The 9

by Madalyn Morgan

  THE 9:45 TO BLETCHLEY

  Madalyn Morgan

  Also by Madalyn Morgan

  Foxden Acres

  Applause

  China Blue

  The 9.45 to Bletchley @ 2016 by Madalyn Morgan

  Published worldwide 2016 @ Madalyn Morgan

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Madalyn Morgan as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Edited by Morgen Bailey.

  https://morgenbailey.wordpress.com/editing-and-critique/

  Formatted by Rebecca Emin

  www.rebeccaemin.co.uk

  Book Jacket Designed by Cathy Helms

  www.avalongraphics.org

  Photograph of the woman and the policeman on the station:

  Toni Frissell / Universal Images Group/Getty Images

  The photograph of Bletchley Station:

  Image courtesy of Living Archive Milton Keynes

  Author photograph: Dr Roger Wood.

  Thanks to author and friend, Debbie Viggiano, my beta reader, my mentor, Dr Roger Wood, for his brilliant critique, Christopher Hunter, an expert on the machines at Bletchley Park, for sharing his vast knowledge with me, and Jean Cheshire, nee Budd, who lived at Bletchley Park from 1938.

  Thanks also to my friends, Jean Martin, Geraldine Tew and Kitty Jacklin, author friends, Theresa Le Flem and Jayne Curtis, and the LRNA - the Belmont Belles - for their support and encouragement. To Pauline Barclay at Chill With A Book, Gary Walker at Look 4 Books, Sarah Houldcroft at Authors Uncovered, Amy McBean Dennis at Oh Lovely in Lutterworth, W.H.Smith and Hunts Independent Bookshop in Rugby, and the Lutterworth and Rugby Libraries.

  This book is dedicated to my mother and father, Ena and Jack Smith,

  and my cousins, Sally Glithro and Jules Bottrill.

  I also dedicate The 9:45 To Bletchley to the estimated ten thousand men and woman who worked at Bletchley Park and its associated outstations. In twenty-four hour shifts, they worked on the complex tasks of intercepting, deciphering, analysing, and distributing intelligence received from enemy radio signals. Because of the Codebreakers’ efforts, the Second World War was shortened by two years, saving tens of thousands of lives.

  Last, but by no means least, I dedicate this book to the wartime factory workers, the majority of them were wives and mothers bringing up families while keeping the home fires burning, so the men and women of our armed forces had a home to come back to.

  NOVEMBER 14, 1940

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ena heard the air raid siren start up. Some minutes later, she heard the planes. A distant hum at first, growing louder as they drew near. She panicked. Time was running out.

  ‘Ena…?’ her father called, his words drowned out by the siren’s penetrating wail.

  She glanced up. Thomas Dudley stood in the doorway of the annexe where she worked. Behind him, most of Lowarth’s ARP wardens were evacuating the factory. ‘Two minutes!’ she shouted, and returned to her work. It was vital that she finished the job before she left. The following morning, her boss was taking it to somewhere called Station X. Ena didn’t know where Station X was; the address was classified.

  ‘Now!’ Thomas Dudley ordered, ushering the factory’s owner, Herbert Silcott, and his assistant, Freda King, out of the room.

  ‘I’m coming!’ Ena held the last of the wires between her thumb and index finger as enemy aircraft thundered overhead. Her pulse quickened but she remained focused. Gently, slowly, she massaged the fine wires until they were touching. She took several breaths to calm herself and, willing her hands not to tremble, lifted the soldering iron. It was crucial that she fused the wires and pulled them through the hole in the centre of a disc on what was called an X-board. Only then could she put the work in the safe. She took a final calming breath. ‘One… two… done!’

  As she slumped back in her chair, exhausted, Ena heard an explosion. It was close. She ducked instinctively and looked up. Asbestos floated down from the prefabricated ceiling panels. She glared at them, daring them to fall. When she was sure the roof wasn’t going to collapse on top of her, Ena leant forward, head down and arms outstretched, to shield her work.

