The Secrets of Latimer House

by Jules Wake

  How they missed the pineapple-shaped stone-topped gates as they wheeled suddenly into the long drive, Evelyn wasn’t sure.

  ‘Home sweet home, darling.’

  Evelyn studied the graceful Queen Anne mansion house with a slight smile, thinking of Mrs Rankin’s tiny terrace, as the car crunched over the gravel, swerving around a small stone fountain. The mellow stone walls looked almost golden in the early spring sunshine and a couple of fat wood pigeons cooed from the tall chimneys.

  Her mother screeched to a halt a hair’s breadth from the grey Bentley already parked outside the drawing-room window.

  ‘Is Uncle Crowthorne home?’ asked Evelyn, puzzled to see her other uncle’s car there.

  ‘No.’ Her mother suddenly gasped and clasped her hands together. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’ She beamed and tucked her arm through her daughter’s, leading her up to the yellow stone porch draped with winding branches of wisteria. ‘The most splendid news. He’s been posted overseas and is on his way to Australia. All hush-hush. At least I think that’s what he said. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  Evelyn frowned, trying to follow her mother’s butterfly-brain logic as they stepped into the house and the open hallway with its magnificent sweeping staircase. ‘Wonderful, why?’ She dropped her kitbag on the carpeted floor.

  ‘Silly me. He’s left the car for you. He said, “No point it not being used for the rest of the war. Evelyn might as well drive it.” Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘No, Mummy. You didn’t tell me,’ replied Evelyn, grinning at her mother and kissing her on the cheek. ‘But it is rather wonderful. If I could find some official business to go on, I could drive up to London and see the girls.’

  ‘That would be marvellous, I can sort something out. Perhaps you could deliver some blankets to one of the evacuation centres. The Vicar has got the rest of the congregation crocheting squares. In fact, you could help sew them this week while you’re here. Do you know when you have to leave?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m awaiting instructions.’

  ‘What? Not going back to Falmouth? How exciting, a new posting. Do tell?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’ Evelyn widened her eyes, hoping to persuade her mother it was an exciting conundrum and not the loss of rank she was expecting. Thankfully her mother was already full of the Vicar and his ghastly sermons which were a little too holy and not lifting people’s spirits in the way that she thought he ought to be doing. ‘Haranguing us from the pulpit. I much preferred Mr Weston, the last Vicar, shame he was so young and got called up. We’re all doing our bit, after all. And I gave him a pot of Mrs Dawtry’s best pickle.’

  Evelyn, pleased to be home despite her worries, was quite happy to let her mother’s prattle carry on and wash over her. There would be time enough later for difficult conversations.

  ‘Morning, darling. How did you sleep? You’re still looking so pale.’

  ‘I’m not used to the quiet,’ said Evelyn with a faint laugh as she entered the lovely, sun-filled morning room where her mother had taken to having breakfast now that everyone was away. The walls were covered in a pretty William Morris wallpaper of pale lemon with willow leaves. ‘My last billet was next to the railway line and the coal depot and my landlady had three small and very lively boys. It seemed as if one of them was always awake during the night.’

  ‘How dreadful for you, darling. I know there’s a war on but you’d have thought they’d house you with … well, you know, something a bit more in keeping with your rank. You are an officer, after all.’ Her mother pursed her lips. Evelyn being an officer was small comfort to her. She would still far rather Evelyn had completed her degree in modern languages at Lady Margaret Hall in Oxford.

  Evelyn helped herself to a cup of tea, pouring from the delicate Wedgwood teapot that had been a wedding present to her grandmother from Cecilia Bowes-Lyon, the Countess of Strathmore, now the Queen.

  ‘Do you have any plans today?’ asked her mother, which Evelyn knew was a prelude to a request for some kind of aid.

  ‘I promised Hodges I’d help in the garden.’ The old gardener, for all his grumbling, was a particular favourite of hers and the walled garden was getting to be too much for him. Beyond the main house a magnificent kitchen garden kept the house and its dwindling staff in fresh fruit and vegetables. Rows of carrots, caulis, spring cabbage, radishes and asparagus lined the garden but there was a lot for one person to do.

