by Jules Wake
‘I want to make sure they’re looked after.’
‘OK,’ he said and he picked the toolbox up. They walked side by side, his face still grim. When they reached the house, he turned to her. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, you will ask me?’
Her eyes filled with unwelcome tears. It was hard to believe his kindness, it wasn’t something that she was used to.
‘Thank you,’ she said, deliberately avoiding saying yes because there was nothing that he could do.
He insisted on carrying the toolbox as far as the bottom of the servants’ stairs to her room, which left her feeling uncomfortable. Thankfully, at this time of the day, most people were hard at work so no one saw him escorting her up the main stairs.
‘Along here? I’ve never seen you and my room is just down the hall.’
She managed a laugh. ‘No, it’s up another two flights. We’re up in the servants’ quarters.’
‘My mistake.’
They reached the bottom of the final set of stairs.
‘I can carry it from here,’ she said, suddenly anxious that he might insist on coming up and that might place her in a potentially comprising situation if anyone saw them.
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. It’s only a few stairs.’
‘OK, ma’am. Well, you take care of yourself, Betty.’ His voice softened as he said her name and suddenly she couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Inside her stomach turned to jelly and her legs were in danger of following suit. Since when had she ever been shy?
He swept his cap off and bowed to her as he backed away down the corridor.
It took her nearly a full minute to gather her scattered wits and push her legs into action to climb the stairs. Dropping the toolbox by the bed, she sank onto the mattress and began to cry. Proper heartrending sobs, covering her face with her hands.
It was only when she heard footsteps clambering through the window, she realised she wasn’t alone and she looked up to find Evelyn’s perturbed face.
‘Oh, darling. Whatever is the matter?’ The other woman put her arm around her and pulled her into a wonderfully soft embrace that made Betty cry even harder. If she’d been embarrassed before, it was now increased tenfold but it was so comforting to be held and to have someone stroke her hair and tell her, ‘Shh, darling. It will be all right. There. There.’
Eventually Betty came to a gulping, soggy stop, wiping at her face with the fine lawn handkerchief that Evelyn had pressed into her hands.
‘Sorry. I – er – I’m—’ Then they both turned towards the door, hearing footsteps on the stairs outside. ‘Oh no.’ Betty’s face crumpled, thinking it might be the Major again. She really didn’t want him to see her like this. It had been bad enough downstairs and out on the drive.
‘I’ll see to it,’ said Evelyn, crisply going to the door.
Betty buried her face in her lap, listening to the murmured conversation outside but she couldn’t make out the words. Then Evelyn returned carrying a bowl and cloths.
‘That was Elsie. She was asked to bring up some iced water for you.’ There was a question in Evelyn’s voice and Betty held up her now swollen hand; two of the fingers looked like fat little sausages.
‘What happened?’
Betty’s eyes began to fill with tears and she realised that she was suffering from shock. Bert’s punches were the first time that she’d ever experienced physical violence and she realised it wasn’t the pain that upset her so much – although her ribs and hand were sore, as was her cheek – but the awful sense of powerlessness she’d felt. What as a woman could she do? And how was she going to tell him that the information he wanted didn’t exist, without giving away the secrets of the house?
Evelyn took over, soaking her hand in the bowl of ice-cold water, talking in calm, no-nonsense tones.
‘So what has happened? You look like you’ve been beaten.’
Betty winced and she reluctantly told her what had happened, although not the real reason for Bert’s determination to show her who was boss.
‘You poor darling, that sounds absolutely beastly. Did you tell your mother?’
‘No. She thinks Bert’s wonderful and I’m worried what he’ll do to my sister when I’m not there to look after her.’
‘That’s dreadful. But I think you should tell her. And avoid going home for a while. At least if you’re not there he can’t hurt you again.’
‘I can’t tell her.’ It would place an intolerable and unfair burden on Ma. She already had enough to worry about. ‘But I can avoid going home for a while.’
