‘She is still on leave, I take it?’
‘Compassionate leave, of course. Not a whole lot of fun thinking one might well be shot for something one didn’t do. Fair enough if one did – but not at all if one did not.’
‘Hanged, Cissie old thing,’ Harvey corrected her. ‘We don’t shoot traitors here – we hang ’em. Is she near recovered? Someone like that, given that sort of jolt, they often turn into v. useful material. Even if they are the wrong sex. She could be of use to yours very truly, et cetera, now that the pushing in the back is about to become a kick up la derrière.’
‘We could always ask. She was pencilled in for a soft posting,’ Cissie replied, consulting her files. ‘Meant to be going to the Bahamas to work as a housekeeper and keep an eye on the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.’
‘Not soft – dull. Deadly dull. Not my most favourite duo. Not that she’d be needed out there either. Hear the American Secret Service is all over them. They can hardly open a letter without our cousins across the water wiring us its contents. Anyway – as far as the girl goes I have to say not a good business at all, finally.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning arresting the wrong girl. Gives the opposition time to continue with their nefarious deeds, old thing – puts bone in their meat, too, gives ’em the impression they’re top dogs. Won’t do – not in my book. We’ve had God knows how many agents across Europe blown in the past two months as you know, and that is not good for us, and I’ll bet those who do not love us as much as we love ourselves are feeling quite gooey with pleasure – and we cannot have that, we really, really cannot. Extraordinary what makes people cross the floor, you know. I remember one bloke changing his loyalties simply because his expenses were three months late. And there was I thinking it was all about patriotism when in fact it’s all about accountancy.’
‘I don’t have one idea as to where would be best for you to start,’ Cissie said carefully, allowing him the initiative.
Harvey stood up, stretching his long elegant legs.
‘Don’t worry about it, Cicely old thing,’ he said, checking the knife-edge creases in his trousers were still just that. ‘Softly, softly catchee bastard, as always. I shall sit and look and listen. Always best to concentrate on characters, keeping the weather eye out for those all bitter and twisted. Sit, look and listen and wait until you hear Nana’s bark.’
‘Nana’s bark?’ Cissie laughed. ‘Harvey – you are more than one guinea a minute.’
‘Don’t laugh, old thing. I shall prevail. I shall ferret out this whatever—’
‘Caochán.’
‘I shall find him. Or her. Or it. Nor shall I shed one little teardrop when he, she or it swings from the end of a rope. I recruited a lot of those agents who have gone down, as you know.’
Cissie nodded her agreement, and walked across the room with him to the door.
‘So wish me all the luck of the chase, old pal, won’t you?’ Harvey said.
‘I shall,’ Cissie replied. ‘And I do.’
There was one more flash of steel from the blue eyes and then he was gone, leaving Cissie Lavington startled and bewildered at the odd surge of emotions stirring within her as she realised that Harvey Constable was about to become part of the Eden Park fabric.
Chapter Eight
Marjorie had watched him go, and now sat waiting for him to come back. The day she had dreaded more than any other had finally dawned, the day Billy was old enough to volunteer, and no sooner it seemed had the candles been blown out on the birthday cake specially baked by Mrs Alderman than Billy had been off, as fast as he could bicycle, to the nearest recruitment centre. Marjorie had long ago given up trying to persuade him to wait until his call-up papers came. Her assurances that they inevitably would arrive, fell on deaf ears.
‘I don’t wanna be called up, Marge!’ Billy would protest by way of reply. ‘That looks like you’re not willing! But I am, see? I’m dead willing – and I’m not going to hang about waiting. Some blokes I heard of, they don’t ever get their papers.’
‘Probably because they’re on some sort of fiddle. A lot of people buy their way out of getting conscripted, you know.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet, Marge. But I’m not going to sit and wait for my papers. I’m going to make sure I get in the army – and the way I’m going to do that is blooming well go and blooming well volunteer.’
