by Helen Bryan
“No gas tonight, Mummy. If there was, it didn’t get me and I’m the miners’ canary,” said Alice loudly to forestall her mother’s litany of complaints. She knew she should wear her gas mask, but she could hardly pedal round the village, then up the hill to the cottage with it on. As for Mummy, she flatly refused to wear hers at all. She said it brought on her attacks.
Alice pulled her mother to her feet. “The villagers are all in their shelters, snug and sound, and we must go straight down to ours.”
“It’s so damp down there! I don’t know what your father would have said about all this, I’m sure.” Alice’s mother shuffled her feet into her slippers and took Alice’s arm. With her free hand Alice felt for her mother’s crocheted shawl on its hook in the hall, which was stacked with boxes. “I’ll be glad when this war’s over,” quavered Mrs. Osbourne, “and you can put your father’s books and papers into the coal store, out of the way. This house is so much smaller than the vicarage, and as for storing things in the hall…”
Germans or no Germans, her mother would not be hurried. In fact she seemed to go as slowly as possible. Alice ground her teeth.
Somehow they made it down the stairs, one at a time. In the cellar Alice lit the lantern and settled her mother in her father’s old armchair. Then she perched on a frayed ottoman and took up some mending from the workbasket she kept there. The coal cellar was not large and their knees almost touched.
“What does the new vicar do for a shelter?” Mrs. Osbourne asked, arranging her shawl around her shoulders. She made a point of not referring to him by name: he had had no business taking her husband’s place.
“The Reverend Oliver Hammet has one of those new Anderson shelters at the bottom of his garden. Some volunteers came from the bishop’s office to put it up for him. Funny-looking things—they’re a kind of barrel-shaped metal roof and sides, and there’s room for two bunk beds inside, perhaps four if people squeeze up a bit. Several people in the village have them, the Hawthornes and even Lady Marchmont. The rest use their cellars like we do.”
Alice didn’t mention that the vicar’s Anderson shelter was now almost impossible to reach beneath the brambles that had quickly smothered his well-meant but hopeless attempt at a victory garden. Oliver had no idea about gardening whatsoever. Surveying the mess, he suggested he might be better keeping chickens or rabbits instead of growing vegetables. Alice had told him that a goat would be a better choice and they had both laughed.
Since then Oliver Hammet had ceased to be a source of discomfort to Alice. The war meant that civil defense procedures had thrown them together frequently and she had realized that although he was a thoroughly kind and good man, she would never feel the slightest romantic interest in him. She sensed he felt the same way about her. She knew Nell Hawthorne still cherished hopes of their marrying in the end, but Alice no longer cared: now she could carry on with her activities at the church without feeling awkward. That, at least, was a relief. But there was no point explaining all this to her mother.
“What other news is there?”
“Hmm…Constable Barrows told me that a shopkeeper in Lewes was caught selling eggs to customers without coupons and nearly sent to prison. Then, let’s see, the Mothers’ Union is sewing a new banner for the Sunday school corner, and the Dorcas Society were donated some oiled wool so they’ll hold knitting sessions in the vicarage parlor three mornings a week to make socks for the troops. Shame you can’t go that far, Mummy, because I know they can use every pair of hands. You’re good at knitting and crochet. You’d be doing something useful for the troops and you’d have a bit of company.”
Mrs. Osbourne had pursed her lips at the mention of the vicarage parlor. She remained pointedly silent. Alice looked up from the mending, changed tack quickly. “The three children evacuated from London settled in well on their first day at school, considering what a dreadful time they’ve had. Their names are Maude and Tommy and Kipper Johnson. They were bombed out, lost everything they had, and Penelope Fairfax said it was a matter of urgency to find them a place at once so she felt she had to—”
“Billet them at her own house, I heard,” Mrs. Osbourne finished for her. “With only that American strumpet to look after them. What can Penelope be thinking of!”
“Mummy, please!” Alice snipped her thread ferociously. “Penelope is too busy to worry about things in Crowmarsh Priors. The WVS are at it night and day, with so many people bombed out of their homes now and using the Underground stations for shelters. It sounds chaotic trying to keep order—all those poor people! Scared, hungry, worried about what they will find when the all-clear sounds. Mothers lose their children and panic, men get into fistfights when they’ve been drinking, and Penelope said the lavatory is usually just a bucket behind a sheet—sometimes not even that. And one night during a raid a woman gave birth. But Penelope, of course, simply gets on with things and doesn’t complain!” Alice bit her lip. When she spoke next she tried to sound cheerful, but it was hard work. “So here we are, all safe and sound, Mummy. No fires, no gas attacks, and, so far, no bombs. Mustn’t grumble.”
There was silence for a blessed few minutes as Alice sewed. She felt exhausted.
Finally her mother cleared her throat and sighed loudly. “It’s past teatime. We should have brought a Thermos down with us. Why must you always forget, Alice? I am the last person to complain, but—”
“Have a boiled sweet, Mummy.” Alice hoarded her sweets for these emergencies.
