The Great Betrayal

by Pamela Oldfield

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  THE GREAT BETRAYAL

  THE GREAT BETRAYAL

  Pamela Oldfield

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2011

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2011 by Pamela Oldfield.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Oldfield, Pamela.

  The great betrayal.

  1. Great Britain–Officials and employees–Family

  relationships–Fiction. 2. Pregnant women–Fiction.

  3. Life change events–Fiction. 4. London (England)

  Social conditions–20th century–Fiction. 5. Great

  Britain–History–Edward VII, 1901-1910–Fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9′14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-128-6 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8063-5 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-365-6 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  One

  Thursday, May 5th, 1904

  ‘The man’s a spy!’ said George. ‘I know he’s a spy.’

  Lydia bit her lip, telling herself not to rise to the bait.

  George went on, a note of triumph in his voice: ‘He’s a spy if ever I saw one! You know it, Lydia, but you can’t or won’t admit it!’

  ‘That’s enough, Father.’ She tried to concentrate on her sewing, tried to ignore him, tried to pretend that he was not deliberately upsetting her and tried as usual to make allowances for him. The cotton in her needle ran out, and she finished off and reached for the cotton reel to cut another length of thread.

  From the corner of her eye she saw him glance towards her, his eyes searching her face for any sign that he was reaching her with his accusations. She sighed, praying for patience. He was no longer the father she had loved as a child, but that was not his fault.

  Four-year-old Adam, sitting between them on the floor with a wooden engine, looked up at her. ‘What is a spy, Mama?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Lydia answered, her tone sharper than she’d intended. ‘A spy is nothing. Don’t take any notice of Grandpapa. He’s being foolish.’

  Foolish and sometimes spiteful, she added silently. Today he was not in a good mood, and at times like today Lydia worried about his influence on her young son.

  The old man leaned forward towards the child. ‘A spy is a nasty man who does horrid things! A spy betrays the people who trust him. He betrays his country. He—’

  Adam looked at her anxiously. ‘Is Papa a nasty man?’

  ‘Certainly not! He’s a very nice man. Your papa is the best man in the world – and you’re the best little boy!’ She gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Grandpapa is only teasing us.’

  ‘I’m not teasing you, Adam. I’m telling you that—’

  Lydia’s patience was exhausted. She sprang to her feet, tossed her sewing on to the chair she had just vacated and, reaching for her son, pulled him to his feet. Trying to keep her voice level she said, ‘We’ll go to the park, shall we, Adam, and you can play on the swings.’

  The boy’s face lit up at the prospect. ‘Will we see the man with the puppy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Her father said, ‘I spy, with my little eye . . .’ and chuckled.

  Adam gave him a quick glance and, puzzled by his words, snatched up his teddy bear, ran from the room and up the stairs.

  Lydia followed him in a swirl of angry skirts and furious thoughts and almost slammed the door behind her. But that would have given her father great satisfaction. At least she could deny him that.

  George laughed when he heard the front door close behind them. ‘Deny it as much as you like, my dear daughter, but you know it’s the truth. The man you married is not what he seems! Never has been, but you wouldn’t be told. Even now you refuse to see the signs.’

  Just fifty years old, George Meecham was physically in good health but for the last year his mind had been letting him down. He was becoming confused and was struggling to cling on to what remained of his sanity.

  He was sorry he had upset his daughter, but he reminded himself that he had always been able to spot a wrong’un and he didn’t trust his son-in-law one inch and sometimes he found himself voicing his suspicions.

  ‘If only I could keep it to myself,’ he groaned. ‘It’s not her fault, but it’s not mine either.’ The words came tumbling from his mouth, from his subconscious, and he recalled with a prickle of fear that the same thing had happened to his father in his later years.

  Now, uncomfortably reminded of their common failing, George tried to console himself by a litany of things he could remember – like his name and address and the fact that he had once been a grocer, like his father before him. Yes. He nodded. His father had been a very successful grocer, who’d died leaving three shops in and around Brockley in south London and a very respectable house in which they now lived.

  Closing his eyes, George could remember serving a customer with biscuits from the deep tin in which the assorted biscuits were arranged in layers – one of each type in each layer so that no one could complain that he had given them all the ‘boring’ ones. He smiled. He could recall the smell of the bacon as he sliced it and the sight of the dried plums laid out in their boxes and the new-laid eggs in the straw-filled baskets in which the farmer had delivered them.

  ‘In Parmettor Street.’ He opened his eyes. ‘Our first shop was in Parmettor Street . . . or was that our house? Is this Parmettor Street?’ To make sure he knew where he was, he crossed to the window and looked down, and sure enough he saw the familiar red pillar box on the opposite pavement and the young plane trees which decorated the street. ‘Yes. Good. This is Parmettor Street.’

