by I'll Get By
‘Thank you, sir.’
Leo laughed. ‘You won’t thank me when you’re up there. Off you go then. Follow Collins and stick to him like glue.’
Surprisingly, both Eddie and his craft made it back, her faulty wing causing the craft to flap along the runway like an injured duck, her tail wagging from side to side. The watching pilots set up a cheer.
‘If he can fly that thing he can fly anything,’ Collins said when they walked into the ops room. ‘Well done, Eddie my boy. Go and get yourself some breakfast if there’s any left.’
The mechanics scratched their heads and gazed with pity upon Eddie’s ugly aircraft.
It was half past seven the next morning, when the telephone in the office rang.
Somebody cracked, ‘If that’s Hitler tell him to call back next month, I intend to sleep until then.’
‘Good luck to you?’
‘What day is it?’ someone else said through an extended yawn.
‘Wednesday.’
‘Dash it all . . . I hate Wednesdays.’
‘Scramble! Scramble!’
Pulling on life preservers, helmets and goggles, and grabbing up a parachute as they went, four of the pilots raced towards their orderly row of serviced Spitfires, their propellers just visible against a false dawn. Adrenalin gave their feet wings. Leo was one of them.
Engines coughed, fired, coughed again and fired up. Soon they began to peel off the rank and roar along the runway, water spitting from their tyres.
The sky was overcast, the land and sky sandwiched together with a smear of inky clouds.
Leo flew automatically, breaking free of earth and taking his plane up through the cloud and through a saturation of water that scrubbed over his craft’s metal skin. With nowhere else to go it shattered into droplets at the edge of the wing, and was scattered back into the vapour it had just left.
He broke through the cloud cover at 10,000 feet, and the sudden burst into a blaze of dazzling sunshine and azure sky reminded him for a moment of his Australian homeland.
But he had no room for nostalgia – no time to ponder on the welfare of his family – on his mother, father, and his brother, Alex, who’d married Esmé’s best friend, Minnie. They were safe unless, or until, the Asian countries became involved.
His companions were still with him; at the same time he was given a bearing of where the enemy had been spotted on the radar.
It was not long before the intruder was within their sights. It was a lone, twin-engined Dornier bomber, probably checking the coast for weather conditions or looking for convoys.
The Spitfires attacked one by one, and though the Dornier put up a fight it was soon banking in a cloud of smoke. It fell into the sea off Yarmouth and sank. There were no survivors.
There were other German planes on reconnaissance, guarded by numerous single-engined Messerschmitts.
Something was brewing . . .
The raids that day had a different pattern to them and were more numerous. The pilots began to show their exhaustion, and that was reflected in the losses.
The German aircraft kept coming in hundreds, and they were unrelenting. The squadron was kept busy.
In Whitehall Meggie was trawling through recent For Sale notices in newspapers when she came across the words sea and lion, either grouped together or mentioned separately in the same sentence. She crossed referenced them with a couple of editorial letters, but could make nothing sensible from the anagram.
The fact that sea was mentioned might be related to a convoy. The lion could be referring to the British coat of arms. Where else were there lions? Piccadilly circus . . . a zoo – Leo – Africa – golden syrup tins.
She hesitated. There was a biblical quote on the tin. ‘Out of the strong came forth sweetness.’ The legend was that Samson had slaughtered a lion. Later he discovered that bees had taken up residence in the lion’s body. Samson had tasted the honey and from that the adage of sweetness from strength had arisen.
So many mentions were too much of a coincidence.
With Nick having been out of the office for several days, supposedly visiting his ailing father in the country, she typed up her report and placed a sealed carbon copy in Gordon Frapp’s in-tray, along with her list of sources.
The original, she placed on Nick’s desk. It was gone the next morning, along with a couple of less urgent reports. She said nothing in case it caused gossip.
Gordon Frapp knew office protocol as well as she did, and could have noticed for himself if he’d bothered to look.
Frapp’s eyes gleamed when he read his copy.
