Daughters Of Eden: The Eden Series Book 1

by Bingham, Charlotte

  They both laughed over-appreciatively at Fanshaw’s play on words despite the fact that it really wasn’t very funny.

  ‘I’ve got pretty nimble digits, sir,’ Robert said. ‘In fact I’ve always been described, in my family, as a born fiddler.’

  For a second Robert’s mind went to his family, to his mother and sister, sitting by the fire, listening to the radio, long before any talk of war, everyone happy and relaxed.

  ‘Yes, but I’m older—’

  ‘You’re a family man, sir. I’m a bachelor. I believe it’s my honour, really.’

  ‘Righto, lad. Off you go then – and good luck.’

  Commander Fanshaw flattened himself on the ground, watching every move as with rock steady hands Robert began work on the three-inch ring that locked the fuse aperture. It took him twenty-five minutes to get it loose and fully unscrewed.

  ‘Aperture open, sir,’ he whispered to his commander, allowing the sweat that was running off his brow to do just that.

  ‘My turn, Maddox,’ Fanshaw muttered. ‘But if we’ve done our homework all right—’

  There followed as long and as deadly a silence as Robert hoped ever to experience as his companion carefully probed for the all-important fuse.

  ‘Which believe it or not, Bob, we bloody well have!’ Fanshaw suddenly exclaimed under his breath. ‘Think I might have snaffled the weasel. Give us that damn string, will you?’

  Moments later Commander Fanshaw had the cord attached to the fuse. He very slowly glanced round at Robert and Robert was reassured to see his superior was also sweating.

  ‘You’re going to have to do that yanking, Bob,’ he whispered. ‘My hands are soaking.’

  Slowly and carefully he transferred the end of the cord into Robert’s fingers, taking care that neither of them jogged it, even a quarter of an inch.

  Feeling the shape of the aperture with a finger of his free hand, Robert sensed that since the fuse seemed to lie at the base of a perfectly symmetrical tube its removal should be a straightforward procedure, provided his hand remained rock steady so that the fuse did not rattle or bang against the side of the holding tube.

  Holding his breath he began carefully and as slowly as he could to pull the cord holding the fuse.

  ‘It won’t move, sir,’ he whispered. ‘It seems to be locked.’

  ‘Can’t be. Can’t possibly be. They had to put the fuse in from the top of the aperture. So there’s no way they could lock it in place. It would have to be locked from the bottom, unless there’s another holding ring inside.’

  ‘There isn’t. I felt with a finger. The tube’s completely smooth now we have the holding ring out of the way.’

  ‘Then it can’t be locked. I’ll bet on it. Want me to try?’

  ‘No sir. Thank you. No – no, I’m going to give it a much harder tug.’

  ‘Give it a bloody good yank, Bob. It’s probably just stuck.’

  ‘I think you should go behind the barricades, sir.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hear of it. Now get on, man, I’m dying for a drink.’

  ‘Me too,’ Robert smiled. ‘I can just see that first pint.’

  ‘Pint be blowed. Mine’s a very large pink ’un. Off you go.’

  Robert, still holding the cord, managed with one finger of his free hand to wipe away the river of sweat that was blinding him. Then, taking another deep breath and half closing his eyes in anticipation of the explosion, he pulled twice as hard as he had been pulling before.

  In a second there it was, lying on the ground at the end of the length of cord, looking as innocent as a cigar on a dinner table – the fuse.

  ‘Good show, Bob,’ Fanshaw whispered. ‘Except that means I’m paying.’

  ‘I suppose we should really have done the yanking from back there,’ Robert remarked, nodding backwards to the sandbagged trench. ‘Except I don’t think we’d have got it to move from there.’

  ‘Certainly not. In circs like these, one has to live over the shop. Now then – we need to plant some explosive here – get back – and blow Jerry’s little present to pieces.’

  Having made sure everyone was well out of the danger zone, Robert and Fanshaw drew the fuse wire back to the trench and taking full cover fired the detonator. There was a massive explosion as the mine burst into a hundred thousand fragments, causing a rain of metal to fall about the site.