  But he had momentarily forgotten the name of the woman he married who gave him his daughter, Lydia, and a son. Now what was the boy’s name? Frowning, he tried to concentrate. Sometimes a little effort produced a
glimmer, but today it failed to produce anything of any value – until suddenly the name Robert came to him.

  He gave a triumphant chuckle. Yes. Robert! That was it. So where was he now? ‘Robert, Robert,’ he muttered. ‘Wherefore art thou, Robert?’

  Damned memory! It could summon up a quote from Shakespeare, but could not supply any information about his missing son. He shook his head. Robert seemed to have disappeared somewhere in the half-forgotten past, but how or why was a mystery to him now, and Lydia hated to be questioned about her brother. In fact, she hated to be questioned about anything, he thought resentfully.

  ‘Especially her absent husband!’

  In his more lucid moments George could see that it must be irritating for her, but now he sighed, rubbing his head as though that might stimulate the return of some long-lost memories. Yes. Robert, the golden boy. He had somehow slipped away . . . but there was a photograph, wasn’t there? Or had he dreamed that?

  Pushing himself up from the chair he set off in search of it, but instead he wandered into the kitchen with the vague idea of making himself a pot of tea – but once there he forgot about the tea, and a few moments later he found himself in the lavatory where he stood staring out of the small window into the small back garden.

  His wife was dead, and he was at the mercy of his daughter. And there was the grandson, Adam, who should have been the light of his life. That’s what grandchildren were supposed to be. But there was something wrong somewhere, and he and the boy did not properly relate to each other. The little boy seemed rather afraid of him for some obscure reason. George blamed the man his daughter had married. If the son-in-law was a spy then little Adam was the son of a spy . . . He closed his eyes.

  ‘My name is George Douglas Meecham, I am fifty years old and . . . and my darling daughter married a spy!’ he muttered, his face crinkling with sudden glee. She might deny it a thousand times but he knew.

  Lydia walked at a brisk pace in an attempt to keep up with Adam who was bowling a wooden hoop along the pavement. Her face was set in unhappy lines as she did her best to forget and forgive her father’s latest outburst. She recognized that he was getting old and moving into a twilight world, and for much of the time she tried to overlook his little cruelties. Her mother had loved him, she reminded herself again and again, and for her sake she would try to forgive him.

  Adam waited ahead of her, standing on the edge of the pavement, obediently turning his head left and then right, watching the traffic. Lydia took his hand, and when it was safe, they hurried across to the pavement on the far side. Only another hundred yards and they had reached the park and were through the gates. Adam ran off with his hoop, shrieking with excitement, in the direction of the playground.

  Lydia followed, keeping an eye out for bad-tempered dogs who might bother her son, or suspicious men who might offer him a lollipop and then snatch him and run off with him to goodness knows where. The fact that John had to be away so much of the time laid a heavy burden of responsibility on her shoulders.

  When they reached the playground itself there were perhaps twenty children of various ages enjoying the swings, the slide and the roundabout. Mothers or nannies sat about on the surrounding seats from where they could watch the youngsters.

  Lydia sat down on an empty seat, and at once the unwanted questions flooded her mind. Was John a spy? Had he lied to her? Had she been too gullible when they first met, willing to believe everything he told her about himself and his work?

  She smiled as Adam returned to pass the hoop into her care.

  ‘The puppy man is here!’ he cried, his brown eyes shining. ‘From the paper shop. May I go and see the puppy?’

  Lydia searched the little crowd and found ‘the puppy man’ not ten yards away, near the roundabout. ‘You may, but don’t go any further,’ she told him.

  When Adam reached him, the man smiled and tousled the boy’s hair before turning to look for his mother. When he caught sight of Lydia he raised a hand in greeting. It was Richard Wright from the paper shop.

  Never losing sight of her son, her thoughts returned to her husband, whom she still adored. John Daye, tall, dark and handsome, was the only man she had ever loved and she had been willing to accept the fact that, due to his work for the government, their married life would not be easy. He travelled for the government on various assignments which were vital to the safety of the realm. He had explained right from the start that he had signed the Official Secrets Act and could never discuss the work that took him away from home for weeks at a time. He had a passport, and that was proof in her eyes that he was what he said he was – an important member of a government team, working as a departmental courier, carrying documents of a discreet nature up and down the length of Britain and sometimes across the channel.

  Naturally, she missed him when he was away, but as he had gently reminded her, he earned a very good salary and they lived better than many. When her mother had died, John had raised no objections to them moving into her old family home to care for her widowed father. At least she had her son, who was a source of great joy.

