The Wayward Wife

by Jessica Stirling

  While there was every reason to suppose that the Allied forces would repulse the onslaught, he went on reassuringly, the nation must be on its guard, extra precautions taken and as a consequence – he cleared the gravel from his throat – all leave had been cancelled.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Fireman Clarence Knotts whispered into Ronnie’s ear. ‘That’s my weekend in Monte up the spout.’

  ‘It’s no joke, Clary,’ Ronnie told him.

  ‘No,’ Clary agreed, ‘I don’t suppose it is. Our turn next, do you think?’

  ‘Yep,’ Ronnie said. ‘It’s only a matter of time.’

  Breda was in too much of a rush to get Billy off to school to pay attention to the news and the wireless was turned down to nothing much more than a murmur. She was vaguely aware that the announcer’s voice sounded marginally less monotonous than usual but, running late, shrugged off an impulse to tune in properly.

  She was halfway to school, Billy trailing behind her, before the raucous shouts of a newsvendor touting the latest editions alerted her to the fact that something big had happened across the Channel.

  At the school gate half a dozen anxious wives had gathered, aprons and headscarves fluttering in the breeze.

  ‘Heard the news, Mrs ’Ooper?’

  ‘What news?’ said Breda, as Billy scampered off to join his chums. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘He’s done it again.’

  ‘Done what again?’ said Breda.

  ‘Adolf – ’e’s gone for ’Olland now.’

  ‘Like Denmark wasn’t enough for ’im.’

  ‘Won’t be no room for dodgers now, Mrs ’Ooper. They’ll be weeded out an’ sent to fight proper, you’ll see.’

  ‘If,’ said Breda, ‘you’re referrin’ to my husband, he ain’t no dodger. He’s an auxiliary fireman.’

  ‘White feather, that’s what ’e is.’

  Breda had suffered taunts before but never so directly.

  Most of the women had husbands in the army and one, Mrs Baskin, had lost a brother when his ship had been torpedoed by a U-boat. None of Breda’s nearest and dearest was anywhere near the front line, on land or sea, a fact that obviously rankled with the other wives.

  ‘You won’t be sayin’ that, Mrs Collins, when your ’ouse burns to the ground,’ Breda snapped.

  ‘Never ’appen. Not ’ere.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Breda. ‘Tell that to the Dutch.’

  Then, with a last glance at Billy playing happily with the other kiddies in the mud-caked yard, she walked away before she said something she might later regret.

  ‘But what does it mean, dear?’ said Nora. ‘What does it mean for the likes of us?’

  ‘Didn’t Matt tell you?’ Breda said.

  ‘He was gone before the news came on.’

  ‘Well, don’t ask me,’ said Breda. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are. Ronnie’ll tell us, he gets ’ome.’

  ‘How will Ronnie know?’

  ‘Ronnie knows everythin’,’ said Breda confidently. ‘Maybe we should turn on the wireless since there’ll be more news comin’ in by this time.’

  ‘No,’ Nora said. ‘You just leave the wireless alone.’

  ‘You can’t keep your head in the sand for ever, Ma.’

  ‘I’ve got cakes to make.’

  ‘Cakes ain’t gonna be enough to satisfy ’em today.’

  ‘I’ll put the pan on for doughnuts then.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Breda sighed and, tying on her apron, went out into the dining room to serve the paying customers who, that particular forenoon, were few and far between.

  Richard Dimbleby, the BBC’s sole foreign correspondent, was somewhere in France with the BEF when Hitler’s great offensive began. While Dimbleby recorded reports for later transmission, little Basil Willets went one better and pulled off a coup with the first broadcast of Speaking Up for Britain which aired on the Home Service at 8 p.m. and at two in the afternoon across the eastern seaboard of America.

  Thanks to Bob Gaines’s connections, and a transmitter in Rotterdam, the first edition of Speaking Up began with a live eye-witness account of the Luftwaffe’s attack on an Allied airfield in Holland by an excitable young English-speaking Dutchman who, by sheer ill luck, happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. BBC sound engineers succeeded in capturing the thud-thump of explosions and the whine of dive-bombers behind the Dutchman’s commentary until, abruptly, transmission ceased.

