Treason if You Lose

by Peter Rimmer

  “Better not,” said Rodney, knowing what the man wanted.

  “All right, then. Enjoy your sugar. Some of us are just plain lucky.”

  Rodney had shut the front door in the man’s face and taken the parcel up to his room where he counted the radios that had been made in Germany specially for the job, shipped to America, reparcelled and shipped to England as a ‘Food Parcel’ with the big red label. The damn man had wanted a pound of sugar! Rodney had given a small laugh at the irony. Everyone wanted something. The trick was to have something they wanted. The instructions as to where to put the radio devices came with the money under his door the night he bought the bar in the Crown a round of drinks as he was feeling so good. For the first time since getting the sack from the bank he was getting the chance to get his own back.

  As instructed in the letter telling him the parcel was on its way he burned the box from America in the grate, putting the radios in a cardboard box he had taken for the purpose from Mrs Leadman’s basement-well when he put out the garbage. Once a week it was his job to put the dustbin that stood in the well up on the street for the dustman to collect. He had seen the box in the corner under a shelf out of the rain, saving him from looking outside the shops where the shopkeepers threw away their boxes they didn’t want. Rodney had put the radios in the old box, making them as inconspicuous as possible. The letter had said to keep anything that arrived for him out of sight. Inconspicuous. Like in an old, discarded box.

  The morning after the air raid Rodney had carried his box to Holland Park Tube station where he had taken the Tube to Waterloo and his journey down the coast as instructed in the letter with the money. The journey that had ended in his being nabbed by the police outside the wire fence that surrounded the big VHF radar mast at Beachy Head where he had placed one of the radio devices in the long grass at the bottom of the wire mesh fence, pushing down the switch that he was told to push down in the letter. Finding the mast at Poling outside Arundel had taken him longer. The first time for anything was usually the longest.

  “What’s that you got, Rodney?”

  Even then they had known his name.

  Hugging his own knees on the single iron bed in his cell, Rodney began to hope they would shoot him. There was something brave about a handkerchief over his eyes, the crack of guns the last sound he would hear in his life. Being hanged by the neck made him squirm. No doubt the police had found the rest of his German radios in the room of his Brighton hotel. Only mildly curious, Rodney wondered how the radios worked. What the whole fuss was about. Why he was suddenly so much the centre of attention.

  Feeling over his bald patch with the palm of his hand, Rodney began to sweat with fear. They were going to kill him whatever he said. When his revenge came he would be dead. Even dying wouldn’t let him win. So it did not matter. While he spilled his guts out they brought him lunch. That was something. He hadn’t eaten lunch with company for years.

  Ding-a-ling went back to London the following night. Colonel Grant had repeated his interview with Rodney Hirst-Brown word for word. Colonel Grant had been an infantry officer in what they were now calling the First World War. They had eaten supper together in the Royal Hotel.

  “If they’d got enough of those radios in place last summer, and they’d actually worked, the Germans would have beaten us already. We couldn’t have fought the Battle of Britain without the radar. We’d have lost the war for thirty-two shillings. Can anything be more bizarre? Thirty-two bloody shillings!”

  “Thirty-two shillings cost him his life. He should have stolen fifty thousand quid and gone to live in South America. Somewhere like Bolivia where they don’t ask questions if you have money.”

  “You think if he’d known they’d stop him getting a job with any of the banks he would have stolen more?”

  “Wouldn’t you? The bank might just as well have cut his balls off. Emasculated the poor sod. Doesn’t seem fair to me. It most certainly didn’t seem fair to him.”

  “He stole money. Does it matter the amount?”

  “St Clair got away scot-free. Look at him now. Rich as Croesus. What might he have done if society had turned its back? Life’s difficult enough without an impediment. This damn club foot has been a drag on my life all the way through. What are you going to do with him?”

  “What are we going to do about von Lieberman? Did the girl know she was helping a Nazi?”

