The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘You girls got nothing to be getting on with? I can give you some jobs in housekeeping, if you want.’ It was Shorter. The women turned and saluted.

  ‘

  We were just coming to find you, sir,’ Elsie replied.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’d like to go out to the station at Qawra Point and make use of the mast there.’

  Shorter tutted and waved his hand indifferently, before turning and leaving the room. The door swung shut with a light bang.

  ‘We’ll take that as a yes, then, shall we?’ Elsie laughed.

  ‘We’ll have to hitch a lift,’ Aileen warned.

  Elsie tutted and waved her hand indifferently, mimicking the manner of Wing Commander Shorter.

  They had walked for several miles towards the shimmering horizon before any kind of suitable traffic had come anywhere near them. Finally, an army truck painted in the peculiar sandstone-wall camouflage responded to the women’s frantic waving. It ground to a halt beside them, sending a wave of thick dust into the air.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ the driver called down cheerfully. ‘Looking for a ride?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Elsie answered, waving the cloying dust from her face.

  ‘Where are you headed to?’

  ‘Qawra Point radar station,’ Aileen said with a splutter.

  The driver smiled. ‘Hop on.’

  The women headed to the back of the vehicle and clambered in. It was some kind of personnel transporter and Elsie was pleased to see the hard wooden seats entirely empty. She was beginning to grow tired of the attention that two women in uniform were garnering on the island. It was like being permanently surrounded by a clowder of tom cats in heat.

  The truck pulled away, rumbling and jolting over the rough roads. As they neared the north side of the island, a wind began to pick up, sending clouds of dust through the open sides, showering the women in a fine coating of sandy grime.

  ‘Well, we don’t need any camouflage now,’ Elsie laughed, looking down at her dirty uniform.

  ‘Golly, we do look a state,’ Aileen agreed.

  After a time, the truck drew to a stop and the driver switched off the engine. Moments later, he appeared at the rear of the vehicle.

  ‘Qawra Point,’ he smiled. ‘Sorry about your uniforms.’

  The women thanked him, climbed down, brushed themselves off as best they could and stood well clear as the truck continued its journey. Their destination was obvious: the hundred-foot-high mast situated on a bunker just a short distance away.

  ‘Come on,’ Aileen said, grabbing Elsie’s sleeve.

  They walked at an eager pace into a small compound that was bounded on one side by the rocky coastline. They showed the guard their papers and continued striding towards the listening post. Just like the station at Siggiewi, it was a perfunctory concrete box with one narrow rectangular window.

  Elsie pushed open the metal door and stepped inside. Dark, dismal and filled with what Elsie thought to be a bitter, sweaty smell. A table contained two Hallicrafter receivers—the old, original type that had been used back at Hawkinge. They weren’t brilliant, but they would do the job.

  ‘Let’s get to it, then,’ Aileen said, sitting down at the table and putting on the headset.

  Elsie sat beside her and switched on the old Bakelite machine, smiling as the dials were illuminated into life; it was nice to be back at the controls.

  Listening, turning, scribing and translating…Listening, turning, scribing and translating…

  The operation was slick. The two women’s hands moved mechanically across the logs. There was little discussion. The Luftwaffe codes used by the units in France were identical and it took little time for the women to build up a clear picture of the German-Italian operations running out of Sicily.

  ‘It’s like the early days at Maypole Cottage,’ Aileen commented after some time at the machine. ‘Far too much traffic for us two to deal with.’

  ‘I agree—it’s ridiculous. We need at least half a dozen operators on at any single time.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Aileen spluttered, ‘Guess who I’ve just heard?’

  ‘Hitler chatting to Mussolini?’ Elsie ventured.

  ‘Amsel Eins! Our old friend—his unit must have been moved to Sicily. Oh, I’m so pleased he’s survived.’

  Elsie laughed. ‘I know what you mean, but don’t let anyone hear you say that. He’ll be over here soon trying to blow us up—then you won’t be so happy.’

  Aileen giggled. ‘Oh, but I am pleased he’s still alive. He seems less chatty now, though.’

  ‘He must have been told off by his superiors.’

  ‘Which we will, too, if we’re caught chatting,’ Aileen said.

  Their short interlude was over and they returned the headsets to their ears.

  The airwaves were unremittingly hectic and Elsie and Aileen had little time to translate the intercepts before needing to transcribe the next.

  Later, a cold darkness seemed to creep up suddenly on the two women. Elsie realised, when she looked at her watch, that they had been listening, without pause, for nine hours solid. It was enough.

  Elsie removed her headset. ‘I’m hungry, tired but most of all in desperate need of a stiff drink. Shall we call it a day?’

  Aileen switched off her machine and picked up her logs. ‘Yes, let’s head back. I think between us we can prove the value of the intercepts that we’ve recorded today—try and persuade Shorter to get this place permanently staffed.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Elsie collected her logs and made for the door. ‘I don’t care what you say, we’re going out tonight and that’s that.’

  ‘No argument from me, Assistant Section Officer Finch.’