  Even on a day crammed with news, Robert Gaines’s silence – two beats, three beats, then four – and his softly uttered response to the breakdown, ‘He’s gone,’ was enough to make the most casual listener sit up and po-faced journalists on both sides of the Atlantic reach for their typewriters.

  A stranger to British reticence and the art of turning a blind eye to the obvious, Bob paused once more and, in that same level tone, said, ‘I fear we may not hear from Pieter again,’ then, putting the script to one side, delivered an unsentimental prayer for his colleagues in the Low Countries.

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’ Mr Willets, a man not given to profanity, murmured. ‘Now we’re in for it,’ as the telephone on the wall of the control booth rang and rang again.

  ‘I believe we may have a link with Washington, DC,’ Bob Gaines continued, ‘where Mr Burton Wheeler, Senator for Montana and spokesman for the America First campaign, is waiting to tell us what he makes of today’s developments.’

  By which time Susan was already sprinting down the hall to fetch anyone in the guest lounge who might be willing to cross swords with America’s most vociferous isolationist.

  Billy, worn out with play and stuffed with corned beef hash and suet pudding, had fallen asleep curled up on the carpet in front of the fire. He made no protest when Breda undressed him and Ronnie carried him upstairs to bed.

  By five to eight Ronnie and Breda, also fed and watered, were seated close to the wireless set which, for some reason, was acting up. Studio voices kept fading in and out as if there were lightning in the air and even Ronnie’s expert twiddling of the tuning knob couldn’t quite find the wavelength and make the dashed thing settle down.

  It was more by accident than design that the American announcer’s voice came through loud and clear, followed by an interview from ‘an Allied airfield somewhere in Holland’ delivered in staccato English by a young Dutchman against a background of thumps and thuds that Ronnie instantly identified as an aerial bombardment.

  ‘Susie’s not there, is she?’ Breda said.

  ‘No, no, ’course not. She’s in London.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Breda hissed. ‘It’s fadin’ again.’

  She reached for the tuning knob but Ronnie grabbed her wrist and held her off and they were caught, frozen in the moment, brow to brow, when the American announcer uttered the words, ‘He’s gone.’

  Shaking his head, Ronnie said, ‘Poor bastard.’

  Breda, bewildered, whispered, ‘Ronnie, Ronnie, what’s happenin’?’ Then, a few minutes later: ‘Is that Susie’s friend, Vivian, talkin’?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ron said. ‘It is.’

  ‘What’s she doin’ with an American in Washington?’

  ‘Tearin’ him to pieces, by the sound of it,’ said Ron.

  The office phone was ringing off the hook. Basil Willets told Susan not to answer since he’d had enough excitement for one night. He would come in early on Saturday morning to deal with the protests that would inevitably descend from on high for, as he put it, ‘too much reality is one thing our lords and masters cannot stand.’

  A complimentary decanter of sherry had been supplemented by whisky, gin and a dozen brown ales that Basil had purchased at his own expense and hidden in the office. Three guests, including Vivian, Larry the sound controller, Susan and, of course, the ‘star’ of the show, Robert Gaines, were gathered in the guest lounge to celebrate the achievement of pulling off a programme that had threatened to become a disaster.

  Basil was supping ale from the bottle and whisky from a glass, turn and turn ab
out, when an envoy arrived from Whitehall, accompanied by the Assistant Director General in full evening dress to lead Baz away to face the music in the Controller’s office.

  ‘What,’ said Mr Stanhope, a well-known authority on international affairs, ‘are they going to do to him?’

  ‘Either offer him a knighthood or execute him on the spot,’ said Vivian. ‘Almost certainly the latter.’

  ‘I didn’t think it went too badly after that rocky start,’ said the other guest contributor, novelist Angus Bowman.

  ‘Losing our friend Pieter to the Luftwaffe was rather more than a rocky start,’ Vivian said. ‘How well did you know the young man, Robert?’

  ‘Fact is, I never met the guy,’ Bob said. ‘I fixed him up through a contact in our Paris office.’

  ‘I still don’t see what the fuss is about,’ Angus Bowman said. ‘Basil couldn’t possibly have known the Germans would stage a raid in the middle of his broadcast.’

  ‘Death by radio,’ Bob Gaines said. ‘I guess it’s not the done thing. I wonder what the British press will make of it?’

