I should mention that, while I would never condone the sort of scandalous activity portrayed in sensational novels, they are rather deliciously entertaining, and I expect V’s will be particularly so.
V.A.E. Husselbee
Chapter 17
Sunday, 11th May
Olive had never been the sort of girl to sneak out of the house, keep secrets, or shirk punishments. She was the sort to announce her intention, argue its merits and, if forbidden to proceed, pinpoint a loophole and adjust her plans accordingly. Unfortunately, that strategy was insupportable for the foreseeable future. Which was why she’d gone up to bed early, claiming a headache, changed into dark trousers and jacket, and then crept down the stairs under cover of her father’s voluble diatribe on Nazi arrogance. With no one but Jonathon the wiser, she’d absconded to the loft, crated the three musketeers, and proceeded to lug them a quarter mile in the dark. Captain Aldridge was waiting, but not patiently.
He climbed out of the car and skirted the bumper as she yanked the back door open and manoeuvred the crate onto the seat.
“You’re late,” he said grimly. “We agreed to meet at eight. It is now”—his arm shot out and keeled over, exposing his barely illumined watch face—“eight twenty-three.”
Having got the birds settled for the drive, she slammed the door shut and glared up at him in the dark. “Chivalry has clearly gone the way of the onion in this war,” she said waspishly, “both only available on the rare occasion.”
He ignored that but reached around her to pull the passenger door wide. “No one saw you come out with the pigeons?”
“Only Jonathon.”
“And if someone catches you coming in? You’ve come up with an excuse?”
“With a sobriquet like Lady Resourceful, I would think you shouldn’t even need to ask.” She beamed up at him as he slammed the door shut.
He slipped in beside her and started the engine. Olive closed her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to settle the fierce emotions churning a path through her insides: pride, relief, anxiousness, anticipation, fear.... The sudden scent of liquorice had her mind shifting back to the night of the dance—and after. Her eyes flared open to see his right hand hovering in front of her, the sweet cradled in his palm. Without a word, she plucked it up, popped it into her mouth, and focused on its sweet liquorice taste. Her thoughts drifted, and she found herself wondering distractedly if Aldridge tasted the same. This, in turn, prompted a choking fit and a sound thump on the back from her unwilling companion.
The next few moments were spent in a tense, humming silence as he drove as fast as he dared down the narrow, rolling lanes under the light of a full moon.
“Harriet inquired after you this evening,” she said sweetly, savouring the last little bit of sweet drifting on her tongue.
“Regarding?”
“She overheard my half of our phone conversation a few days ago.”
“Ah,” he said. “What did you tell her?”
Olive kept her voice as bland as his. “I told her I thought it was probably time to forgive you.”
“And have you?”
“Do you care?”
“Well, I’m curious.”
“If that’s the extent of your interest, then it hardly matters, does it?”
“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” he said calmly. “When we get there, you’re to stay out of the way. The pigeon gear is already prepped, and the agents have all been briefed. Each has read the instructions on handling the birds, and they know the proper protocol. Your expertise is not required this evening. We’re on a schedule, and as you may recall, you were late.”
She answered stiffly. “I would appreciate a few moments with the birds before they get put into their canisters.” Her hands, cradled in her lap, were fidgety with nerves, but she stilled them, not wanting him to see. “I like to speak to them before a long flight. They expect it,” she finished, her voice clipped.
He propped his outstretched arm against the steering wheel and glanced out the side window, clearly wanting to object. “If I allow it, am I forgiven?”
“Yes,” Olive agreed instantly, feeling an unexpected lump in her throat. In his mind, there was probably nothing to forgive, but she was thankful he wasn’t in the mood to lecture.
The rest of the drive seemed to go by much too quickly, and soon they’d pulled to a stop at the edge of the tarmac at RAF Stradishall airfield. Aldridge came quickly around the hood, but Olive had already hopped out to retrieve the pigeons.
He propped his hand on the top of the door as she lifted the crate. “Would you prefer to speak to them now, while you have a little privacy, or do you want to wait until the last moment?”
“I’ll wait,” she said, her gaze straying past him to the aeroplane that sat ready close by—a snub-nosed Whitley. Jonathon, a tremendous fan of the Biggles stories, featuring pilot and adventurer James Bigglesworth, kept her well informed of Britain’s many and varied aircraft.
When Aldridge moved to take the crate from her hands, she shook her head. “Part of the ritual.”
They walked briskly toward a cluster of men dressed in dark clothes of the sort she’d seen at Brickendonbury: dungarees, jumpers, heavy jackets, and sturdy boots. A trio of cylindrical red canisters sat behind them, awaiting the birds. Everything else, it seemed, had already been put on board.
Aldridge hailed them quietly. “Bonsoir. I assume everything is in readiness.” Each nodded in turn, their gazes turning curiously to Olive. “Gentlemen, this is Olive Bright. She is our pigeoneer and has recently been hired on as a FANY to work with us at Station Seventeen.” He gestured to the men in turn. “This is Jacques, Philippe, and Roméo.”