‘Excellent, my dear. I was working on that one myself. We should have synchronized our findings. Is Lord Cowan not back yet?’ It was said too casually.
Truthfully, she said, ‘He may be, but I haven’t seen him.’
Frapp picked up the telephone and said he needed to see Bethuen urgently. He came back from the meeting with a pleased look on his face.
Bethuen called her into the office and leaned back in his chair. ‘I believe you helped Mr Frapp collate that sea lion information. Well done, young lady. That information is now on its way to Bletchley Park. It will be a feather in our departmental caps.’
Judith winked at her when she left, both of them knowing that only one person was likely to receive a feather, Bethuen himself.
‘I’ll be home a bit late tonight,’ Judith said when the door closed on her boss. ‘I’m going to have a drink with Alan Gibbs before he rejoins his ship. I’ll warm my dinner up when I get home.’
Later that day Frapp approached her and grumbled, ‘Bethuen has just given me a dressing down. He said he came out of it with egg on his face. Apparently, intelligence about Operation Sea Lion was delivered the night before. He said to be sure of our facts next time, and to do things through Lord Cowan. How can we when he’s absent all the time? Are you sure you haven’t seen him?’
‘Of course I’m sure. I don’t suppose we’re the only people doing this sort of work, do you?’
Nick turned up two days later in the afternoon. He looked pale and drawn.
Waiting until Gordon had left for the day he came to her desk, where she was busy covering up her typewriter.’
‘I have a bullet in my arm and it needs to be dug out. No questions asked. Can you do it?’
Her blood ran cold. ‘I haven’t got the stomach for that sort of thing. I could ask my aunt. She’s a nurse. But I know that she’d tell me to take you to outpatients.’
‘Who would be duty bound to report it to the authorities. I don’t want to involve her.’
‘What if I faint?’
He grinned. ‘I’ll faint with you, so you’ll have company.’
‘Be serious Nick.’
‘I am being serious. I would have dug it out myself if I could reach. But it’s in my left arm, and I’m left-handed and can’t manage it with my right. When we leave here follow me down to the river. My boat’s moored there and it has a first aid kit. The boat’s called Petite Coccinelle.’
Little Ladybird. What a pretty name to give a boat, she thought, dreading what lay ahead. ‘Give me time to lock this file in the cabinet first and tidy up.’
She reached the boat fifteen minutes later.
The boat was a small yacht with a navy-blue hull and her name painted in gold in an oblong of paler blue. The decks were varnished, though scuffed in places. It was the size of boat that could be managed by one person, and just the thing a navy man would own for his pleasure. That’s if he was a navy man. She had the feeling his uniform was one of convenience. Despite his unpredictable nature, there was a conventionality about Nick that was part of his upbringing, mostly kept for public display.
She stepped aboard and down the couple of steps into the small cabin. He’d changed from his uniform trousers into casual grey ones. His feet were clad only in grey socks. Obviously, he kept a change of clothes on his boat, as he was half out of his shirt.
‘Good . . . it didn’t take you
long to get here.’
He had everything laid out ready on a padded sheet, a scalpel and hook, a bottle of iodine and some cotton wool, a pad of lint and a bandage. There was also a bowl of water and some soap to wash her hands in.
She blanched, and sucked in a breath when he pulled his shirt half off and the sleeve from his arm. The sight of the angry red lumps made her feel queasy.
He said, ‘It’s gone through the side and is lodged just under the skin at the back. It’s only a small bullet, little more than an air pistol. All you have to do is make a cut over the lump and hook the bullet out. Not too deep.’
‘I . . . I don’t know if I can.’
‘Let me assure you that you can. It will be like lifting an almond from its shell. Do it now, Margaret. The sooner it’s out the sooner it will heal.’
‘It will hurt you.’
‘No more than it’s hurting me now; I didn’t pick you for a coward. Get on with it . . . I can stand the pain and I’ll talk you through it.’
His tone of voice was scathing. Reluctantly she washed her hands and picked up the scalpel.