  ‘Another Sherlock Holmes?’ Aileen groaned, upon returning from the ablutions room. She pushed the door shut on their shared accommodation—a small room at the end of the Lascaris War Rooms. It was stark, painted yellow with a stone floor and contained nothing but two camp beds.

  ‘The Adventure of the Three Garridebs,’ Elsie answered from her bed. ‘Sherlock has to find somebody with the same surname as Mr Garrideb so that he can inherit a small fortune.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Aileen said, walking over and snatching the book from Elsie’s hands. ‘Now let’s go out.’

  ‘Okay,’ Elsie answered with a laugh.

  They left the room and made their way up the winding staircase and out into the dark streets. Dense clouds sat heavily in the sky, threatening the beleaguered island with an imminent deluge. Elsie glanced up at the leaden skies, hoping that the weather would be inclement enough to hold the Luftwaffe and the Règio Aeronautica at bay for the night. Mercifully, the air raid siren had stopped a few hours ago and the only sounds to be heard were the cries of soaring seabirds. Just one evening with no air raids would be bliss.

  Aileen opened her mouth wide. ‘Oh, I can breathe at last.’

  ‘Where are we actually going?’ Elsie asked, noticing that they were wandering aimlessly in the direction of the Westminster Hotel.

  Aileen shrugged. ‘Haven’t the foggiest. Great, isn’t it?’

  The two women laughed and ambled leisurely down the street.

  From out of the shadows on the opposite side of the road appeared a group of five sailors, who all raised their hats and called out affectionate greetings.

  ‘Where does a good gin and lemon?’ Elsie called.

  ‘My bedroom!’ one of them replied, receiving a rapturous laugh from his comrades.

  ‘Captain Caruana’s, bottom of this road in the centre,’ another of them shouted. ‘But I’m afraid it’s heaving with letchy pilots. Do you need an escort?’

  ‘I think we’ll be okay, thank you,’ Elsie answered.

  ‘Don’t say we didn’t warn you.’

  ‘Cheerio,’ Elsie said, reaching for Aileen’s arm. ‘Captain Caruana’s it is, then.’

  They walked on until they were greeted by the tell-tale concoction of smoke-infused
music spilling from the arched windows of a lemon-coloured building. They could just about make out the words of a hand-painted sign above the doorway that confirmed that they had found the right place.

  Elsie opened the door with a wide grin. The place was bustling, alive. Exactly what she needed. She led the way through the smoky room to the bar.

  ‘Two gin and lemons, please,’ Aileen ordered. ‘And do you have any food?’

  The barman laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky, love.’

  Elsie stood with her back to the bar and had a good look around. In one corner was an RAF band playing a moody jazz number that she didn’t recognise. The few tables that there were in the room were humming with young men in uniform, smoking, chatting and drinking. Elsie counted just eight women in total—all of them encircled by a gaggle of desperate young men.

  ‘I’ll get these,’ a soldier said, handing a note to the barman. ‘My name’s Ted.’

  Elsie smiled. ‘This is Aileen,’ she said, pushing her towards him. ‘Be careful, she bites.’

  ‘Nice,’ Ted laughed.

  Aileen pulled a thank you very much face but began chatting to the soldier regardless.

  Elsie turned back to face the bar and sipped her drink. Her mind began to shift onto work and the huge amount that needed to be done to get the island’s Y-Service up to scratch. She just hoped that during a time of acute food shortages and devastating bombing raids, the authorities would see the wisdom in drafting in a flock of new linguists. Shorter was going to be a problem, of that much she was certain. She imagined the look on his toady face when she and Aileen handed in the full report that they were intending to write…

  Her thoughts suddenly became overwhelmed as she became distracted by the band. She turned around and listened. Yes, they were playing All the Things You Are. She smiled at the recollection that inundated her mind. She remembered with stark clarity the warmth of swaying to this song in Woody’s arms at the RAF dance in Hawkinge. The feelings of safety and genuine tenderness returned to her, as the memory of that night began to replay in her mind.

  ‘Dance, madam?’ someone asked.

  Elsie shook her head, annoyed that the memory had been curtailed. She turned to the man standing beside her. ‘No, I…’ her words faltered, crashing backwards and colliding with her memories. It couldn’t be. The coincidence was impossible. ‘Woody?’

  Woody grinned. ‘That’s me. Dance?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  23rd January 1942, Valletta, Malta

  ‘How…?’ Elsie stammered, almost collapsing into his arms on the dance floor.

  Woody smiled and she could see mirrored in his grey eyes the deep intensity that she herself felt inside. ‘How what?’ he teased, wrapping his arms around her.

  ‘How…everything,’ Elsie murmured. ‘How are you here? How are we dancing to this song in a smoky bar on an island in the middle of nowhere?’

  Woody laughed. ‘Pure coincidence,’ he said, before adding. ‘I really missed you, Elsie.’

  ‘I missed you, too,’ she confirmed. She held his gaze, wondering if he could feel the thud-thudding race of her heart. She wanted him to answer the questions that she had just asked. She wanted him to answer the raft of other questions that were bouncing around, unspoken inside her head. But the words were shrivelled by the depth of the moment.