  Her mother pursed her lips again, once more torn between disapproval and acceptance as she dusted a crumb from the linen tablecloth. She still wasn’t happy that she’d lost her rose garden and the croquet lawn, both of which had been turned over to vegetables.

  ‘The garden is far too much for him on his own.’

  ‘I know, dear, but the Vicar comes to help when he can and the blacksmith’s boys come up, which I don’t mind because they take vegetables to their mother. We send as much to the village as we can spare and Mrs Dawtry is a genius at pickling and preserving. Oh, that reminds me, there’s a letter for you. From the War Office.’

  Evelyn’s heart jumped in her chest. ‘Where is it?’ she asked a little too quickly.

  ‘It’s on the console table in the hall. I meant to bring it through but then… I can’t remember but I was doing something else.’

  Evelyn wasn’t listening. She rose and left the room with unladylike haste, her pulse racing.

  The official brown envelope sat on a silver salver like an unexploded bomb.

  She stared at it, dreading its contents, and glanced back towards the morning room. What would Mummy say when she told her? Evelyn bit her lip. And Daddy – currently the commanding officer on the battleship Warspite in the Pacific Ocean – he was going to be so disappointed in her. And Hodges? Having served in the Navy in the Great War, he’d been tickled pink that she was a Lieutenant. If only David were here. She could have told her older brother what Williamson had done, although he’d probably have been so angry he’d have told their uncle what had transpired. She caught her lip between her teeth, but David wasn’t here. David was in a POW camp hundreds of miles away with far worse things to worry about. Her brother had always been her hero and when she’d heard he’d been captured she’d been desperate to do her part and make him and the family proud of her. Despite being invited to model on occasion, she’d always been a bit of a tomboy, preferring the company of her brother to the girls who were inevitably invited to play with her. The two of them had had the run of the grounds and the guidance of Hodges, who’d helped them build fires, cook illicit sausages smuggled from Cook and build dens in the coppice. They’d had an idyllic childhood. Poor David. She crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer. Please, please, let him be all right. And Peter too. She had no idea where he might be or whether he was alive.

  She didn’t deserve to feel sorry for herself. Both men, along with her other male relatives, were no doubt enduring hardships she would never know. She snatched up the envelope and hurried up the stairs to David’s bedroom, knowing that it was unlikely that anyone would chance upon her in there.

  Sinking onto his bed, she glared at the envelope and then carefully slipped a finger in one end and lifted beneath the flap, easing open the seal to pull out the flimsy paper.

  For a full minute she stared at the words, too surprised and amazed to think straight. It was a summons to a new posting, with her rank of Lieutenant intact, and quite the most extraordinary turnabout. Although Captain Jennings had clearly intervened to prevent a scandal, she’d been sure that he would take the side of her commanding officer and she’d be punished.

  Relief made her laugh out loud. Apparently she was still going to be an Intelligence Officer. She wasn’t going to be demoted. Instead she was to go to London for her training. Her reputation remained intact and she could carry on in the Navy. She read the letter again, still none the wiser as to where she would be going after that or what she’d be doing. Her curiosity was well and truly piqued. What on earth was her new role to be? Suddenly she
couldn’t wait to find out.

  Chapter Five

  April 1943

  Judith – Latimer House

  The train rattled along the lines, leaving the dark confines of Baker Street station before bursting out into light and a brilliant, full of life and promise, spring day. Judith turned in surprise, blinking and staring out of the window at the bright-green leaves unfurling on the shrubs beside the track, the golden yellow of buttercups nestling in the undergrowth, the new growth of buddleia clinging to walls and brickwork, and pale-purple lilac blooms weighing down tender branches.