So off he had gone that morning, waved farewell by Marjorie and Kate after an extra early breakfast, since Billy faced a fifteen-mile ride to the nearest town with an enlistment centre and was determined to be first in the queue.
Kate had given Marjorie the warmest of hugs before they went their separate ways, knowing exactly how she felt, remembering only too well the day her own brother had gone off and enlisted and how heavy her heart had been that morning. But as so many thousands of women all over the country were finding out, mothers, sisters, wives and sweethearts, when their man was determined on fighting for his country, there was nothing that could be said to stop them. And like every other woman who felt the terrible pain of separation Kate had known the secret pride that went with it as well, that someone they loved obviously loved them back so much that he was willing to risk paying the final price for that love.
Marjorie had not yet reached that emotional point. All she could think of was Billy as she had first known him, a tiny, half-starved little boy in the terrible school where they both had been abandoned, a child who would hardly speak he was so deeply unhappy and so deeply hurt, who would have been a lost soul by now if Marjorie had not befriended him as if he was her brother, and if her wonderful Aunt Hester had not surprised them both quite utterly by adopting Billy into her little household.
They had grown up together, although Marjorie, being so much the older of the two, had always been the responsible one, the one who once Aunt Hester had been killed looked after Billy’s welfare and tried to make sure he was going to grow up in the right way. Privately she thought there was no need for him to fight. She felt sure the war was about to turn in the Allies’ favour, as most people did, and with America providing most of the troops there no longer seemed the terrible need for volunteer soldiers that there had been when Britain stood alone. No one would think less of Billy for not volunteering, she had argued, only for Kate to tell her gently that one person would, that was the person who mattered most – Billy.
And so she had sat at the window of the cottage as Billy cycled fast and furiously out of her sight. She had gone to work that morning feeling more miserable than she had for an age, hardly able to concentrate on anything that was put in front of her. Anthony tried to comfort her, but she was in her way inconsolable, for nothing could convince her otherwise than that the moment Billy put on a uniform he would be killed. That was what would happen. That was the way of war.
By lunchtime she expected him back, as promised, both of them having worked out how long the ride would take him, approximately how long the interview and subsequent medical would last, and finally how long the ride back, both of them concluding that if everything went well Billy would be back in time for a canteen lunch. But at half past one, nearly an hour after the predicted time, there was still no sign of Billy, and Marjorie was beginning to become concerned. Everyone in the know assured her that if anything had happened to him, she would have been informed, but Marjorie dismissed such notions as fallacious, reminding everyone there was a war on, and that the Germans had recently resumed their heavy bombing of key British towns and cities, one of which was being visited by her adopted brother that very day.
The afternoon seemed to drag by, with each second lasting a minute and each hour worth a day. When it was finally time to go home, Marjorie ran all the way to the cottage, half expecting the ever-cheerful Billy to fling open the door and behave as if nothing had happened, other than the usual half a dozen scrapes he had got into on his travels.
But there was no Billy, nor was there any news.
Then at nearly half past
eight Marjorie heard something and leaped to her feet. Alone, with Kate away visiting Poppy in the house in the woods, at first she feared for her life, so loud and sudden was the noise, before she recognised it as the sound of a bicycle crashing to the ground. A moment later the door burst open and Billy fell in, trying to clutch at the doorpost to stop his fall, but failing to do so and tripping heavily to the floor.
Marjorie was by his side in a second, convinced that he had been the victim of some terrible accident, only to be greeted with an overpowering smell of drink.
‘Billy?’ she said in deep bewilderment. ‘Billy – Billy, have you been drinking?’
The young man on the floor did his best to look round, trying to focus the bleariest pair of eyes Marjorie had seen in a very long time, before collapsing at her feet once again.
‘Oh, Billy,’ Marjorie sighed tetchily. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘Yes,’ Billy muttered, face down. ‘I know. Sorry, sis. Sorry.’