  ‘Rather be here than there,’ Fanshaw laughed as he and Robert scrambled out of the trench covered in dust and dry mud. ‘That would have given us a bit of a headache all right.’

  Later, as they sat enjoying their well-earned drinks, Robert remarked that he had never tasted beer so good.

  ‘Good for you, Bob,’ Fanshaw replied, as usual wreathed in smiles. ‘But to hell with tasting it. I just swallowed mine!’

  First thing Robert did when he was finally off duty, in other words when Fanshaw and he had finished their mutual congratulations not to mention celebrations, was to telephone the switchboard at Eden Park and leave a message for Lily to call him.

  Half an hour later he received a return call to his temporary lodgings.

  ‘Robert? How lovely to hear you,’ Lily tried to keep the delight out of her voice, and knew instantly that she had failed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ Robert said, trying to block the knowledge that the pain in his head from his recent celebrations was beginning to make itself felt. ‘I was wondering …’ He paused before going on, not wanting to be turned down. ‘I was wondering if you would like to come out, some time. You know, dinner or something like that.’

  In fact making a date wasn’t easy for either of them since Robert at that moment was never not on duty, and leave was a matter of hours rather than days, while Lily hardly left Eden Park.

  ‘If I can call you when I think I’ve got an evening off and if you can get a pass – we could at least go out for a drink or something. The thing is …’

  Robert petered out, once again wondering, given the nature of his work, whether it was fair to rush in as headlong as he was doing.

  ‘The thing is what, Bobby?’ Lily prompted him.

  ‘The thing is I simply have to see you, Lily,’ Robert replied. ‘That’s the thing. I’m afraid I haven’t stopped thinking about you since we met. And not just because you’re so pretty, but because you’re so – sassy.’

  Lily laughed.

  ‘That’s a new word.’

  ‘I heard it the other day, and I thought it was you. Sassy.’

  ‘Look – I can’t really talk here or now – not the way I’d like to,’ Lily half whispered into the phone. ‘It’s a public box in the hall here and other girls are waiting to use it. So let’s just hope we get a chance to meet again very soon – when we can really talk.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Robert agreed, captivated by Lily’s wonderfully emphatic way of talking, and consequently finding himself even more smitten than he thought possible. Imagining her just as she had been when he had first caught sight of the lively, effervescent young woman skipping up to the gates at Eden Park. ‘I can’t wait, Lily. I won’t pretend. I can’t.’

  ‘Here’s a kiss in the meantime,’ Lily whispered close to the receiver, and blowing a kiss down the line despite the fact that the girl behind her was starting to groan loudly and mutter, ‘Hurry up, would you, dear!’

  ‘Keep you going till we do meet, Bobby, will it?’

  ‘Heck,’ Robert laughed. ‘That could keep a chap going for ever.’

  The Irish Sea had been at its roughest as the first gales of early autumn whipped the sea into a foaming storm. Eugene could not have cared less; he had sailed this sea so many times since boyhood he found it dull when the wind failed to get up, so he was one of the few up on deck that night, storm watching and smoking his usual cheroot while the salt spray stung his face and matted his thick hair.

  The waters calmed as the ship approached the Welsh coast, so that as she berthed it was as if there had never been a gale blowing and they had cross
ed in a summer calm. The only tell-tale sign of the rough passage was the pale green look to the countenances of all his fellow passengers.

  Eugene was naturally one of the first ashore, striding down the gangway whistling merrily to himself as he looked forward to tucking in to breakfast at the first opportunity.

  The customs officer who greeted him knew him well by now and the two men exchanged pleasantries while the officer searched Eugene’s holdall.

  ‘This is very disappointing, sir,’ the officer said. ‘No bacon and not the one slab of butter.’

  ‘Ate it all on the boat,’ Eugene told him, relighting his cigar. ‘Storms always make me ravenous.’

  The customs officer smiled back and nodded to Eugene to indicate that he could proceed.

  ‘See you again!’ Eugene called.

  ‘No doubt of it!’ the officer called back.

  Eugene was all but clear of the customs shed and about to head for the waiting train when a short burly figure in a plain raincoat and battered trilby hat stepped out from the shadows.