  She leant in and kissed him. She wanted more but felt his body tighten against her. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered.

  ‘We need to talk. I’ve got some things I need to get off my chest.’

  The ending of the song coupled with his words and broke the spell. She had things she desperately needed to say to him. She glanced around the room and spotted an empty table. Threading her fingers through his, she led him over to it. She sat beside him and stared at his handsome face, still unable to believe quite that he was here.

  ‘Okay, so to answer your questions,’ Woody began. ‘It’s not quite a coincidence. I’ve been looking for you. You didn’t write to me as you promised and I was worried. I managed to track you down to West Kingsdown and I went to your old billet and one of your friends there told me that your husband was still alive and that you were back together.’ He lifted her hand and observed her ring finger. ‘I needed to know for myself, so I got an immediate transfer to 69 Squadron who are based here—they’re crying out for reconnaissance pilots. I arrived on the island two days ago. I must say, after what your friend told me, I’m surprised by your welcome.’ He smiled coyly. ‘She was very persuasive that you were back together and said you definitely wouldn’t want to see me.’

  Bloody Rosemary. It had to be her, sticking her haughty oar in where it wasn’t wanted.

  But, actually, Rosemary had done her a favour. The cloud of complex emotions, regret and fantasies that Woody’s arrival had just stirred up inside her instantly dispersed, leaving just one lucid line of thinking.

  She nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, Laurie is alive,’ Elsie confirmed. ‘But I don’t love him,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I never have…but it’s more complicated than that...’ Her words drifted and her gaze fell. ‘I’ve done something...’ She shook her head, as the strength of her emotion rose to her face, flushing her cheeks and moistening her eyes.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he whispered, ‘I’ve made mistakes, too…If you don’t love him, then—’

  ‘—No,’ she said with a firm shake of her head. She stood from the table. ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Woody.’

  ‘Elsie, wait!’ Woody begged.

  She heard his pleas but stumbled hastily through the bar and out into the cold night air and began to run back towards the War Rooms. She flinched when he called out her name, but she kept on running. She kept going until her lungs were exhausted. Once in the openness of Opera Square, she stopped and hunched over, resting her hands on her thighs, struggling for air. Her eyes scanned the black streets for movement, but there was none; he hadn’t followed her.

  Eventually, her heartbeat returned to near-normal and she hastened to the War Rooms, descending the dimly-lit staircase at a pace. She moved quickly through the labyrinth of murky tunnels, passing by her sleeping quarters and heading on to the Filter Section Room. At this hour, it would be empty, but still she tapped lightly on the door and waited for a response. Nothing. She pushed the handle and the door swung open. Switching on the pathetically soft yellow light, Elsie sat down at the typewriter and loaded in a sheet of paper.

  She woke with a start, pain searing into her neck. Slowly and agonisingly, she hoisted her upper body from the desk. Several seconds of blissful ignorance passed, as she gaped around the Filter Section Room, before the events of the previous night and her reason for being here caught up with her. She stretched her arms and tried to roll her neck but the pain was too intense. What she needed now, more than anything, was a long bath. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had a full, hot bath. It must have been more than two years—surely that counted as some kind of a war crime.

  She allowed her mind to fully reawaken before she contemplated moving. Outside the room, she could hear the usual sounds of the underground warren coming to life, ready for another day’s activity: the metallic crunch of doors opening and closing; muffled orders being barked; the sharp clipping of RAF-issue shoes on the stone floor. What time was it? She turned to see the large clock on the wall. It was just approaching six o’clock in the morning.

  Standing up, she straightened her uniform, picked up the typed report and headed for the door, hoping that she could make it to her bedroom to tidy herself up before she encountered anyone in authority. She pulled open the door and peered out. The corridor was empty, so she hurried purposefully back to her room.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Aileen demanded as Elsie crept inside. ‘I’ve been worried sick. I’ve not slept a wink.’ She was sitting on the side of her bed in uniform, fretting.

  Elsie could see the concern on her friend’s face and regretted not having told her wh
at she had been doing. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘What happened?’ Aileen asked. ‘Was that Woody you were with last night?’ Elsie gave a confirming nod then Aileen continued: ‘One moment you were there, then the next you’d vanished. You can imagine what I thought you were up to, so I didn’t worry until I got back here. But then when you failed to show up I didn’t dare go to sleep.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Elsie repeated. She handed over the report. ‘I was typing this—can you read it please? I’m going to hand it to Shorter then request to leave the island.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Aileen stammered.

  ‘Because I want to get away from this dreadful place,’ Elsie ranted. ‘Let’s face it, it’s doomed. With men like Shorter running the show it’s only a matter of time before the starving, bombed-out people of the island give in and I for one don’t want to be here when the Germans and Italians invade. Besides which, we’ve achieved what we came here to do.’

  Aileen stood up and took Elsie’s hand in hers. ‘What’s the real reason?’

  Her kindness was too much. Elsie broke down and told her everything.