  Fine dust, like talcum powder, filled the air. Hunched over the X-board, Ena stood up and placed it in its box. Pulling on the lid, she felt the locking mechanism thud as it engaged.

  Felt it. She didn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear anything except a shrill, continuous ringing that masked the sirens and aeroplanes. She put her fingers in her ears, jiggled them up and down, and pulled on her earlobes. Nothing helped; the ringing persisted. She was deaf and she was frightened. She wanted to get out of there but she couldn’t. Only when she had secured the X-board in its locked box in the concrete safe, which she called the bunker, could she leave.

  Lifting the box, keeping it level, Ena carried it across the room and placed it carefully on the counter. She prised the reinforced lid from the top of the bunker and-- ‘What the--?’ She jumped, dropped the lid, and watched it crash down next to the box containing her work. She whipped round. ‘Dad? What the hell are you doing creeping up on me like that?’

  ‘Creeping up on you? I called you half a dozen times. You ignored me.’

  ‘What?’ Ena pulled on the lobes of her ears again. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Then we had better get you out of here,’ her father said, articulating each word.

  Ena shook her head. ‘Can’t go yet.’ Lifting the box, she carefully lowered it into the bunker and stood to the side while her father placed the concrete and steel cover on top. After snapping on the padlock, Ena put up her thumbs.

  ‘Let’s get out of here!’ her father shouted.

  Aware that she was holding her breath, Ena exhaled and followed him across the room.

  As she reached the door, she felt the floor vibrating through the soles of her shoes. She held onto the doorframe and looked back into the room. As if she were a spectator in a silent film, she watched the windows blow in. The power of the blast ripped the blackout curtains to shreds, tearing them from their fittings, and shards of glass rained down on the desks and chairs.

  Looking past the debris to the concrete bunker, Ena whooped with relief. It was still upright, still solid; the bomb blast hadn’t touched it.

  Turning and following her father, Ena ran across the factory floor, dodging lathes, boring machines, and other heavy apparatus. She was halfway between the annexe and the factory’s main door when the lights flickered. Already feeling disorientated because she couldn’t hear, Ena was plunged into darkness and quickly lost her bearings. She stopped and closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them they would be accustomed to the dark in the windowless factory. They were not.

  Unable to see or hear, Ena walked in what she thought was the direction of the door. She saw a flicker of light. A pinprick at first that grew into a faint beam – and she ran towards it. ‘Damn!’ she screamed, as her hip collided with the corner of a steel workbench. ‘Dad? Is that you?’

  ‘Ena? Stay where you are, love. I’m coming.’

  ‘Dad, I can see a light. I’ll make my way towards it.’ Her words were lost in the roar of German
planes thundering overhead. Arms outstretched, so she didn’t walk into any other work stations, Ena made her way one tentative step at a time towards the faint beam of light emitted by her father’s ARP lantern. Swinging like a pendulum, lighting up any obstacles in its path, the beam slowly moved towards her until her father was at her side.

  Trembling, Ena threw her arms around her father. He patted her quickly before taking her hands in his and guiding them to the belt of his coat. Ena held on tightly as Thomas Dudley retraced his steps and led his daughter to safety. When the factory’s entrance came into view, they ran for it.

  Outside, Ena looked up in horror. Illuminated by a full moon, formation after formation of German bombers were silhouetted against a sapphire blue sky. Like flocks of migrating birds, the Luftwaffe soared over Lowarth before banking steeply to the west.

  ‘Come on, Ena!’ her father shouted. Mesmerised by the sight above her, Ena was unable to move. ‘Come on!’ he shouted again. He crossed his hands in front of her face. Ena shook her head. She could hear again. ‘We need to put as much distance as we can between us and the factory!’ he shouted.