  ‘Mr Hackett?’ a mellifluous voice asked quietly. ‘Would you mind coming with me?’

  Poppy and Scott were soon drawn into the group at the bar. It was in Scott’s upbringing to be able to ski the slopes of Society, particularly the sort of inbred Society to which the supercilious, languid group in the bar of the Stanley Hotel that afternoon belonged, so he was at ease at once.

  Within no time at all connections were readily established between both the men and the women of the group and Scott, as recognisable names were bandied back and forth, together with the mention of pre-war parties and dances. In her new disguise, her eyebrows thinned, her makeup changed – bright red lips, face heavily powdered, hair colour now pale, pale blonde – Poppy felt so relaxed that she immediately recognised the identities of some of the people that were being discussed. It was difficult not to join in the stories connected with balls and dinners that Poppy Beaumont had attended, but to which Diona de Donnet would never have been invited, so she merely smiled, and smoked and drank, and listened, an expression of boredom fixed as firmly on her face as her mask had been all that time ago when she had made Basil laugh by putting her glasses over the top.

  For a second she thought back to that time, amazed by one thing and one thing alone – that Basil had laughed. Was it possible?

  Now, having perfected her air of disdain, she went on to cultivate it, looking bored and tired by turns, allowing everyone to try to entertain her, and making sure they realised that they were failing miserably. Cissie Lavington had advised her that this was not just the best way, but the only way in which she could work her way into the inner circle of company such as this.

  ‘The only way with arrogant persons, d’you see, is to become more arrogant than they are. I do assure you, my dear, it is the only way. It’s a very false way of conducting oneself, but it has to be done. Even though it leads to countless social impasses, nevertheless it does take effect. This way they find out nothing about you, but are impressed that you are, if anything, better at the game than they are. Because that is all it is. A game. Believe me, all social life is a game.’

  At first Poppy had found it difficult, but once Section H had managed to turn the plain little mouse into a sophisticated butterfly, she found it actually became second nature. It went with the person she was meant to be, and to judge by the amount of attention she was receiving it brought men of all ages to heel, and in no time at all. As she more than happily maintained her air of boredom and contempt, treating all who flirted with her as if they were badly behaved schoolboys, it seemed they found it impossible to leave her side.

  Noting her immediate success with everyone, Scott affected social dyspepsia and tried to insist on removing Poppy from their clutches, much to the loudly voiced dismay of all.

  ‘You can’t remove this beauty, not possible. We’re going to make her the bar mascot, aren’t we, chaps?’

  ‘Don’t be dull,’ Poppy remonstrated. ‘There is a war on, you know. Besides, I have no wish to be a flying lady at this moment in time.’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind you on the front of my motor, Miss de Donnet—’

  ‘Go away, dull little man.’

  The dull little man turned out to be someone Poppy had never met before but who she swiftly realised had been at one of Basil’s shooting weekends, and of course the ruder she was to him the more the look in his eyes became one of adoration.

  ‘We’re all going to dine at the Rat Trap Club. Will you come?’ he begged Poppy.

  ‘I don’t really think so, actually,’ she said coldly. ‘I have an important dinner engagement tonight that I imagine will look after my needs for the rest of the day.’

  ‘Anyone we know, Diona?’ one of her new admirers wondered. ‘Because if it is, I shall go round and bloody well fill him in.’

  ‘Where in God’s name did you pick up an oiky expression like that, Michael?’ a long-faced woman with thick straight eyebrows enquired casually.

  ‘Scott?’ Poppy enquired, turning to him at last. ‘It’s been quite fun seeing you again. I’m staying here if you want to get in touch – sometime. You at least are not quite as dull as the rest, although that is not saying too much.’

  Hearing this, a tall, beautifully dressed man, with dark hair creamed flat to his head, a fashionably thin moustache and an eyeglass, let his monocle fall from his eye as he turned his attention on Poppy. So far he had been the only man to ignore her charms, perhaps anxious to preserve the social niceties while engaging himself in conversation with a perfectly dressed older woman who Poppy had learned was the Duchess of Dunedin.