The ground under the cellar vibrated. The coast was taking it tonight as well as London, thought Alice. What about “those in peril on the sea”? No safe shelter in the cellar or Underground station for them, just heaving, icy waters. Was Richard ever afraid?
“I will never, never understand why Richard jilted you, Alice. I simply don’t know what your father would say if he were alive. If Richard had married you as he ought, we would have been living at the Fairfaxes’ house now, instead of that dreadful American and that shiftless gypsy girl with her brat,” said her mother.
“As I’ve told you and told you, Mummy, Tanni’s not a gypsy, she’s Jewish. Not at all the same thing! She’s married to a very young professor who volunteered as a translator at the War Office, so she and her baby need somewhere to live. Sometimes you sound like Lady Marchmont. It’s our Christian duty to welcome her and her child, who, I must say, is very well looked after.” Alice stabbed her needle into her cotton reel with such force that it snapped. “Here you are. Your nightdress is mended, good as new,” she said through clenched teeth. “‘Make do and mend,’ you know!”
“I suppose I have no choice but to make do in this horrid little cottage, have I, with your father in his grave and Richard disappointing us so?”
Alice closed her eyes and prayed silently, Please, God, either let the all clear come or send a bomb to fall on this house, now, at once and put us out of our misery. Amen.
12.
London, February 1941
Admiral Tudor Falconleigh put down the latest intelligence report and pushed his chair away from his overflowing desk at the War Office. He rubbed his eyes. Beyond the grimy glass of the window behind him, London lay in ruins. Intelligence reports often contradicted each other, but the pile on his desk contained no good news, only different scenarios for the expected invasion. The RAF lads were throwing themselves as hard as they could against the Luftwaffe, but the latest report warned that the Germans were developing a pilotless plane.
If so, it was the end. The admiral and most of his colleagues believed a coastal invasion by seaborne German troops was coming any day, and they wished the prime minister would concentrate on remobilizing and reequipping the regular army to repel it before it was too late. But Churchill had become fixated with guerrillas and resistance movements, first in Europe and now at home.
He had already diverted resources so Colin Gubbins could set up the Special Operations Executive to parachute British agents behind enemy lines to support the Resistance in occupie
d countries. It was pointless. The French Resistance was chaotic: the Communists clashed with the Maquis, who were at odds with local organizations, who disagreed among themselves. It was the same in Poland and Holland. Now Churchill had ordered Gubbins to add to the mess, organizing an English resistance, with Auxiliary Units as its backbone, who would go to ground and sabotage the Germans after the invasion.
The admiral and the prime minister had clashed bitterly at yesterday’s War Office meeting over these units—“Auxis,” as Churchill called them. They would be trained in the same skills as the SOE: radio telegraphy, laying mines, using explosives, and killing in hand-to-hand combat. The admiral knew it would never work. For starters, they would have to draw on anyone not already called up—call-up evaders, schoolboys, criminals, and the like. There were the reserved occupations, of course, miners and farmers and so on, but there were limits to how many of them could be diverted from work that was essential to keep people fed and the country running. Once trained, Auxis would have to be armed, and in the end, they would be given what amounted to a suicide mission. The admiral thought of all the arguments against it and decided they would have to try again to change Churchill’s mind.
As if that weren’t enough, he also had to deal with Frances.
The admiral loved his daughter, but he was a man’s man and didn’t pretend to understand women. Least of all Frances. Girls were a mother’s department. Unfortunately his pretty half-French wife, whom he had never understood either, had died three years into their marriage, leaving him in charge of their only child, who was just beginning to walk.
He had known nothing about children, and, until her mother died, Frances had lived out of his sight in the top-floor nursery. He was only occasionally reminded of her presence when he saw her in her pram, with Nanny at the helm, on her way to the park. After his wife died, though, he had felt it his duty to take a closer interest in her. When he visited the nursery for the first time, he was taken aback when the angelic two-year-old in a smocked dress and tiny pearl-buttoned kid shoes had a fearsome tantrum because he had brought her no sweets. He soon learned this dainty creature was headstrong and fearless. Indoors, Frances climbed fireguards and bookcases, fell down a heating vent, and threw whatever she could reach into the lavatory. In the park she was snapped at by strange dogs whose tails she grabbed, and she frequently escaped from Nanny. Once she had tottered into the Serpentine among some ducks—a policeman had rescued her in the nick of time from a watery grave.
Soaking wet, chilled to the bone, scratched by the cook’s cat, or bruised after a tumble, Frances never cried, but when thwarted, she threw herself into a fury until the admiral roared at her to behave. Not the slightest bit cowed, Frances roared back. A succession of nannies came and went until, in despair, the admiral turned to his old friend, and Frances’s godmother, Muriel Marchmont. She advised a governess. When this too proved a failure, Frances was sent to a series of boarding schools, selected by Muriel. Letters from headmistresses became a regular feature in the admiral’s morning post. Each woman regretted that her establishment was not right for Frances, and would the admiral please remove her. All agreed on two things: first, that Frances was remarkably clever when she could be persuaded to work, and second, that she was easily bored, undisciplined, a troublemaker who broke rules flagrantly, and encouraged others to follow suit.
