“We’ve been having a spot of bother at this particular factory over the past few weeks,” went on the major. Not a word about possible sabotage, Haynes. Nothing about the engine coolant leaks that for some reason always seem to spray the ignition wires—nothing about how every petrol leak seems to be in just the right place to splash the windscreen. Nothing about the ailerons out of kilter, never mind how very odd it is they fit the wrong number of balance weights as often as they do. And if they really have to walk across the wings, contrary to common sense and every order you can think of, why is it always between ribs five and eight, so the wheels won’t lock in the “up” position? Nothing dangerous, exactly—any fool can recognise dissolving wires or perspex or ailerons out of adjustment or wheels that won’t quite lock—but it’s the damnable delay. Spitfires are being shot down faster than we can build them, and there are far too many that can’t go straight into service when we have built them. And nothing about the equipment breakdowns. Of course, we’re driving it all harder and faster than the manufacturers ever dreamed, but... No, nothing about any of that. Fob the girl off with any damned excuse you like. Just get her there, and find out if this crazy idea of yours that she’ll see right to the heart of the problem is worth the strain on everyone’s nerves.
And on your head be it if it isn’t ...
“A spot of bother,” echoed Miss Seeton with a nod and a faint smile. Evidently her casual remark about the early maturity of country girls had disconcerted the poor major. One must suppose a military man to be acquainted with the facts of life, but—accustomed to plain speaking among her colleagues as she was—she had forgotten that her spinster status might render such topics somewhat embarrassing in mixed company, whether the major was a father of ten or ... a confirmed bachelor.
At this final thought Miss Seeton knew herself to blush. She hoped Major Haynes would interpret this as a display of fellow feeling for his gentlemanly embarrassment.
She suspected that perhaps he might not.
The blush grew more intense. “A spot of bother,” said Miss Seeton once more, and firmly. “For which a welfare officer is needed—one who has some knowledge of girls and young women.” She nodded at him and managed a smile. “You haven’t, I hope, forgotten that I have not been blessed by nature with a mechanical mind?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” said the major with a grin. “We won’t ask you to make the things, just to keep an eye on the ones who make ’em—on what’s happening there.”
“But surely,” ventured Miss Seeton, “there must already be someone at the factory who—”
“An outsider’s eye,” the major hurried on, for once forgetting his manners. Miss Seeton subsided. “It’s because,” persisted Haynes, “you’ll be an outsider—because you won’t understand most of what’s going on on the factory floor—that you might well notice things that—don’t quite fit the usual pattern, Miss Seeton. You have the artist’s eye, and you’ll bring a different perspective to things—if I have the terminology correct.”
Miss Seeton intimated that (depending on what exactly he was trying to say) she believed he had.
Major Haynes grinned. “Good. So that’s settled. You can keep your eyes open on our behalf, and report back when—if—you notice anything that isn’t quite right. Anything nobody else seems to have noticed—I’m not explaining this terribly well, am I?”
Miss Seeton murmured that she was only too happy to go where she was sent and to do what she was asked. Even so indifferent an artist as herself could play her part, given her experience of schoolgirls, always provided that she was asked to act only within her capabilities of—of a supervisory nature, rather than—as it were—tutorial ...
“Exactly,” said Major Haynes as she hesitated and once more subsided. “You’re a teacher, specialising in art: so we’ll call you a Civilian War Artist. We won’t ask you to wear a uniform ...” (“That spooky young wench in the armed forces? Great God forbid!” had been the reaction of Captain Grange and the others when the question of Miss Seeton’s official status was being discussed.) “... and we’ll pay you as such, but we hope you won’t object to combining two roles in one. You’ll be there as nominal assistant to the welfare officer, but with a brief to sketch on our behalf what you think might be of interest to us, in such spare time as they allow you.”
He did not add that at this stage the factory was working round the clock, and Miss Seeton’s spare time was likely to be limited. He was banking on the way she seemed to know without knowing the important from the trivial, and to show this in her sketches; he was hoping that whatever was going so badly wrong would somehow draw—draw!—itself to her attention above the desperate work of aeroplane assembly.