  “Unless you send in the commandos on parachutes and assassinate von Lieberman you can’t do much. He’s doing his job. Acting Lieutenant-Colonel Keyes tried to get Rommel on a commando raid in North Africa. Got right into the General’s office in the General’s headquarters before the Germans stopped him. Shot him dead. They’re putting Keyes up for a posthumous Victoria Cross. I’ll talk to Harry. He and von Lieberman’s cousin are friends. Were friends. Spent time together in Africa. What put us onto Hirst-Brown. We let von Lieberman loose in London before the war and watched him. Now it’s paid off. Bloody food parcel. Delivered the goods to his door. How often simple ways are the best. There are more sleepers on the list. Vigilance, Colonel Grant.”

  “He’ll be shot.”

  “For stealing thirty-two shillings! My bet is he’d have put the money back. Life goes round in circles. Did you know Harry Brigandshaw’s first wife was Barnaby St Clair’s sister? Could have helped to shoot his brother-in-law if the stolen money situation had been reversed. Fifty quid! Couldn’t do much then with fifty quid except drink it. Another bottle of wine, old chap?”

  “Don’t see why not. They haven’t come over tonight.”

  “We put a spanner in their works.”

  “Hope so. Which do you prefer? Vic or Ding-a-ling?”

  “Ding-a-ling.”

  “Call me Bennie, Ding-a-ling. To happy days.”

  6

  By the time William Smythe came back from a tour of the Far East as an accredited war correspondent for the BBC in early December, Betty Townsend, his secretary, was getting desperate. Giving compassionate sex to war-ravaged pilots on forty-eight hour passes was getting her nowhere, however much fun she was having. Betty wanted a future. At twenty-eight her clock was ticking out of time. Two of her beaus had been shot down and killed since William went off to report on the Japanese and Chinese situation, warning both England and America not to be complacent in his weekly talks from the island fortress of Singapore.

  She had seduced William long before he took the tour for the BBC, again pleasant and satisfying but getting her nowhere in her quest to become Mrs Smythe, mother of his children, secure in a house and a future. Always, always, there was Genevieve.

  The pilot the previous night had taken her to the cinema as a hopeful prelude to sex before he returned to his squadron at Tangmere. Right through the film, a replay of Holy Knight, the boy had held her hand as Betty watched her nemesis chase Gregory L’Amour up on the screen. Even the boy was besotted by the end of the movie, doing later to Betty what he really wanted to do to Genevieve. The boy was nineteen, already a veteran of the war. He had a small moustache so fluffy it tickled. After sex they sat up in Betty’s bed drinking mugs of cocoa she had made in her kitchen. They had ignored the air-raid warning, the night’s air battle sounding far away towards the East End of London.

  “The docks,” said Colin. “The East Enders have had a bad war.”

  “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Who?” For a moment the boy had almost remembered Betty’s name. Colin had been given her phone number by another pilot. The pilot had died the previous month. Colin had phoned to give her the news, hoping to get a date and some sex for himself.

  “Genevieve. The girl in the movie.”

  “Everyone fantasises about Genevieve. She’s a film star.”

  “Not my boss,” said Betty, ignoring the reality of what she knew he had been thinking when they were making love. “He had a one-night stand with the damn woman years ago and can’t get her out of his head.”

  “He had it off with Gen
evieve! Are you in love with your boss?”

  “Yes,” she said, thinking two could play the game and let out what was running through her head. “He won’t marry me until Genevieve marries. They still meet on occasion. William thinks he still has a chance as long as she’s single.”

  “Could he be brushing you off?”

  “I’m not sure. Don’t think so. He’s obsessed with her. He’s nearly forty. Why he’s not in the army. William’s a war correspondent. Coming back from the Far East on a Royal Navy ship tomorrow. First thing he’ll do is look for Genevieve. She’s back in London. Doing a new stage show. Her first one back from America flopped.”