  The noise was excruciating. Ena put her hands over her ears. Nodding that she had heard, she followed him to the factory’s air raid shelter. At the entrance, an explosion halted her. She looked back. A bomb had exploded next to the boundary wall, hurling bricks everywhere. Open-mouthed, she watched the factory’s main door, which she and her father had just escaped through, bow and crumple. Then, as if it were cardboard, it disappeared into the building. Her father grabbed her arm and hauled her into the shelter.

  ‘I thought they’d be going for Bruntingthorpe, or Bitteswell, but they’re flying over the aerodromes. It’s as if they don’t know they’re there.’ Ena looked at her father. ‘They must know, mustn’t they, Dad?’

  ‘They know all right, but it isn’t the aerodromes they’re interested in. Listen!’

  Ena strained her ears for any changes in the notes of the planes’ engines that might give her a clue as to where they were heading.

  The realisation hit her and her father at the same time. They looked at each other. Ena shook her head, too shocked to speak. The distant rumbling of heavily-armed German bomber planes, interspersed with the high-pitched wail of air raid sirens, was followed almost immediately by the rumble of explosives.

  A few minutes later, they heard the rat-a-tat-tat of anti-aircraft guns.

  ‘Coventry!’ her father said, with a catch in his voice. ‘They’re bombing Coventry.’ The first crump of bombs was followed by a second, and a third, and so it went on.

  Shivering in the cold November night air, Ena listened as wave after wave of German incendiaries tore through the city of Coventry.

  Hours later, Lowarth’s siren sounded the all-clear, and Ena’s father, in his capacity as chief air raid warden, instructed the workforce to assemble at the factory gate.

  When every employee of Silcott Engineering who had clocked in that morning was accounted for, Thomas Dudley handed over to the factory’s owner, Herbert Silcott.

  Raising his voice to be heard above the dull, continuous, sound of bombs exploding, and the chattering and cursing of the women, Herbert Silcott thanked them for the work they had done that day and told them to go home. ‘Tomorrow!’ he shouted, ‘I shall get the builders in to assess the damage. If it is not too serious – and if they can begin work immediately – we should be back in production early next week, hopefully Monday.’

  One of the women said she couldn’t afford to lose a day’s pay by not working on Friday. ‘You’ll be paid,’ Silcott assured her. Several women, shouting at the same time, said they couldn’t afford to go without their money either. Silcott put his hands up and called for hush. ‘No one will be short in their wage packets. You will all be paid for Friday – and, if necessary, for any days you can’t work next week. I give you my word.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Mr Silcott, but I’m depending on my wages tomorrow as usual. The club-book man collects Friday night. I won’t have his money if I don’t get paid.’

  ‘My rent has to be paid tomorrow,’ another woman said.

  ‘And my insurance,’ said another. Half a dozen women called out in agreement.

  ‘I understand!’ Herbert Silcott shouted, above the assorted demands. ‘If you come in tomorrow afternoon, after five o’clock, I will make sure your wages are here.’ He looked at Ena, and she nodded. ‘Is there anything else?’ A couple of women shook their heads, and several muttered their thanks. The factory owner acknowledged them with a weary smile.

  He looks all-in, Ena thought. She watched her boss take a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket and sweep it across his face.

  He raised his eyebrows, making the lines on his forehead appear deeper. ‘Thank you ladies, goodnight,’ he sighed.

  Hugging her cardigan across her chest, Ena followed Freda and several other women to the factory’s gaping entrance. Her father blocked their way.

  ‘We need our coats,’ Ena said. Marching on the spot, to keep the blood circulating in her feet, she blew warm breath into her cupped hands.

  ‘It’s too dangerous. The roof’s damaged, it could come down. And there could be unexploded bombs about. Besides which, if the blighters need to offload any bombs before they go home to Germany, it may well be around here that they do it.’

  ‘All the more reason for us to get our stuff and get out of here, Dad,’ Ena said.

  ‘All right! Does anyone need anything from the cloakroom that can’t wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘We need our coats and hats,’ Ena said, shivering. ‘It’s too flippin’ cold to bike home in just our overalls.’