“Civilian war artist.” Miss Seeton tested the term once or twice and nodded. He wanted her, of course, to sketch enough of—of whatever happened in an aircraft factory to be adapted for use in Ministry of Information leaflets. It was surely not—she felt a blush rise in her modest cheek—surely not immodest to say that she, Emily Dorothea Seeton, was in truth a wise choice for such a task. Someone like herself, lacking all mechanical knowledge—one had, over the years, viewed several documentary “shorts” at the cinema before the main feature film, but these, while interesting, were necessarily of general rather than specific interest ... someone like herself would have no idea of what she was sketching, and would therefore be incapable of endangering the security of the nation. Anything she might draw that was of vital importance would be recognised and—before it could cause any harm, no matter how unwitting—be speedily removed by the authorities to whom her sketches would be sent, while an artist with expert knowledge of what she saw would not be able to help letting something slip—and in more detail than a nonknowledgeable artist could achieve—no matter how much care was taken to control the conscious mind. The subconscious, as Miss Seeton knew all too well, would always find a way, which could only result in wasted time for everyone concerned. And time, in war, was one of the most precious commodities in the world.
“If you need me,” said Miss Seeton, “I believe I could be ready by the end of the week. There are the children, you see, and the canteen. It would be unfair to abandon them at short notice without having at least tried to make alternative arrangements ... and then, there is my mother.” Her eyes as she looked at the major were now sad. “There are no aircraft factories in Hampstead, or within easy reach of home,” she said. “Which is one of the sacrifices we have agreed must be made, is it not? For me to leave my mother on her own ...”
“I’m afraid so,” said Major Haynes. Without thinking, he reached across the desk to pat her hand, and without thinking, Miss Seeton smiled at him before gently withdrawing it.
“My mother,” she said firmly, “will understand. It is no more than my dear father would have expected of us both, I’m sure.” She blinked away another tear and sighed.
“I’m sure, too,” said the major sympathetically. “From what I’ve read of him, he was a true-blue patriot—and that reminds me, Miss Seeton.” From beneath her three as-yet-unclaimed sketchbooks on the blotter he pulled a sheet of printed paper, headed by an embossed miniature lion and unicorn supporting the mantled shield and imperial crown of the royal coat of arms. Underneath this achievement was the motto Dieu et Mon Droit—God and my right—and surmounting the whole were the letters “OHMS.”
“We’ve agreed we’ll appoint you a civilian war artist,” said Major Haynes. “It sounds good, will satisfy the most curious gossips, and covers a multitude of possibilities. You could be sent anywhere in the country, you could be asked to work at almost anything—but whatever you do, the main thing will be for you to keep your eyes open and sketch what you see and let us have the sketches when we ask for them. Understood?”
“Yes,” said Miss Seeton, who thought she did, and was grateful for the major’s implied assurance that she would not be required to travel abroad in these uncertain times. Her heart, she suspected, could never be fully engage
d in her appointed task if she was overanxious about her mother, alone in London and concerned, as she was bound to be, for her daughter’s welfare. Realistically Miss Seeton knew that sacrifice in war was always necessary, and she was happy to play her part ... if, that was, no one else could be found to play it better—which she felt sure, in most instances, would be the case, although of course if it was her duty ...
“Parachute drops,” she murmured, hoping it would never come to that—which (should she remain in England) seemed unlikely—although in time of war, of course, one never really knew ...
“Ahem—we’ll send you by train,” said Major Haynes, suppressing, despite the gravity of the moment, a hurried laugh. “We’ll issue travel permits and so on—but before we arrange all that, you, Miss Seeton, have to sign this.” He brandished the OHMS paper embossed with the Royal Arms. “After,” he added, “reading it through carefully, making sure that you understand it.”
He passed the paper across the desk, and Miss Seeton received it with due ceremony. Her quick eye had caught the heading printed under the Royal Arms: The Official Secrets Acts 1911-39.
She settled herself to read.