  “Your boss is out of the picture now. The story goes at Tangmere she’s marrying one of our pilots when the war’s over. Flight Lieutenant Tinus Oosthuizen. You remember that World War One pilot who crashed his seaplane on a river in the Congo? Colonel Brigandshaw. Famous fighter pilot. It’s his nephew she’s going to marry. They took him out of active service and posted him to Scotland as an instructor. His nerves were shot to ribbons. They say after four tours you’re either dead or finished. They won’t let him fly in combat again. I’m only at the end of my second six-month tour at Tangmere. Can we possibly make love again? I’ve finished my cocoa.”

  William Smythe had gone to his flat on the Bayswater Road before going to his Fleet Street office to find the Germans had put a bomb through the roof of the building. There was nothing left that resembled it. The broken bricks that had made his home for so many years were dripping wet from the rain. The place was a shambles. The ARP wardens had long ago left the bombsite of rubble. There was no point in trying to clear it away. Each morning there were new piles of rubble.

  “Lucky you were away,” said the taxi driver. “Where’ve you been, guv? Nice navy duffel coat. Wouldn’t mind one of them myself. Anything you want to look for?”

  “Just my old life.”

  “Where you want to go now?”

  “Fleet Street. I’ve still got an office.”

  “You can sleep on the floor. Got your navy bag and your duffel coat. You in the Royal Navy?”

  “I’m a reporter. Freelance with the BBC. My name’s William Smythe.”

  “Blimey. Remember you from the BBC Empire Service. Before the war.”

  The taxi driver went on talking as William tried to think. There was so much of his life lost in the rubble he would never find again. Familiar things, however trivial, were important to remember in life. No one ever collected bad memories to remember.

  “I’ve been bombed out, Betty.”

  “Oh, good. You can come and stay with me. Who gave you that duffel coat?”

  “The captain of the ship as a matter of fact. Don’t I get any sympathy? There were six years of my life in that flat.”

  “I can give you a kiss if that will help? Welcome home, William. It’s lovely to see you. Sorry about the flat. It must be awful to lose your possessions. Do you want to go through everything now? It’s all up to date. The banking. Letters replied to. I’m good at forging your signature. On the letters, William, not on the cheques. Oh, one bit of news I heard last night, your old friend Genevieve is getting married.”

  “Who to?”

  “Young Tinus Oosthuizen. They’ve grounded him. My informant says his nerves are shot to ribbons.”

  “Who’s your informant?”

  “We won’t go into that, William. While the cat’s away the mice will play. How was Singapore?”

  In less than half an hour both parts of his life were shattered. His home and his dreams. Any other man’s name would have meant nothing to William. Now it was finally over. Writing novels in Cornwall with Genevieve by his side could no longer even be a dream.

  “Why are you looking so damn happy, Betty?”

  “Sometimes the people you least expect do you the biggest favours.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “The Germans… Thank God you weren’t at home.”

  To William’s surprise his secretary broke into uncontrollable sobs. Going across to her, William pulled her face against his chest. When it was over a tearful face full of love looked up at him. It was the same way Cherry Blossom looked at his cousin Joe in Singapore. Sergeant Joe Smythe, Royal Engineers. The look that back in Singapore had made him jealous of his cousin, something he had never been before.

  The name Cherry Blossom sounded better in Chinese, a word William had been unable to get his tongue around much to the girl’s amusement. Marrying a local and having two kids had made sure Joe stayed a sergeant. Joe had been in Singapore since 1937, on his second tour with the British Army, not bothering to go home on leave. His family in England were dysfunctional so there was nothing to come back for now his parents had sold their family home in Wimbledon where Joe had grown up with six siblings. The whole family had fought with each other.

  “You’re better off staying in Singapore.”

  “You don’t think the Japs will enter the war? Have you seen my parents, Will?”

  “Not recently, no. I’m not very good at visiting, sorry. You’ve got a beautiful life where you are.”

  “I don’t suppose they approve, of course. The establishment. The Raj. Bloody stuck up, the lot of them. What makes me laugh is the hypocrisy. Half of them have Chinese or Malay mistresses. There’s a whole damn school for their kids. They just don’t mention their Asian family in polite company. One of the officers married his Chinese girl like I did. Threw him out of the Singapore Swimming Club. Don’t be put off by that mundane name. The club’s the place for the British. Only officers. No Chinese, Indian or Malay, of course. I often wonder if we know what we really look like. So you like my Cherry Blossom, Will?”