‘But why, Billy? Why are you drunk? No – not just drunk – why are you so drunk?’
Billy lay still as a corpse for a moment then turned his head again to try to focus on Marjorie.
‘’Cos they wouldn’t ruddy well have me, sis,’ he muttered thickly. ‘I failed the ruddy medical.’
Marjorie couldn’t help but feel intense relief. Billy wouldn’t be joining up after all, which meant that all they both had to do now was survive the war raging overhead. And since Eden Park was a long way from any likely targets their chances of survival were fairly high.
It was young Billy’s chest apparently that was at fault, something to do with an irregular heartbeat, much to Billy’s disgust and dismay. Everything else about him had been absolutely A1, he told Marjorie the next morning when, sobered up but suffering from his first hangover ever, he recounted the events of the day before.
‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I had to get me skates on, sis. We’d miscalculated how long it was going to take me by bike—’
‘You’d miscalculated, you mean. You’re the one who knows how fast you can ride your bike.’
‘Yeah – well, we didn’t take no account of the hills, did we?’
‘Any account of the hills, if you don’t mind, Billy – and you, not we,’ Marjorie corrected him as ever.
‘Point is it took a sight longer than I thought so I had to cycle like I never cycled before – and the last bit was all hill. About a one in five I reckon, and that’s not funny when you’re pushin’ on. So anyway, I get there OK – and I’m pretty much at the top of the line, and everything’s in perfect working order according to the MO. Fine physical specimen’s what he called me, till he checked the old ticker one more time, saying there was something he thought he’d heard but wasn’t too sure about.’
Marjorie nodded attentively, spreading a thin layer of margarine on a curling piece of stale toast and wondering whether the extra effort required by all the pedalling uphill might have exacerbated whatever condition it was the inspecting doctor thought Billy might have.
‘You got – I don’t know the exact words he used, Marge,’ Billy continued. ‘Sounded as if it had something to do with rhythm or something. Anyway, he said I got this heartbeat that in’t altogether regular. It sort of misses a beat now and then, and he said though it won’t kill me – least he didn’t think it would – he said he couldn’t pass me fit for active service as all the training and route marches and all that might well do me some harm.’
‘So that’s that, is it?’ Marjorie wondered, trying to look as disappointed as her adopted brother. ‘No second goes or anything like that?’
‘Nah.’ Billy shook his head and pulled a cross face. ‘All goes down on your record, don’t it? Dicky ticker – NGFA. No good for active service. A bloke afterwards said if I was still keen I could always apply for a desk job, or join the NAAFI or something, but that’s not what I want to do. I don’t want to sit behind no desk or serve in no canteen when I could be out doing something useful.’
‘These things are useful in war, Billy. Someone has to do them.’
‘Not me, Marge. Over my d.b.’
‘So what are you going to do then?’
‘I’ll think of something. Don’t you worry.’
With a look of sudden determination Billy then removed himself to go and try to walk off his hangover in the park. Marjorie watched him go from the door of the cottage. He was a young man now and whatever he chose to do next there was little she could do to stop him. Even so, the fact that he had failed his medical made her jump on her own bike and speed off to the main house whistling as merrily as any errand boy.
It was Anthony Folkestone who came to Billy’s rescue. With the amount of work on his desk he possibly would never have given the young man’s quandary a second thought had it not been for Marjorie, to whom Anthony found himself more and more attracted. Knowing that she had her superior’s total support, Marjorie now felt confident enough occasionally to discuss domestic or private matters whenever there was a slight lull in their office proceedings, which was how she came to tell Anthony of Billy’s disappointment. At first Anthony considered the possibility of getting him re-examined in case there had been an error on the part of the doctor, but since Marjorie much preferred the notion of Billy’s not being a member of the armed forces she did not encourage that suggestion, telling Anthony instead that a second disappointment following another failed medical could really break Billy’s heart.