DECLARATION.
My attention has been drawn to the provisions of the Official Secrets Act which are printed overleaf ...
Miss Seeton turned the document over and studied it with extreme care.
I am aware that serious consequences, including prosecution, may follow any breach of these provisions by me.
I understand that, amongst other things, I must not:
(a) communicate in any form to another person information about the work carried out (directly or otherwise) for the Government, by my employer—
“That’s us,” said Major Haynes, who had been watching her closely. “Section G.” He saw no need to add that the government department of which “G” was but one section was military intelligence.
“Section G,” echoed Miss Seeton. Graham? Geoffrey? She pulled herself together, and read on.
—nor discuss this work with any other person;
(b) retain or remove drawings, notebooks or other documents or things relating to this work;
(c) photograph or otherwise make copies of or extracts from drawings, notebooks or other documents or things relating to this work;
unless in respect of any of these matters I am expressly authorised, requested or required by [name of Senior Company Official]—
“That’s me,” said Major Haynes helpfully.
Miss Seeton glanced at him, and smiled.
—to do so for the purpose of my work.
I also understand that the Official Secrets Acts apply to me both during and after the completion of the work in question, and that these provisions apply not only during the period of my appointment but also after my appointment has ceased. I also understand that I must surrender any documents, etc. referred to in Section 2 (1) of the Act if I am transferred from one post to another—
“We’ll supply you with as many sketchbooks as you need,” translated Major Haynes, “but you won’t be able to let the children have them to draw on the back of the sheets.”
—save such as have been issued to me for my personal retention.
“We’d rather you didn’t keep any souvenirs,” said Haynes apologetically. “No scrap paper, no rough notes.”
I confirm that my attention has been drawn to the continuing effect of the provision of the Official Secrets Acts and to the Declaration made overleaf by me.
Miss Seeton, after noting the space for her signature, turned back.
... and I am fully aware of the serious consequences which may follow any breach of these provisions.
Signed.
Date.
Witness.
“You sign,” said Haynes, “and I’ll witness. And once we’ve done that, Miss Seeton, you’re in. You’re mine.” He coughed. “That is to say, you’re ours—for the duration ... however long that might be.”
He leaned forward and gazed at her. “However long that might be,” he repeated slowly. “Winston has hopes that the British Empire and its Commonwealth will last for a thousand years. Well, as things stand right now, we have no way of knowing if they’ll last a thousand minutes, Miss Seeton—but however long they last, you, like me, will remain bound by the Official Secrets Act. If you decide in thirty years’ time to write your autobiography, you won’t be able to write a word about what you did in the war.”
“I shouldn’t wish to,” said Miss Seeton with resolution. “The very idea that I should make a display of myself, when there is no good reason to do so—I lead such a quiet life, you see, and cannot imagine why anyone should be the least interested in my affairs ...”
“That’s the spirit,” said Major Haynes with approval. He opened the top drawer of his desk and drew out a slim, gold-plated fountain pen, unscrewing the top to reveal an elegant nib.
“You first,” he said, and Miss Seeton duly signed.
chapter
~ 11 ~
THE RATTLING RHYTHM of the wheels of the train—diddly-dum, diddly-dah, diddly-dum, diddly-dah—would have soothed anyone to sleep, even if the July night had not been so hot and the carriages so stuffy. Behind the heavy blackout blinds, each window of every carriage had been methodically suffocated against attack from the air by fine-meshed wire net; these essential air-raid precautions had made it so great an effort to move the glass even an inch up or down that nobody had done so—with the inevitable result that, to those inside, ventilation was nothing more than a word to be serendipitously encountered near the end of the dictionary.
Miss Seeton felt her eyelids droop, despite all her attempts to keep awake. Lack of fresh air, no doubt. And she did not dare leave her seat to find the guard and ask him to tell her when they reached her destination. For one thing, she could not easily move from that seat without disturbing a large number of people; for another, it would be unwise to do so even if she could. In peacetime (she reflected sadly) there would have been no cause to worry that, on her return, the seat would have been taken: but this train, like all trains now, was so crowded that its very corridors were full of people balanced on suitcases or slumped, trying to sleep, in corners on the floor, while in nearly every side compartment five backsides had been squeezed by their determined owners into the space designated officially for four. Not for the first time in her life Miss Seeton found herself thankful that she had inherited her mother’s dainty frame rather than her father’s splendid physique.