  ‘The columnists will love it,’ Angus Bowman predicted. ‘Beaverbrook’s boys will have a field day.’

  Mr Stanhope said, ‘I’m still not clear if we were meant to be speaking up for Britain or speaking out against Germany.’

  ‘Which,’ Susan put in, ‘is something we’re not really supposed to do – speak out against Germany.’

  ‘When’s your next broadcast?’ Mr Stanhope asked.

  ‘Tuesday,’ Susan told him.

  ‘Will it be cancelled?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Susan said, ‘but our scripts are bound to be censored, every last nut and bolt tightened to ensure we give no offence to anyone.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have gone for Senator Wheeler with quite so much venom,’ Vivian said. ‘I probably sounded like a shrieking harridan.’

  ‘You sounded just grand, Miss Proudfoot,’ Larry assured her. ‘Not like a woman at all.’

  ‘That’s comforting,’ Vivian said drily as the lounge door opened and Basil returned.

  ‘On the carpet, Mr Willets?’ Larry asked.

  ‘Actually,’ Basil said, ‘no.’

  ‘Well, what did the big cheese want with you?’ said Vivian. ‘Was it a pat on the head or a smack on the bum?’

  ‘Someone in the Ministry of Information wants to have a word with me,’ Basil said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘The fellow must have some clout if he can drag the Assistant DG away from the dinner table to deliver a message to a humble producer,’ said Vivian.

  ‘You do realise,’ Mr Stanhope said, ‘that you’ve given the ministry an ideal opportunity to meddle in programme content.’

  ‘That’ – Basil wiggled his eyebrows – ‘is what concerns the DG most of all: government intervention. I’ve just been reminded in no uncertain terms that the BBC, while loyal to King and country, is not Whitehall’s plaything.’

  ‘My God!’ said Mr Stanhope. ‘Half of Europe’s being trodden under the jackboot and the BBC is still concerned with keeping up its reputation for impartiality.’

  ‘Whatever the fuss is about it seems we’re full steam ahead for Tuesday,’ Basil said. ‘All hands to the pump first thing. Meanwhile, drink up, gentlemen. I’m off home.’ He offered Viv his hand. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  ‘For what purpose?’ Vivian asked suspiciously.

  ‘To cook my supper, of course,’ Basil answered, then, with a bow, added, ‘Ta-ta for now,’ and, ushering Vivian before him, toddled off into the night.

  11

  Reading a newspaper while riding a bicycle was an art Danny had never mastered. It seemed to come naturally to Silwyn Griffiths, though. He pegged the paper against the junction of the handlebars, steered with his elbows and pedalled the old Raleigh effortlessly while scanning the day-old copy of the Daily Mirror he’d plucked from Mr Pell’s paper rack.

  ‘I see they’re still going on about it,’ he said, while Danny wobbled along beside him. ‘True, it’s on page five but there’s also an editorial comment. Public interest is obviously keen. Do you want to know what it says?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘You’ve heard it all from the Pells anyway,’ Griff said. ‘High drama on the airwaves. Pity we missed it. Are we stopping off for a pint?’

  ‘Probably not a good idea,’ said Danny, ‘not with a long shift ahead of us.’

  ‘I bow to your sagacity,’ Griff said. ‘I’m barely conscious as it is.’ He sat back in the saddle and yawned. ‘Incidentally, he isn’t dead.’

  ‘Who isn’t dead?’

  ‘The Dutchman.’

  ‘What Dutchman?’ said Danny, who knew perfectly well what Dutchman.

  ‘Pieter: the fellow who was being interviewed when the bombs started falling. Oh, come on now, Cahill, you can’t fool me. I know you’re interested,’ Griffiths said. ‘In any case, Pieter, the hero of the hour, is slightly less of a hero now the Standard has tracked him down. Singed eyebrows doth not a martyr make. That’s the fickleness of fame for you. Nary a word about eighteen dead airmen or the destruction of an operational Allied airfield which, by this time, has probably been overrun by Nazi tanks.’

  ‘Try the front page, Griff,’ Danny suggested.

  ‘No point.’ Griff let the newspaper float away behind him. ‘No point in keeping yesterday’s news when it’s out of date before it hits the streets. Lord knows what fresh disasters have occurred since this morning. Doubtless Fritz what’s-his-name will be shouting the odds about the cowardly French fleeing across the Meuse and trying to convince us that the peasants in Picardy are lining up with open arms to welcome their German liberators. Are you sure you don’t want to drop in at the Greenhill for a slurp? Kate might be there.’