Olive shook their hands in turn, shivering in the chill night air. A glance at Aldridge informed her that she could wait no longer. She set the crate down carefully, unlatched it, and reached inside for Aramis. She cupped her hands around him and lightly ran her fingers over his chest and the smooth curve of his head. The preparations were done. She’d examined each of the birds earlier, making certain their eyes were bright and healthy and confirming their remex and rectrix feathers were intact on wings and tails, respectively. They’d been fed and watered and had their feet rubbed with petroleum jelly to ensure an unhindered flight. The pep talk was all that remained.
She took a breath and looked the pigeon in the eye. “All right, Aramis,” she said quietly. “Every other flight has prepared you for this one, and I’ve no doubt you’re ready. So much more is at stake now, but I trust your instincts and abilities. Jonathon is counting on you to win that bet. Godspeed.” Her throat was tight as she nudged him into his personal canister and clipped it shut.
Fritz and Badger had their turns, and in a moment, it was done. She stood and turned and, without looking at Aldridge, addressed the agents. “One of you will see to it that they’re fed and given water?”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” came the answer. It was the one called Roméo, his eyes twinkling in the light of the moon. “We will do it. My brother used to raise pigeons, but now they are all gone. With any luck, these will come home to you.”
She smiled at him, relieved. He would know what to do. A hand gripped her elbow, tugged her back and away as the men lifted the canisters, put a hand up in salute, and turned toward the aeroplane.
“Bonne chance,” Aldridge called quietly after them.
“So those were code names?” Olive asked.
“We don’t even know their real names,” he said dryly. “Their code names were assigned by RF Section.”
Olive shifted her gaze toward the cockpit. Though it felt like a lifetime ago, it had been only a week and a half since George left, and she wondered how soon it would be before he was flying similar missions across the Channel in the dark. She knew he was anxious to get on with it, but for her, sitting at home, waiting and worrying, it didn’t bear thinking about.
Barely five minutes later, the plane was taxiing down the runway. Her arm shot out
, rigid against the night sky, her index and middle fingers forming the V for victory, as tears of pride and hope shimmered in her eyes.
The ride back to the lodge—or as close to it as they dared—was rather solemn, at least on her part. Her thoughts were consumed with worry over their chances. These birds and agents and all of them toiling on the home front, every soldier, airman, and seaman, and the Resistance in every Allied nation. Could they prevail?
The air felt tense and heavy with anticipation, and Olive thought back to those last days in London, before Liam had gone and she’d trooped dutifully home to Pipley. They’d found they were both quite willing to use the impending war as an excuse to gather their rosebuds. Her bed may as well have been strewn with petals. That seemed a lifetime ago, and roses were so lovely. . . .
Olive didn’t turn her head but instead slid her eyes to look at Aldridge. They’d be back soon. What would he do if she crawled onto his lap and laid her lips against his? No expectations, no repercussions, merely a consensual release of pent-up emotion and frustration and worry.
“The first time is always the hardest,” Aldridge said beside her, sending an electric shock straight through her bones.
She put a hand up to rub her forehead and fought down exasperated laughter. “How many first times have you had?”
He turned to look at her. “What on earth do you mean?”
She smiled to herself. “You told my father you’ve been declared medically unfit for active service, but you also insisted that your captain’s title was earned. So, at the very least, you’ve had a first time with Station Seventeen and a first time somewhere else.”
“So, I have,” he said quietly.
“If this is another topic you’d rather not discuss, we can talk about pigs. Or sheep.”
“We could,” he allowed, “but we might run off the road and barrel straight into a tree out of sheer bloody boredom.” Before she could comment, he went on. “Then again, the alternative isn’t exactly riveting.”
“If you’re boring me, I’ll speak right up.”
“I’ve no doubt,” he said dryly. It took him a moment, and Olive closed her eyes and let the slow lilt of his voice transport her. “I left Ireland just after the war started to join the British Expeditionary Force. We were sent into Belgium straightaway and charged with pushing back the Germans to the river Dyle. A few of us got separated from our division, and with little training and limited supplies, we decided to shift our strategy to undermining their infrastructure.” She could picture him, young and fiercely determined, and her heart hitched.
He went on. “We had a bit of success and then got our hands on some explosive charges. Two of us were tasked with setting the charges on a bridge the Germans were using to transport supplies.” His voice had flattened, and Olive felt a cringe of foreboding low in her stomach. “They went off too early,” he said simply. “We must have mistimed the fuse, or else the charges were faulty, and we were only twenty-five metres away. I landed in a ditch and was knocked unconscious. I found the body of my partner, Corporal Colin Andrews, in a nearby tree. He wasn’t as lucky.”
Olive’s eyes flew wide, and she jerked her head to look at him even as she felt the clutch to her insides. He didn’t turn.
“I didn’t walk away completely unscathed, but I managed well enough through the Battle of Dunkirk, until I was back in England. By then I’d been promoted to captain, but that wasn’t particularly useful when the doctors discovered that I’d lost partial hearing in one ear and was prone to some rather ferocious headaches. Not long after the army decided it was best to prop me at a desk, I was approached by Baker Street.”
Hearing the bitterness in his voice, Olive realised they were more alike than she would have imagined. They were both frustrated by the hand they’d been dealt in this war; they felt guilty to have it so easy when for so many others, every day was a matter of life and death. Perhaps they should stop taking it out on each other.