‘Poor Billy,’ he said, although he was finding it difficult to concentrate on Billy’s difficulties because Marjorie was looking so pretty. The lace of her blouse showed off the small brooch he had given her at Christmas, and the line of her neck was emphasised by the fact that she had put up her hair, while the few stray curls which had fallen out made his heart turn a small somersault.
‘He’s so cut up you wouldn’t believe it, Anthony. As cut up as all sorts of other lads all over the country will be to receive their call-up papers and be passed fit. But that’s Billy all over.’
Anthony’s concentration reverted to the matter in hand.
‘Billy’s such a bright spark, he would be wasted in a normal wartime occupation. I mean – can you imagine Billy turning out rissoles in a NAAFI canteen? He would be getting the chef to try some new recipe or trying out some new way of increasing the heat, or how to make the hens lay faster or more furiously, or working out how to feed five hundred men in five minutes rather than twenty. It doesn’t bear thinking of. No, I know that Billy has to find something he can be good at, and useful. Something where he could make the best use of his inventions, and all the rest of his nonsense.’
‘I love the idea of Billy in a NAAFI canteen.’ Anthony smiled, but as he did so he was also looking thoughtful. Billy was a cracker, a one off, one of those bright sparks that the Colonel always liked to collar and make his own. He looked across at Marjorie. The only trouble was, he reckoned that if Marjorie knew which way he was thinking of using young Billy’s gifts it might well spell the end to romance.
Jack had his initial meeting with Harvey Constable out of sight of anyone, instructing Harvey to make his way up to a small suite of rooms in the attics that were reserved for the Colonel’s use only.
It was the first time since he had known Jack that Harvey saw him visibly disconcerted. Jack pretended he was in a bad mood because the stem of his favourite Dunhill pipe had broken, and being unable to get it repaired anywhere locally he was having to make do with keeping the pipe held together by a band of thick medical adhesive wound around the offending part.
‘Damned war,’ Jack growled, trying yet again without success to keep his pipe alight. ‘Can’t get any decent tobacco and now a chap can’t even get his best pipe repaired.’
‘Could you possibly smoke another pipe out of your vast collection, sir?’ Harvey wondered as idly as he could. ‘After all, every time I see you you’re wearing a different one.’
‘I don’t happen to have another pipe with me, chum,’ Jack re
plied, flashing Harvey one of his darkest looks. ‘You imagine I’d be putting up with this for a smoke if I did?’
Harvey had guessed of course at what was really disconcerting his friend. The same matter that was occupying his own mind: the loss of all those good agents, and the sabotaging of all the fine and brave work they had been doing. No one liked the thought of dealing with double agents in the field, but what was even worse was the thought of one at work within, as Jack put it. Harvey also knew that the wild-goose chase on which he had been sent by way of the false file had embarrassed the colonel, who did not appreciate being made a fool of.
But Jack Ward was not one to waste time or energy on self-blame, nor on too much self-analysis. Jack Ward, although known never to rush into anything, did on the other hand like to get on with the job, preferring to dispense with formalities and small talk so that problems could be readily faced and hopefully soon surmounted.
‘We know now it has to be someone inside,’ he said, once the subject had been broached. ‘No one else would have been able to pass off such a good personal file from before the war. I swear to God even the dust was regulation Ministry dust, and the whole damn thing was so authentic anyone would have been fooled by it. I shouldn’t have, but I was, dammit, and so a lot of valuable time was wasted.’
‘Mmm,’ Harvey said with a tight smile. ‘And now we’re licking our wounds, are we?’
‘You know me better than that, Constable.’
‘I hope we’re still on the god-daughter’s parents’ Christmas card list.’
Jack eyed him while putting another match to his recalcitrant pipe, deciding not to dignify Harvey’s needling with any reply.
‘Got a plan of action yet, chum?’ he wondered instead, gently fanning the match to extinction. ‘You’re going to have to get cracking, you know. If we’re going to have any agents left.’
The House of Flowers Page 25