‘Tell you what. I’ve got to go on a driving mission for Myers, so I’ll have extra petrol rations. I’m planning to go to Mummy’s. Come with me and maybe we’ll borrow one of my father’s old service revolvers. You could threaten to shoot this Bert.’
Betty burst out laughing at Evelyn’s serious, determined expression. ‘I’d like to see his face if I pointed a gun at him.’
‘Well, as long as it wasn’t loaded. I think you might get into trouble if you actually shot the blighter. But sometimes we have to fight back.’
‘Thank you, Evelyn.’
‘For what?’
‘For being so nice.’
‘Why ever would I not be?’
‘Because it shows what sort of girl I am.’
A furious expression crossed the other girl’s face. ‘Don’t you dare say that. It doesn’t matter what sort you are, no one should have put up with that sort of behaviour.’ She paused. ‘You’re embarrassed.’
Betty nodded.
‘Well, you have nothing to be embarrassed about.’ Sudden humour touched her mouth. ‘You have no idea how I came to be here, have you? I broke my commanding officer’s jaw when he tried to molest me on duty one night.’
‘You did what!’ Betty stared at her with a mix of horror and admiration.
Evelyn grinned. ‘Come and have a cigarette, and bring that bowl with you, we can balance it on the ledge and I’ll tell you all about it. And I’ll tell you what Myers said.’ She lifted her eyebrows in comical exaggeration that had Betty laughing again, although she suddenly said:
‘You won’t tell Judith about this, will you? I already think she disapproves of me. Thinks I’m a bit fast or something.’
‘Nonsense, Judith is too lost in grief to disapprove of anything. She’s adrift, that one. Needs to find her place in life. But she’s ever so brave at the same time. I admire her, starting again in a new country, having to live in a strange place. It must be jolly tough but she never complains. I don’t think she has time or the capacity to judge you, darling. Now come on, let’s get some fresh air and I’ll tell you all about my misdemeanours and we’ll try to think of a way to make sure that Bert and his filthy mitts keep their distance.’
Chapter Eighteen
Evelyn
At nine o’clock, a few days after what was now being called UXB (unexploded bomb) day, Evelyn found herself standing to attention beside the driver’s door of the Bentley at the back entrance of the house by the checkpoint underneath the guard tower. She was still trying make sure she’d memorised the route correctly following her extremely unusual meeting with Myers a few days before when he’d summoned her to his office.
Latimer to Chenies, to Sarratt, then onto the A500 Watford bypass which would take her through to Edgware and then Marble Arch and finally to Mayfair before circling up to Trafalgar Square. Nerves sizzled in the pit of her stomach as she waited in the bright spring sunshine for the arrival of Myers.
At some point, very early this morning, someone had cleaned and polished the Bentley. They’d done a rather good job, she thought, admiring the sheen of the grey paintwork and the gleam of the silver trim. She couldn’t have been prouder of her uncle’s car or the mission she’d been asked to undertake. Myers wanted her to act as driver as he hosted – his word – two newly arrived prisoners on a trip around London, taking in the sights.
‘The aim,’ he’d explained, ‘
is to show them that far from London being beaten and levelled to rubble, as the Germans have been constantly told, we are continuing as normal and that the “alleged” bombing raids are having no effect. Our planned route will show very little, if any, damage and will take in the south and west side of the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey and Whitehall. At some point I will also point out the undamaged dome of St Paul’s.’ Unreserved glee glinted in his eye as he contemplated the ploy. ‘We’ll be taking two senior officers from the Wehrmacht on a scenic tour, both of whom will return to their cells, their beliefs shaken to the core, which they will then share with their more obdurate cellmates.’
Evelyn’s instructions were to be silent and pretend not to understand German. She was not to make eye contact with either officer but to appear as insignificant and unobtrusive as possible. For the purpose of the trip she’d had to don a Wren’s uniform to hide the fact that she was a Naval Intelligence Officer. She was used to wearing an officer’s cap rather than this curved brimmed hat.