‘Use the iodine first. Saturate the cotton wool and swab both wounds. They’re fairly clean, but a bit more won’t hurt.’
Her hands were shaking when she approach the swelling with the scalpel.
‘Take the bullet firmly between your finger and thumb. Then when the skin is taut, run the blade of the scalpel gently over it. Mind you don’t cut yourself at the same time.’
‘Eeeeek!’ She made the noise along with the cut. There was a small release of blood and she gulped back an urge to turn and run.
‘Pull yourself together. Use the hook and pull the bullet from the percussion cap end.’
‘What’s a percussion cap?’
‘The flat end. You won’t have to probe very far. If it won’t come out you’ll have to use your fingers and go a little deeper.’
‘I’d prefer it if you were willing to die of blood poisoning.’
He laughed. ‘I dare say you would, but I wouldn’t prefer to.’
With a bit of persuasion and a couple of intakes of breath from Nick, the bullet came out.
‘Thank goodness,’ she exclaimed, almost to herself. Making a pad with the lint she pressed it against the wound, then firmly bandaged it. Washing her hands she gazed at him. His face was bathed in sweat, and so was hers. ‘Are you all right, Nick?’
He nodded. ‘You?’
‘I can’t really tell, though I’m trembling.’
‘There’s half a bottle of brandy and a couple of glasses in that locker. Pour us a nip each while I get my spare shirt out from under the bench.’
‘I’ll get it, it will be quicker.’
He tore the dirty shirt from his body and threw it in a bloodied heap.
She could feel his glance on her as she got his clean shirt on and buttoned it. He slid his feet into a pair of brown Oxfords. ‘Don’t bother with the tie.’
He was tautly muscled and strong. ‘Your other shirt is ruined.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Help me on with that roll-necked sweater, if you would.’
She glanced up at him, her eyes tangling with the smoky grey of his. A chuckle escaped from him. ‘Go on then, ask me.’
‘I have no intention of asking you how you happened to get shot, if that’s what you’re talking about.’
He stopped, allowing his beautiful mouth to engage hers in a moment or two of sublime pleasure. She was growing used to his kisses, looking forward to them. ‘That’s good because I’ve got no intention of telling you.’
She reached for the brandy and glasses, handing them to him. His hands shook as he poured a small amount into each glass.
‘You’re suffering from shock.’
‘It will go in a minute or two.’
‘I’ll just get rid of this,’ she said, picking up the bowl of bloodied water.
Making her way up the ladder she tipped it over the side and lay on her front to rinse the bowl in the river. Her head felt swimmy when she went below again. The first thing she saw was Nick’s discarded shirt, which he’d picked up and thrown into a waste paper basket. Although the blood was dried, it served to remind her that she couldn’t stomach blood.
She smiled at his fading image, said weakly, ‘I can’t believe I dug a bullet out of your arm. Remember I told you the sight of blood often made me . . . feel . . . faint . . .’
He caught her before her knees completely buckled, drawing her down on to the bench and against his shoulder. ‘Here, drink this, it will help.’
The brandy fumes brought her round quickly. She spluttered and coughed when the liquor hit her stomach like a firebolt. Crossly, she said. ‘They might have killed you.’
‘Who might have?’
‘The person who shot you.’
‘Why should you care?’
‘I don’t . . . what have you been up to, Nick Cowan?’
He laughed. ‘If I told you I doubt if you’d believe it.’
‘Try me.’
‘I was shot while exiting a lady’s boudoir through her bedroom window.’
She didn’t know whether to believe him or not and stared at him. The disgruntled innocence in his expression would have disarmed her if it were not for the devilment lurking in his eyes. ‘Are you disappointed?’
‘Why should I be disappointed?’
‘Because you’d rather I was shot leaving your boudoir.’
Her mind scrambled with the accuracy of that thought. ‘Hah! I would have shot you before you got in. It would have served you right if her husband had killed you.’
‘It was her mother who shot me . . . she was jealous and trying to stop me from escaping her clutches.’