  A couple of women said they needed their handbags because their house keys were in them, but most had grabbed their belongings earlier as they ran to the shelter.

  By the time Ena and Freda had collected their bicycles, Thomas Dudley was coming out of the factory with half a dozen gas masks and a selection of gloves, hats, scarves and coats. As soon as the women spotted him, they pounced. Grabbing their possessions, they called goodnight and went their separate ways.

  ‘You all right, Dad? You look a bit shaken.’ Ena relieved him of her gas mask and handbag, putting them in the basket on the front of her bicycle. The garments he had left in his arms – her hat, coat and gloves – she put on. ‘Now you know what it’s like going to the sales at C&A with our mam.’ Her father raised his eyebrows. Standing on tiptoe, Ena planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘See you at home.’

  After assuring Mr Silcott that she had finished her work and secured it in the concrete safe, Ena said goodnight.

  ‘Ena?’ Herbert Silcott said, as she turned to leave. ‘Would you come in tomorrow morning as usual?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Silcott… of course.’

  Arriving at Ena’s side, Freda said, ‘I’ll be here in the morning to accompany you to--’ She stopped short of saying where they were taking Ena’s work and smiled at their boss conspiratorially.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Freda,’ he stuttered. Then turning to Ena, ‘I’ll check the work, make sure it is as you left it. As your father said, the Luftwaffe might offload their unspent bombs around here. If they do, and if there’s any damage to your board, I’ll need you to assess it and repair it if it’s possible, before Freda, and I--’

  This is my chance, Ena thought, remembering the number of times her boss had promised to take her with him to Station X. If she didn’t speak up now, she might never get another chance. ‘Perhaps I should come with you, Mr Silcott. With you and Freda,’ she added, not wanting to put Freda’s nose out of joint. ‘I could bring my toolbox, and if any internal wires have been damaged…’ Ena was sure there would be engineers wherever her work was going, but she didn’t let that dampen her enthusiasm. ‘I would be on hand if I were needed.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ena saw Freda touch Herbert Silcott’s forearm. He flinched, withdrew it immediately, and cleared his throat. ‘After what has h
appened this evening – and what may happen in the night – it would have been an excellent idea. Unfortunately, I need you here to give the women their wages. Mrs Silcott will put the money in the wage packets, but I need you to check them against the overtime sheets. I’m sorry, Ena. It’s important that it is done properly and confidentially.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Silcott,’ Ena said. ‘Thank you.’ Thank you, my eye. Anyone could check the wage packets against the overtime sheets and give them out. He just doesn’t want anyone from the factory floor to know who earns what. Made sense, she supposed.

  ‘See you both tomorrow. Thank you, ladies.’

  Ena and Freda said goodnight to Mr Silcott, and set off together for their respective homes: Ena to a cottage on the Foxden Estate at Mysterton, just outside the village of Woodcote, and Freda to her lodgings on the Leicester Road in Lowarth.

  Cycling in the blackout didn’t usually bother Ena, she did it every night, but tonight she was glad Freda was with her. With the constant albeit distant rumble of exploding bombs in their ears, the two friends rode side by side along Coventry Road to George Street. Passing the Ritz Cinema, they said good night at the Ram Inn, where Freda turned left, and Ena right.

  Ena stood on the pedals of her bike and pushed on down Market Street to High Street. The dark empty streets made Lowarth look like a ghost town. The shops with their blacked-out windows and brown adhesive tape, criss-crossing to stop them from shattering if a bomb fell nearby, looked sinister. A cross, Ena remembered from history lessons at the Central School, meant unclean. Samuel Pepys and the Great Plague of 1665 came into her mind.

  Trying to remember how many people had died in the plague, Ena shook her head. To take her mind off biking home on her own, she often did mental arithmetic or thought about facts that she had learned in history at school. Tonight, having come close to death herself, she did not want to think about the outcome of the plague.