  Lydia frequently reminded herself that with her husband’s child beside her, she could never be lonely.

  Lost in her thoughts she saw Adam coming towards her, proudly holding the Labrador puppy’s lead with Richard Wright close behind him. Smiling, she stood up to greet them, then leaned down to make a fuss of the puppy, which was leaping about hysterically on the end of his lead and making a surprising amount of noise for a dog of his size.

  Adam said, ‘His name’s Snip. Isn’t that a nice name? Snip likes me. Mr Wright told me he does.’

  Richard Wright grinned down at the boy. ‘Oh, he does, yes. He was hoping you’d be here today. He was in the middle of his breakfast, and he stopped and asked me if you would be in the park.’

  ‘Did he?’ Thrilled by the news and never doubting it, Adam’s eyes shone as he bent down to the puppy. ‘Well, here I am, Snip!’ He patted the puppy, which licked his hand and made him laugh. He said, ‘I can’t have a pet because they make Papa sneeze. Not even a mouse in a cage!’ He glanced up at Mr Wright. ‘Not even a rabbit in a hutch outside.’

  Lydia shrugged. ‘It’s a shame, but it’s just one of those things,’ she said, and then she asked after the man’s wife, who had had a recent fall and injured her arm.

  ‘It’s slightly infected. The doctor reckons it will mend,’ he explained, ‘but these things take time. How’s your husband?’

  She kept her voice level. ‘I’m afraid John’s still away on business.’ She sat down again, indicating that he might share the seat with her if he wished. He accepted, and they sat together, watching the antics of the boy and the dog.

  Eventually, he said, ‘I haven’t seen your father in the shop for some time now. Is he worse?’

  Her grey eyes darkened. ‘I’m afraid so. I try to dissuade him from going outside the house without me in case he gets lost. He could wander away. The doctor has explained that he will never improve so I must expect a steady deterioration in his condition.’ She sighed. ‘I know my father doesn’t mean to be unkind, and I try to make allowances for his behaviour because I know it is part of the disease. We used to be close, but now it’s impossible. He has good days and bad days. I do my best, but it is certainly very trying at times and I worry about the effect he has on young Adam . . . Still, worse troubles at sea!’ She forced a smile.

  ‘He’s fortunate to have such a caring daughter.’ Mr Wright stood up. ‘I must get back or my wife will grumble at me! She has extra work to do now that my aunt is staying with us for a few weeks.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘But she doesn’t really mind. Aunt Gladys is very talkative, but they get along well enough and my wife enjoys a bit of female company.’

  Adam bade a reluctant farewell to the puppy, and Richard Wright headed back towards the gate. While Adam returned to the roundabout and then the slide, Lydia decided she would write again to her husband, sounding cheerful and positive. She liked to t
hink that when he returned to the office from which he worked, he would find several letters from her and imagined that reading and replying to them would be something he looked forward to.

  PSD, Third Floor, Sixteen Mansoor Street, Clerkenwell, London. That was where he was when he was not with her, unless he was away on an assignment. The initials stood for Public Security Department. A modest-sounding address that would arouse no unwelcome attention from the wrong people. That was how John had described it, and it made perfect sense. She liked to imagine him in his office, gravely discussing the current project, serious men huddled round a table, dealing with important matters of state.

  Half an hour later, as she and Adam walked home, she was already planning her letter. She could tell John about the walk to the park and Adam and the new puppy at the paper shop, and she would pretend her father had had a better than usual day. No point in depressing him, she told herself. He had an important job to do and worries of his own and reading her letters should be the highlight of his day.

  The following morning, less than two miles away, Jenny Ellerway, known by all and sundry as Dolly, hurried from her home at number fifteen, crossed to the house immediately opposite and, as always, banged the knocker four times and held her finger on the bell until the door was opened by Sidney. He was rubbing his eyes, tired from a rough night’s sleep after a late supper of pigs’ trotters, and was in no mood to exchange niceties.

  ‘He’s not here, Doll!’ he told her and tried to shut the door, but Dolly Ellerway, anticipating this move, already had her foot over the door sill.

  ‘Course ’e’s ere!’ She tossed her tangled curls indignantly. ‘Where else would he be?’

  ‘He’s not here, I tell you. Now hop it, there’s a good gal.’

  Sidney Wickham was tallish, with dark brown hair and a face that was not remotely handsome, his nose being a little too big and his dark eyes set too close together. When he was born, the story went, his mother thought she had given birth to a goblin.

  Dolly laughed. ‘What if I don’t ’op it?’ She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘He said he’d be back yesterday and would be over first thing today. Now it’s half past seven and I’m going to be late for work! If I get me cards it’ll be all his doing. He’s in there, isn’t he?’