  Spring, a season of rebirth. For a moment she allowed herself a tiny hope that life was about to get better. Please let Major Wardlow be right, that this new work was going to be interesting. She desperately needed something to take up the space in her brain that tended to the melancholy. Already this week had been a whirlwind of activity, quite a change from her usual stolid routine. Only two days ago, she’d received a letter with a travel warrant to a railway station on the underground line and instructions to report to her new posting. It was two months after her interview, long after she’d expected to hear anything. She had no idea where Chalfont and Latimer station was but she now realised from the changing scenery that it wasn’t even in London.

  Thankfully the sight of the other women in ATS uniforms in the same carriage reassured her that she hadn’t made a mistake, until they all rose to leave the train at Harrow on the Hill, chattering among themselves like lively canaries. She stared after them, slightly envious that they all knew each other so well, aware of uncertainty twisting in her stomach. She’d deliberately kept her distance from the other women in her dorm; how could they know or understand what she’d been through? And she certainly didn’t want to revisit that time by talking about it. She stood up and then froze, not knowing what to do. The blonde girl sitting opposite her smiled and said, cupping her hand across her mouth, ‘Where you headed?’ The Careless Talk Costs Lives message had been drummed into everyone.

  Judith bit her lip and held up her train ticket.

  ‘You’re all right. We’ve got ages to go. Another eight stops. They’re all off to Eastcote.’

  Judith nodded but didn’t speak; she hoped her perfunctory smile would serve as thanks. The other woman smiled at her and picked up her book, one that Judith recognised as one of the popular Mills and Boon books that the other ATS girls had borrowed from the Boots Booklovers Library at the pharmacists in the town. Judith tried not to stare at her bowed head with its shining golden hair curled up in two elaborate rolls. Everything about her was bright and beautiful; she wore a green A-line skirt topped with a saffron-yellow hand-knitted jumper that clung to her curves, accentuating her figure. There was something show-stopping about her, as if she were bubbling with energy.

  At the next station, two shambling men boarded the train in woollen caps and crumpled dirty trousers with their shirtsleeves rolled up to their elbows. When they spotted the pretty blonde, one of them promptly sat down in the group of seats behind her.

  ‘Hey, Betty Grable. How’s tricks?’ he called with unexpected familiarity. Judith stiffened. He seemed to be the worse for drink.

  The blonde hid her quick grimace well. ‘Donald,’ she said acknowledging him. Judith uncurled her fingers and forced herself to relax. They clearly knew each other.

  ‘Hey, shove up, lass,’ said the other man, coming to sit down in the seat opposite Judith, next to the blonde woman. As he did so, he kicked her battered valise, sending it skimming across the floor.

  ‘Ooops, sorry, love.’

  Judith jumped up quickly and retrieved the case, holding it to her for a second and carefully settled it back by her legs. It had been her father’s case and she had memories of him returning home from trips away visiting foreign music publishers, the sheets of music spilling out when he opened it to reveal his new treasures.

  The man stared at her and she looked away, her heart thumping a little uncomfortably.

  ‘I said I’m sorry,’ he said, belligerent this time.

  She nodded, praying it would be sufficient acknowledgement, but she could tell by the dogged brightness in his eyes that he had sensed some kind of weakness and in that bullying way was determined to seek it out.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Leave over, Jim. Leave her alone.’

  He sneered at the blonde girl. ‘You tellin’ me what to do, Betty? Don’t think Bert would be pleased to hear that. I heard you’ve been getting a bit uppity of late.’ He turned back to Judith. With his short curly hair, cut close to his head, the broad barrelled chest and small round eyes, he reminded her of a bull, ready to charge at the least provocation. Even his nostrils quivered.

  ‘It’s polite when someone speaks to you to talk back to ’em. Hold a conversation. I say hello, you say hello back. Hello.’

  Judith froze, fear crowding in. She’d met bullies like this before, in black shirts and jackboots, aware that they were untouchable. Pushing and shoving, sometimes even spitting. She’d fled Germany to escape that. And here it was, happening all over again.

  ‘I said, Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ she said in a low voice, trying to sound as English as possible but it was no good, even in one word she couldn’t disguise the accent of her native tongue.

  ‘You foreign?’ came the sudden belligerent challenge. ‘Did you hear that, Donald?’