Diddly-dum, diddly-dah, diddly-dum, diddly-dah ... Miss Seeton’s eyes closed. Diddly-dum, diddly-dah, did-did-did-dah-di-dah-di-dum-dum-dum ...
Miss Seeton’s eyes flew open. In the sickly light from the solitary blue bulb, she blinked round at her fellow passengers, all shaking and stretching themselves as the train clattered and clanked and rolled and swayed its way onward over the points.
The points! Two tracks merging or separating—that was all it was, and not the rattle of hostile machine-gun fire, or the thunder of shrapnel from antiaircraft guns blazing at the enemy as he swooped overhead—nothing more sinister than the points.
Nothing ... yet.
But one had heard such dreadful tales from Europe, and with invasion still expected any moment ...
Miss Seeton shivered. The elderly gentleman sitting next to her smiled vaguely, patted her hand, and nodded back to sleep again without a word.
The others in that cramped, airless compartment shifted awkwardly on the horsehair-prickled seats and tried not to meet one another’s gaze in case they saw their own fears mirrored or—far worse—magnified there. Miss Seeton, reminding herself that a soldier’s daughter should display no fear, lowered her eyes. Faces that in daytime, at the start of the journey, had looked normal and healthy, now looked grotesque and unnatural, almost unearthly, in the pale blue light, as one might imagine a band of troglodytes in their underground fastness, clammy and cold and like to shrivel into horrified dust should the sun’s rays even tou
ch their livid skin.
Or a railway carriage full of corpses ...
Miss Seeton’s lids no longer drooped. At the thought of what she might see should she fall asleep again, she had come wide-awake. She stared at her hands, clasped on her lap; she stared beyond her hands to her knees, veiled from sight by decorous tweed. She stretched her legs in their discreet lisle stockings—perhaps, in such hot weather, a mistake, but so hard-wearing compared with silk when, war or no war, she could not quite bring herself to go bare-legged—and saw two small feet laced in well-polished leather swing into view. She sighed as she wondered how long it would be before shoe polish became a luxury of the peacetime past. Her mother had pored over the pages of Enquire Within Upon Everything (which invaluable vade mecum had been a wedding present) and warned that they must set aside a small stock of ivory black, treacle, olive oil, vitriol, vinegar, glue, soft soap, and isinglass against that evil day. “But of course, Emily dear, no more than our fair share,” Alice had added as her daughter dutifully noted down the ingredients for Paste Blacking and French Polish for Boots and Shoes. “We wouldn’t wish to take advantage once such things were rationed, would we?”
Miss Seeton sighed again as she swung her feet back to the floor. Pale blue light on gleaming brown leather had produced a strange illusion of pearls under moonlit water—poisoned pearls that had killed the people whose dead eyes she would meet if she glanced around the carriage ...
She was tired—that was all. She must banish these grim visions by pondering some problem that would turn her thoughts—would make her concentrate—in a less uncomfortable direction.
Uncomfortable made her consider her journey. The pale blue light and the blackout blinds were, she felt, rather pointless. Not that she knew anything about the railways, but one couldn’t help noticing the signals, and especially the signal lights. Red and yellow lights that could surely be seen as well by overhead enemies as by engine drivers on the ground. Did not rays of light travel in straight lines in all directions? Which must mean upwards as well as horizontally. And surely an enemy who wanted an English train to attack had only to see the flicker of a railway signal from the air and then to ... home in on it? If that was the phrase. Sparks from the funnel—steam, billowing out behind, glowing silvery white in the blacked-out darkness under the treacherous stars ...
Miss Seeton's Finest Hour (A Miss Seeton Mystery) Page 9