  ‘One must have just taken up residence then, Miss de Donnet,’ the man, whom she understood to be Lord Lypton, said, cleaning his monocle on a silk handkerchief. ‘I make it a habit to know everyone of interest who is living within these portals. One has so very little else to do of any worth.’

  ‘I took up residence yesterday as it happens,’ Poppy replied. ‘One understood with its specially reinforced concrete this was a safe haven.’

  ‘Quite correct, Miss de Donnet. Although there are even better places to be.’

  ‘Such as, Lord Lypton?’

  ‘Such as, Miss de Donnet. Well, quite. In the meantime, one is assured of more than adequate protection here. How strange to be grateful to concrete, of all things.’

  ‘I meant to go to my place in the country, but the country at any time of year is just too safe, don’t you find?’ Poppy asked, casually checking her looks in a mirror taken from her handbag.

  ‘Far too safe. Bombs are infinitely preferable to bumpkins.’

  ‘And country people are so frightened, don’t you find? I mean to say, the least sound and they throw themselves into hedges and howl like banshees. It’s pathetic, really it is, to see them hiding themselves in the hedgerows every time they hear an engine noise.’

  ‘Just so. Everyone says the same. The cockneys are incorrigible and the bumpkins are pusillanimous … I imagine we shall be seeing quite a lot of each other then, Miss de Donnet.’

  ‘I imagine so too, Lord Lypton.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it. One gets so bored with the same old faces. And in many cases, one means old. A bientôt.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I do hope you have an enjoyable dinner,’ Lord Lypton added, now slipping a black cigarette into a long white ivory holder. ‘It must be an important one.’

  ‘I never have unimportant dinners, Lord Lypton.’

  ‘Connections are everything, would you not say?’

  ‘Gracious, you sound like someone working at a telephone exchange.’ Poppy shut her handbag decisively and decided to bestow on the serpent-eyed aristocrat her most insouciant smile. ‘Nevertheless you are right. Connections are everything, most especially in these critical times.’

  ‘Another time then, perhaps.’ Lord Lypton nodded. ‘The boys here can be quite fun. Last night, soon as the sirens went, they decided to dance a c
onga round the swimming pool. It was quite amusing, really.’

  Poppy nodded without smiling, as if she herself did not think much of such a prank, then she was gone.

  Dinner of course was a necessity, since, as Jack had warned her, Poppy would have already been marked out. She found it interesting how quickly she knew she was being watched, hoping that it was a sure instinct, and if so that it would stand her in good stead.

  It seemed that Jack had managed to persuade a member of the government to include Miss Diona de Donnet in his list of guests invited for a dinner that evening at his private house. The Cabinet minister was of sufficient interest to impress Poppy’s new admirers, and if she reported back in the ambiguous manner suggested in her briefings, then the dinner date would certainly add the right sort of gravitas to her curriculum vitae.

  Henry, the Cabinet minister, happily was more than just a good social and political connection for someone with Diona de Donnet’s aspirations. He was also a lifelong friend of Jack Ward’s, and although Jack had not of course told him anything more about his unknown dinner guest than that the young woman was a friend of his who was just recovering from a great unhappiness and needed cheering up, Henry knew Jack well enough to appreciate that the reason for having to include the unknown woman was nothing to do with anything Jack had told him.

  Down at Eden Park, like everywhere else in the country, all eyes were on the September skies where the battle for supremacy was reaching its crucial stage. Ever since Dunkirk the country had been steeling itself to try to repel the invasion they knew was about to be launched, and yet with every day the task seemed more hopeless. So much invaluable equipment had been left behind on those French beaches that the newly formed and named defence force, the Home Guard – moulded out of the old Volunteer Defence Corps – had few if any modern armaments, most of its soldiers being equipped with semi-antique weaponry from the previous world war or makeshift weapons along the lines of those the women of Eden Park had fashioned to defend themselves with. Generally speaking there was no ammunition for any of the working rifles they had been given, and even less of an idea as to how exactly to repel the hundreds of thousands of Germans expected to be landing at any minute on their precious beaches.