As she stood by the car a frisson of excitement doused her nerves. She bristled with the thrill of doing something important. Myers would be sitting in the front passenger seat next to her so that he could lean over the back and address the two prisoners. He planned to make friendly small talk, at which he was notoriously good. At some point he would address a remark to her in German and then have to rephrase it in English to ensure that the pair in the back weren’t aware that she was fluent in their native tongue.
With the crunch of feet on gravel, she pulled the unfamiliar hat down further over her eyes, standing rigid. Without looking at either man’s face, she waited while a batman opened the rear doors and ushered the two German soldiers into the rich red leather seats in the back of the car.
She heard one of them say, ‘Ein schönes Auto’ – ‘a beautiful car’ – but schooled herself not to react as Myers slid into the passenger seat.
Switching on the engine, Evelyn guided the beautiful car out of the drive and set off through the Buckinghamshire countryside. Myers had devised a route that took them through the most prosperous towns and villages. Thankfully she enjoyed driving which was just as well, as this convoluted route would take well over an hour to get to central London.
She moved in her seat, grateful for the comfort and luxury of the big car, which had definitely impressed the two men in the back. Myers chatted away to them, talking about his own time in Germany and places he’d visited and how much he’d liked them, all the while her face impassive as she heard them gradually start to engage in the conversation. The man directly behind her had said nothing to date, leaving the other man to do all the talking.
‘Where do you come from in Germany?’ asked Myers. ‘I spent a lot of time in Frankfurt and Mainz, both beautiful cities.’
‘I am from Bonn.’
‘Ah, not so far from Cologne. Only half an hour by train,’ said Myers, demonstrating his considerable knowledge of Germany.
‘That is so,’ said the German officer.
‘How about you, Lieutenant Colonel? Where do you come from?’
‘Heidelberg,’ said the other man. ‘Do you know that also?’ A slight trace of sarcasm tinged his words and Evelyn had to focus all her attention on the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel hard so as not to swerve across the road. It couldn’t be. She was imagining things, possibly because he’d been in her thoughts so much recently. All the hairs on her arms rose. She knew that voice, she was sure of it.
Now as she drove, willing him to talk again, her ears almost twitched in anticipation and she found it hard to stare dead ahead and resist the awful temptation to look in the mirror mounted on the dashboard.
‘I believe Heidelberg University is the oldest in Germany and one of the world’s oldest universities,’ said Myers. ‘It has a reputation for academic excellence, does it not?’ Although she was impressed with his knowledge – she knew Heidelberg equally well – she waited with a thumping heart to hear what the German officer would say, desperate to hear his voice again.
‘Yes, it is a beautiful city. My family lived in the Neuenheim district. In Wederplatz.’ This was said with pride and she knew exactly why. It was one of the most attractive parts of Heidelberg. Her lungs contracted in her chest as if every last piece of oxygen had been squeezed out of them. Peter Van Hoensbroeck.
She’d last seen him in the summer of 1939.
Her mind whirled in turmoil but at the same time she had to concentrate on the route. How could she drive and not turn to look at him? It was the hardest thing she’d ever done, having to navigate her way while being aware of the man who’d once been her fiancé. The man she thought she’d never see again, mere feet away from her, and she couldn’t say or do a thing. There was no way she could give herself away to Myers or to Peter. Despite that, elation filled her. Peter was alive. The realisation brought the sun bursting out in her heart. And now he was here, safe. As a prisoner of war, he’d been delivered from battle and would stay safe for the rest of the war. A smile played on her lips and she hoped no one would notice. Peter was alive!
The surge of happiness barely dimmed as other thoughts pressed upon her.