He slowed the car to a stop at the precise spot he’d waited less than three hours before. “I’ll walk you from here. And for once, wait there and let me open the bloody door.”
He climbed out, and she waited, her hands shaking slightly at the thought of all he’d already been through. The moment her door opened, she rallied. “I don’t need you to walk me home. I’m quite capable.”
“Earlier you were lamenting the demise of chivalry,” he reminded her. Grudgingly, she took his hand, and he pulled her to her feet.
A spectral white mist was beginning to curl through the long grass, and a shiver ran over her. “I suppose it’s one of those things. You miss it when you don’t have it. Otherwise it’s rather superfluous.”
“Quite.” It was too dark to read the expression in his eyes as he stared down at her. But as she moved to retrieve the pigeon crate, he laid his palm against the back door. “If we’re being superfluous, we might as well go all out.”
She was perfectly content to let him carry the bulky thing. They kept to the verge to quiet their footsteps and clung to the shadows, but they were quite alone. She could almost imagine they were the only two people for miles, and was strangely comforted by the solid bulk of him.
“Truce?” she said lightly, peering up at him.
“I was never your enemy, Olive,” he said, his voice sounding heavy and tired. Her name on his lips always took her by surprise.
“Perhaps not, but you haven’t been on my side from the very beginning.”
“Of course I have. We’re all on the same side. Except for the traitors. But I’m quite certain you’re not one of those.”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know exactly what I mean. You didn’t trust me.” She held her breath for a long, painful moment as she waited for three dreaded words to fall from his mouth: I still don’t.
“I’ve seen the error of my ways,” he said lightly. “Some might say I’ve had it thrown back in my face.”
The tightness in her chest eased, and with her face wreathed in shadow, she smiled. She was over the moon that her risky visit to Brickendonbury had worked to her advantage. “I hope you don’t expect me to apologise. It was for your own good, Jamie,” she said, slipping her arm through his, relieved to have finally got comfortable with the name she was meant to be calling him.
By the following morning, he was Captain Aldridge all over again.
Monday, 12th May
Despite her late night, Olive was up early, wishing the sun had deigned to show its face, as well. As she scanned the murky morning sky and turned up her collar against the pervasive chilly mist, she walked quickly to the dovecote. As far as she knew, the bell hadn’t rung overnight, but nevertheless, she eagerly peered into the mounted cage, hoping to see that one of the birds had returned.
She was disappointed. This prompted a flutter of worry, which she attempted to suppress, knowing it wasn’t justified. It hardly mattered; she worried about each of the birds when they were far from home, but this was different. So much was riding on their success, on their ability to make the return journey without a hitch. Knowing that she’d likely be frazzled and distracted all day, she decided it was probably best if she kept to herself. She would take one final look at Miss Husselbee’s notebook, with its initials and abbreviations and confusing code words—what could “hips and pips” possibly mean?—and hope for the best.
All day long she kept to the garden and dovecote, testing the alert bell at obsessive intervals. She felt simultaneously hyper-alert and desperate for a nap. Her hands were chapped and filthy, her hair was frizzy, and her nerves were shot. Even her sleuthing had turned up nothing useful, although she suspected her utter lack of focus could be contributing to that particular setback. Her skills at deception, however, seemed particularly honed.
Her father had been by, wondering at the dovecote’s altered configuration. She’d convinced him it made perfect sense for all the reasons she’d already thought of. “Good thinking,” he’d said brusquely, clapping her on the shoulder even as
he whistled for Kíli.
Harriet, on the other hand, had confided that she thought she’d heard footsteps on the stairs late the night before, and Olive had quickly admitted she had had trouble sleeping and had felt a touch feverish. She’d slipped outside to sit on the stoop, relishing the cold moonlit night. She had fallen asleep against the doorjamb and had slipped back into bed a few hours later, her toes like icicles.
“Well, I hope you’re feeling better today. You look very pale, and rather shattered. Then again, perhaps I’m coming down with it myself. I keep hearing an odd ringing . . .”
After that conversation, Olive had ceased all testing of the bell.
When she heard a car rolling up the drive later that afternoon, she was hoping rather desperately that it was Aldridge. She had nothing to report, but perhaps, somehow, he’d got his hands on some information. It was him. But having hurried over, she pulled up short in confusion as he unfolded his tall frame from the driver’s seat and speared her with a look of barely controlled fury.
“We need to talk,” he growled.
She hitched her hands onto her hips, her mouth open to snap back, but she promptly thought better of it. Jonathon would be back from school shortly, and her father, who’d been holed up in his surgery for the past hour, was liable to pop out of the barn at any moment. Olive spun on her heel and stalked off, leading him around behind the garden shed, out of view of the parlour.
“Keep your voice down,” she said, crossing her arms across her chest, waiting for his latest irritation to roll over her.
“You lied to me.” He was standing two feet away from her, legs braced, hands stuffed down in his pockets. His face was a fury.
Olive frowned, considering. Had she? Embellished, maybe, but outright lied? “I don’t think so.”
Olive Bright, Pigeoneer Page 30