Meggie burst into laughter, knowing she would never get at the truth about what had happened. Feeling stronger, she straightened. ‘I’m going home. I like to spend as much time as I can with my aunt, and Judith won’t be there until later.’
His glance took her in and he made a humming noise in his throat. ‘I’ll take you.’
‘Thanks, Nick, but you should rest.’
‘I’ll take you. Well done on the sea lion thing, by the way. I bet Bethuen was fuming when he found out.’
‘Nobody likes being made a fool of. He gave Gordon Frapp a dressing down, and told him to go through you from now on. Had Gordon checked your desk he would have known you were around, but he preferred to blame it on me, rather than act on it earlier.’
‘And you didn’t tell him.’
‘I’m not going to help either of you score points off each other, especially when the security of the country is at stake. I don’t want to be part of your games. I’ve got enough to worry about.’
She picked up her bag. ‘Goodnight, Nick, I’m going. I don’t want to be caught in an air raid.’ Leaving, she jumped ashore and walked rapidly away.
He caught her up five minutes later, and placed a paper carrier bag in her hands. This is a gift for your Aunt Esmé. No doubt she’ll share it with you.’
‘What is it?’
‘This-and-that. Some smoked bacon . . . gooseberries and asparagus, cheese. Biscuits . . . a bar of chocolate perhaps. Everything that’s bad for you.’
‘You’re bad for me.’
‘Taking her hand in his he kissed her palm, and then smiled. ‘You were brave to remove that bullet.’
‘You were braver for bullying me into doing it.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me if what I said was true?’
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you even curious?’
‘I’m not in the least bit interested.’
‘You’re a liar.’
‘I know . . . and you’re acting like a child, playing games. If you’re going to tell me, then do. If you’re not, well . . . that’s fine.’
Taking her by the shoulders he turned her round to face him. ‘Except this game is too real and deadly for children to play, Meggie. You know I can’t discuss what I do. I can’t tru
st anyone.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’ She touched his cheek and softened her voice. ‘There’s someone you can trust in case you ever feel the need. I’m going. There will be a bus along the Strand in a minute and I’ll take that, since it will get me nearer to where I’m going. Look after your arm.’
Meggie, he’d called her, but not for the first time. He’d called her Meggie Elliot when he’d delivered the food hamper to the flat, and at that stage he hadn’t met any of the people who did call her that. No wonder she’d thought it odd when he’d first used it. He couldn’t have known her family nickname was Meggie then.
He sighed. ‘You certainly know how to stonewall people. I’ll make sure you get on the bus safely.’
‘As you wish.’
She really wanted to be alone, to think. Her mind was already a jumble of questions and answers.
He was left-handed. He solved cryptic crosswords. She gazed at his shoes. Oxford brogues. Brown! What more proof did she need? Her heart began to thump erratically, and then a little niggle of common sense stamped its foot. She was constructing a scenario out of something too flimsy to be true.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he said.
‘Of course I am.’ But she remembered the burglar, and felt herself falling into a deep, dark hole. She was tempted to leave it alone. What mattered was that the burglar had returned the goods he’d stolen. It showed that he had a conscience.
But no, it wasn’t all that mattered, it was the fact that he’d frightened both herself and her aunt, and just for the heck of it. She must find a way to bring this out into the open, and without involving her aunt and uncle.
He was involved in something far deeper than she’d expected if people were shooting at him. Perhaps she’d got it all wrong. ‘What if it was all a coincidence!’ she said out loud.
‘If what was a coincidence?’
She blinked. ‘Sorry, I was thinking of something else.’
‘Allow me bring your mind back to me.’ He tipped up her chin and kissed her, feathering her mouth with his so the thought of him making love to her sent darts of desire into all her most sensitive places.
Please don’t let him be the burglar, she thought.
On Monday she opened a new file. Inside, she placed the crossword and a list of what the man had taken, and when. What he’d worn. She put the date of when they were returned and the method. Also the newspaper cuttings, and copies of the statements she and Esmé had made to Constable Duffy.