How would he feel if he saw her? Her father had been the one to insist they call off the engagement. How could you be engaged to someone you were at war with, he’d said and Peter, damn him – it had been hard to forgive him for that – had agreed, although he had asked her to keep his ring. In a long letter he’d explained that Germany was well prepared for war and that he would have to fight. Coming from a noble military background, there was no question of him not doing his duty. Something that she understood only too well. Those shared values had been part of what had drawn them together. Like hers, his family were well connected, part of the ruling classes. His parents had been good friends with hers. The two families had been intertwined by the bonds of friendship and similarities; Peter’s mother had met hers in Paris for shopping trips, their fathers joined hunting parties seeking out boar in the Black Forest and their younger brothers had rowed together on the River Neckar. While he and his family had not supported the Nazis, they had felt the shame of losing the Great War and had resented the reparations that had brought the German economy to its knees. He might not have supported Hitler’s ideas but he had national pride and would fight for his nation. That was the last letter she’d ever had from him.
Myers spoke to her in German and she calmly ignored him, exactly as she’d been told to do. Every bit of her was rigid with tension. He repeated the question in English.
‘How much longer do you expect the journey to be?’
‘About twenty minutes until we reach the centre of London, Sir,’ she said in a quiet, gruff undertone which Myers repeated to the two prisoners. Would Peter recognise her voice?
It took all her concentration to make the right turn into Trafalgar Square and head down to Whitehall. She hoped that neither man had noticed the tortuous route she’d taken, doubling back on herself several times to avoid some of the damage from the Blitz. With an inward shudder, she recalled the awful night when the Café de Paris had been bombed. The very night before, she’d been there with a couple of old schoolfriends from Roedean. They’d thought the cellar bar one of the safest places in London. It had been terribly bad luck that not one but two bombs hit the building and went down a ventilation shaft right into the café.
At last, they were driving along Whitehall with Myers pointing out the War Office and Downing Street.
‘Slow down, Edwards,’ said Myers. ‘Just in case there’s a chance we see Winston.’
His casual use of Churchill’s name almost brought a smile to her face, although it shouldn’t have surprised her. He’d had frequent meetings and telephone calls with the Prime Minister, who was a big supporter of CSDIC’s work.
She obliged and slowed the car before they continued along the street.
‘And here’s Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament,’ said Myers nonchalantly and while she
couldn’t see them, Evelyn could hear the rustle of their clothes on the leather seats and their palpable interest.
The car swung left onto Westminster Bridge, crossing the river in order to give the visitors a better view of the Houses of Parliament from the south side, away from the damaged side of the House of Commons, which had been hit several times by bombs during the Blitz. She then drove back over Lambeth Bridge, circling back to take in the undamaged façade of Westminster Abbey. On Birdcage Walk, as instructed by Myers, the car stopped, as he had to deliver some papers to an office there. That, apparently, was the whole purpose of the trip, although she wasn’t sure if it was the truth or not. Sometimes it was hard to know what was real and what wasn’t when you were working in intelligence.
Myers turned to look at the men and said in German, ‘I shall be a few moments. As you’re both in German uniform, an escape in this part of London, which is on high alert, would be pointless. You’d be shot on sight. However, my driver will have my gun.’
With careful, choreographed drama he handed a pistol to Evelyn which she calmly put into her lap, retaining her stoic expression, her eyes hidden below the peak of her hat, resisting the sudden temptation to straighten up, tighten her tie and smooth down the collar of her shirt.
As soon as Myers stepped out of the car, the two men began talking. She sat as still as she could, focusing on one of the fat grey pigeons strutting along the pavement.
‘This is incredible,’ said the other man. ‘I can hardly believe my eyes.’
‘Nor me,’ said Peter. ‘Where is all the bomb damage? Hitler said he has brought London to its knees. It certainly doesn’t look like it.’
Two men in smart suits and bowler hats walked by, swinging black umbrellas, the epitome of Englishness and everyday activity. They were followed by three attractive young women, chattering happily, each of them wearing pretty, patterned dresses with nipped-in jackets and smart peep-toe shoes. They looked like a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and could easily have been styled by Harper’s Bazaar. Evelyn wondered for a moment if Myers had staged-managed things and laid them on as extra scene setting. Her mouth curved wryly. She wouldn’t have put it past him.
