brutal intention. Badger had escaped without a scratch and had flown home to court a pretty grey hen named Wendy.
Olive considered. “It’s a fair point. The ability to outmanoeuvre a predator twice his size to carry a message home could mean the difference between life and death for Badger and the operatives that would depend on him.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 18