  ‘Kate won’t,’ said Danny. ‘She’s on until midnight.’

  Griff and Danny had ridden home from Wood Norton at eight that lovely Whit Sunday morning and were riding back in the hazy sunshine of Sunday afternoon for another long stint with pencils, scissors and paste.

  Stooped over the handlebars, sweating in the heat, they swooped down, shoulder to shoulder, into the town.

  Shops were closed but soldiers and local girls, pretty in their Sunday best, were strolling the streets. Folk were gathered at the gates of churches too, for morning and evening services had been bolstered by special Whitsun prayer meetings as if, Griff said, the God of our fathers had come into His own again.

  They were still a half-mile shy of their destination when a camouflaged lorry roared past, almost knocking them down. The lorry was followed by two unmarked motorcars, long and lean and black, then by a van with blacked-out windows, all the vehicles travelling at top speed.

  Griff steadied the Raleigh and wiped dust from his eyes. ‘Someone’s in a hurry,’ he said. ‘The army on the move?’

  ‘Nah, it’s not an army exercise,’ Danny said. ‘I’ve seen enough of those black cars in my time: coppers.’

  ‘Couldn’t possibly be heading our way, could they?’

  ‘Aye,’ Danny said, pedalling faster. ‘They could.’

  He entered the yard from the lane at the back of the terrace and sidled past the brick-built lavatory that the council had been promising to replace with an indoor facility since Ronnie had been in pantaloons.

  Ronnie had taken Billy to the park and wouldn’t be home before five. Breda was washing shirts in a tub at the sink when she spotted the intruder through the lattice of paper strips Ronnie had glued to the kitchen window to protect the glass from bomb blast.

  Craning her neck, she scowled at the man whose arrival was observed only by next door’s cat perched on top of the dividing wall. His beard was grizzled-grey and bushy. His beret and heavy half-length black coat reminded her of Rabbi Abrahams who’d run a mission for the poor out of the synagogue in Fletcher Street and had had a kind word for everyone, Jew, Christian or Hindu, until he’d passed away last year.

  The stranger carried a brown paper pa
ckage under one arm but, as far she could tell, no gun. He certainly didn’t look like one of Harry King’s henchmen. Even so, she dug the coal hammer from the bucket by the hearth and, hiding it in a fold of her apron, opened the back door a couple of inches and growled, ‘What you after, then?’

  He glanced left, right and behind him before answering: ‘Breda, darlin’, for God’s sake let me in.’

  ‘Daddy?’ Breda said. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘’Course it’s really me,’ Leo Romano said and Breda, grabbing his arm, yanked him indoors.

  The ornate gates of Wood Hall estate lay open, entry barred not by a couple of squaddies but by what appeared to be half a battalion of military policemen armed to the teeth with rifles and batons. Fortunately Griff and Danny were lightly clad in open-necked shirts and flannel trousers, otherwise the inspection might have been embarrassing. As it was, the fact that they had bicycles and knew how to ride them was reason enough for suspicion.

  ‘What the devil’s going on?’ Griffiths was injudicious enough to enquire and, before he knew it, had the point of a bayonet resting against his chest.

  Danny kept the bike between himself and the MP in charge. He handed over his pass, his identity card and, as a hasty afterthought, his gas mask case.

  ‘Kaa-ill? What sort of a name’s that?’

  ‘Cay-hill,’ said Danny apologetically. ‘It’s Scottish.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s common enough,’ Griff began. ‘Irish in orig— What? Yes, of course, sir. Sorry.’

  They could make out the Hall bathed in tranquil light, Mrs Smith’s villa and, partly screened by shrubs, the long-bonneted motorcars drawn up on the grass in front of the huts. Men were being led from the huts and herded into a van and Mr Gregory, M Unit’s supervisor, was waving his arms and shouting.

  The MP handed them back their passes and signalled to the guards to let them through the gates. Danny and Griff, not daring to speak, wheeled their bicycles up the driveway towards the huts outside of which the entire Wood Norton staff was assembled, including engineers brought down from the hill.