  She shrank into her seat.

  ‘Where you going?’

  Scared now, she blurted out, ‘Chalfont and Latimer.’

  ‘You’re German. Lads,’ he yelled, turning to the whole coach, ‘we’ve got a spy on board. Trying to pass herself off in uniform.’ He turned back to her and rose clumsily to march along the carriage with nightmarish goosesteps, saying, ‘Heil Hitler!’

  Now everyone had turned to look and point at her, muttering to each other, staring with suspicion and hostility.

  ‘Give over, Jim, you big lug,’ said the blonde woman, standing up, pushing him out of the way and sitting down next to Judith.

  ‘Ignore them. Pig ignorant, the pair of them. The Army wouldn’t take ’em. Too bloody stupid by half.’

  The man turned an unattractive shade of red.

  ‘You wait, Betty Connors. Your Bert won’t like you behavin’ like this.’

  Betty simply turned her nose up and gave him the sort of look that suggested he was of as much interest as a beetle under her shoe.

  Judith hated these confrontations, even though she should be used to them by now, but despite her whole body shaking, she had to bite back a smile. The other girl had nerve, that was for sure.

  ‘I’m Betty, as you probably heard the oaf saying.’ She held out her hand before adding in a loud, carrying voice for the benefit of the rest of the carriage, ‘And I’m guessing you’re Polish.’ Out of sight of them all, she kicked Judith quite hard on the ankle.

  ‘Yes,’ said Judith, remembering this very piece of advice from another German girl she’d once met. The British liked the Poles. The Poles had flown in the Battle of Britain and had already made a huge contribution to the Allies. ‘From Krakow,’ she added loudly. Immediately everyone nodded to themselves as if that made everything all right.

  ‘Polish, Donald,’ said Betty, hands on hips, a furious scowl on her face. ‘They’re on the same side as us.’

  He grunted and scowled back at her but then with an impotent shake of his head, he and his equally unprepossessing companion got up and ambled off down the carriage, opening the door and disappearing into the next one.

  ‘Always slow, that one,’ observed Betty.

  ‘Thank you. I’m Judith.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. So you’re going to Chalfont and Latimer too. Are you going to be working at the big house?’

  Judith clamped her mouth shut for a minute before answering. ‘I’m not actually sure. I was told to get the train to the station and I’d be met.’

  ‘Probably the hou
se. I’m reporting there this afternoon once I’ve dumped my kitbag at home. My family live in the village. I’ll be living back with my ma and sister. I’ve got a job as a typist. Bloody marvellous. I’ve been filing for the last few months. Deadly.’

  Judith laughed. ‘Me too. I hate filing.’

  ‘You going to be a typist too?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘I can’t type.’

  Betty let out a laugh of delight. ‘I’m not sure I can.’

  Although this girl with her perfect rolled curls, ready smile and bright-red lipstick was louder and brasher than women Judith normally associated with, she also seemed kind and open-hearted. Judith couldn’t help warming to her. She’d been so closed off from other people for such a long time, but this girl seemed like a ray of sunshine in an otherwise grey life.

  ‘Where were you posted before?’

  ‘Somewhere in Yorkshire. Filing.’ They both snorted with laughter. Judith thought it was probably relief on her part. Her heart rate was only just returning to normal.

  ‘I was in Mill Hill.’ She stopped as if struck by something. ‘Do you know where that is? I mean, how long have you been in this country?’

  ‘I came in 1938. I lived in Kensal Green. I worked in a shoe factory.’

  ‘Oooh, how lovely. I wouldn’t have minded doing that.’ Betty’s pretty face lit up with enthusiasm that made Judith laugh again.

  ‘We weren’t able to take the shoes home with us. Besides they were mainly workmen’s boots.’

  ‘Ah, maybe not then. I’m not sure I’d have fancied that. I think if I wasn’t in the ATS, I’d like to have worked in a cinema. As an usherette. You get to see all the films for free.’ She sighed. ‘I love the films. Being in the dark. It’s like stepping into another world.’