  “She’s gorgeous in more than looks. Your kids are as bright as buttons. If I could find a girl to love me the way you all love each other I wouldn’t be such a miserable sod.”

  “Still no luck with Genevieve?”

  “Don’t be silly. She’s a star. Film stars don’t marry old has-beens like me. She’s famous.”

  “So are you, Will.”

  “We’re just friends. That’s what she says.”

  “Horrible.”

  “So they won’t let me take you both to the Singapore Swimming Club tonight to meet the rest of the press?”

  “Don’t be daft. They won’t let me in, let alone my Chinese wife. I’m a sergeant. This is the British Raj, Will. Warts and all. Just don’t mention you have a cousin here in the Royal Engineers. They’ll want to know his name, rank and number and look down their nose when you tell them. Don’t you want to stay with us while you are here?”

  “Of course. Can’t of course. Business comes first. We’ll see a lot of each other, Joe, while I’m in Singapore. Why’s the climate so sticky?”

  “They say you can set your clock by the afternoon rain. Four o’clock. It rains every afternoon in Singapore at four o’clock.”

  “You’re a lucky bastard, Joe Smythe. What you going to do after the war?”

  “Stay out East with Cherry Blossom and the kids. Sounds terrible in English. I’m going to be a trader of some sort.”

  “Not coming back to England?”

  “How can I? Imagine what the neighbours would have to say. British aversion to anyone not British isn’t confined to the officer class. I’m going to be an expat for the rest of my life.”

  “Sounds good to me. The buggers at the Club have missed the point. The Chinese were civilised when we were living up trees. Quite rightly, they think us the savages. How’s your Mandarin coming along?”

  “Not bad. We want the children to be completely bilingual. English and Chinese. Stand them in good stead for the future. They’ll never want to live in England if the empire lasts another thousand years.”

  “It won’t. Mark my words. My sources say the Japs are up to something.”

  “Against the British?”

  “Against the Americans.”

  “You’ve given us both the cold shivers.
Cherry Blossom hates the Japs for what they are doing in China.”

  “Singapore will be all right. It’s an impregnable fortress they all tell me.”

  “We can only hope. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you too, Joe. Good to see you so happy… Why did they give it such an ordinary name? Singapore Swimming Club. Kind of thing you’d find in Battersea.”

  “Not when it was founded during the time of Governor Raffles. First swimming pool on the island. Very snooty. Couldn’t have plebs in the same water, now could we?”

  “There’s a causeway now so it isn’t an island.”

  “It’s the longest one in the world, joining Singapore with Malaya. Railway line. Water pipes. Roads. Great feat of engineering.”

  “Couldn’t the Japs invade over the causeway?”

  “Not through the jungle.”

  “Better not. All the big guns are encased and pointing out to sea. The other way.”

  “You journalists have too vivid an imagination. Have a nice swim for me, cousin William.”

  “I’m just going to talk and drink.”

  The only person William knew to talk to was Harry Brigandshaw. Having moved into his secretary’s flat in North Kensington and made himself comfortable with his few possessions, William made an appointment with Katherine at the Air Ministry. Happily for a man with too many stories going through his head at the same time, Betty was as organised in her flat as she was in the office. Living with her would smooth out his entire day, not just the hours at the office. There was no argument when the lights went out and no complaints from William. There had been no women on board the fighting ships of His Majesty the King.”

  “Is it urgent, Mr Smythe?”

  “It could be, Katherine. Hard to tell in the fog of war and diplomacy. More of a sinking feeling. I got back to Portsmouth last afternoon and found my flat a heap of rubble.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With my secretary.”

  “Convenient. I’ll go and ask Colonel Brigandshaw. Hold the line.”

  William was having a late breakfast now he could work with Betty and not have to rush to the office. The telephone in her flat was for business and paid for by himself. Betty said being on call twenty-four hours a day was not worth a free phone.