Tudor Falconleigh had dispatched her to the finishing school as a gesture of respect to her late mother, and because nowhere else would take her.
Muriel Marchmont’s most recent letter had sat reproachfully on a corner of his desk for some time. He often put off reading her missives because he felt unequal to dealing with a catalog of Frances’s misdoings, and also because Lady Marchmont tended to overdramatize things. However, in recent months, she had evidently felt that Frances was beyond her and suggested that she should get married. Then she would be her husband’s responsibility.
Now the admiral sighed and slit open the latest envelope. He was relieved to find his old friend considered there was Light at the End of the Tunnel. Frances was being courted by a suitable man. In fact, although the girl had not confided in her, Muriel had felt she should let dear Tudor know without delay that she was as good as engaged to Hugo de Balfort. In the circumstances it was imperative, she wrote, for him to summon Frances to London: “At a time like this, it is a father’s duty to have a serious talk.”
The admiral’s heart sank. A “serious talk” with his daughter always ended in a row and sulks, with the admiral threatening to reduce or withhold Frances’s allowance. Still, if Muriel thought it possible that a conversation with her might hasten her marriage to a suitable man, he would have a word. He agreed with Muriel that a woman’s proper estate was marriage, and if there was any prospect a conversation would hasten Frances’s, the admiral would talk to her. However, he mustn’t stir up her rebellious streak because then she would do the opposite of whatever he recommended. He would discuss a financial settlement and leave the wedding arrangements to Muriel, who would know what ought to be done.
If he understood Muriel correctly, Frances’s inheritance was important to the de Balforts, who, like many aristocrats, were land rich and cash poor. But in return, his daughter would marry into one of the oldest families in England and gain a title.
Before he could ring Frances, she had phoned him to say she would be coming up to town that week and would like to see him. He would like to see her too, he said—“Give you lunch, m’dear.” He had said good-bye and put the phone down. At least where his troublesome daughter was concerned, he had thought, everything would be fine.
When the moment came for that chat, he was less certain. At the War Office he stared at Frances, sitting across from him on an uncomfortable NAAFI chair, ankles crossed demurely, looking frivolous and out of place with the uniformed WRENS bent over their typing. She wore one of her expensive hats with a wispy veil, a smart suit, a fur, and soft gloves. Seeing his expression she said, “Well, Father, I could hardly wear my Land Girl breeches up to town. They’re covered with muck. In any case, I wanted to make a good impression on you because I have something important to ask you.”
The admiral had smiled indulgently and raised his eyebrows.
“Father, I’ve had an official letter from someone named Gubbins, who apparently knows you and has heard about me. Not sure why, but that doesn’t matter. He asks if I’d be interested in working for a new organization—it’s to do with sabotage, either here if the invasion comes or behind enemy lines…” Frances’s voice trailed off.
There was silence in the office, the kind of silence that presages a storm. Father looks like a volcano about to erupt, thought Frances. She smoothed the gloves on her lap. She had suspected it would be a mistake to ask him, but at her interview in Baker Street they said that, given his position and that she was under age, she had to have his permission to join them. It came hard to her, but she was determined to keep calm.
Admiral Falconleigh stared at his daughter in stunned disbelief. Who the hell had put her name forward? And why would Gubbins want to recruit Frances? There could hardly be a less likely candidate in England for Winston’s crazy organization.
Perhaps she had volunteered—or perhaps not: he couldn’t imagine how she could have heard about the SOE, which was supposed to be secret, or the Auxiliary Units, which were also secret. It wasn’t clear which one they wanted her for, but either way it wasn’t as if they were advertising in the Times. He knew that candidates’ names were put forward by personal contacts. Which of his acquaintances had suggested Frances? He was sure, however, whoever it was had done so to put pressure on him to drop his opposition to Churchill’s plan.
“No, Frances! I forbid it. I will speak to them personally, if necessary. No daughter of mine—”
“Oh, yes, do speak to them, Father! Perhaps they can convince you, if I can’t, how frightfully useful secret agents will be supporting the Free French and the Resistance.”
“My dear
girl, you haven’t the foggiest notion about the Free French or any Resistance or Gubbins’s organization, but the whole lot are perfectly useless. De Gaulle is holed up issuing proclamations from a Soho pub—no good to anyone militarily.” The admiral stopped. Frances would have no idea what he was talking about.
He was wrong. Frances was on the verge of retorting, “I know all about the Free French and the pub, because Evangeline Fairfax told me,” but for once in her life she held her tongue. Until she was twenty-one, her father had to give his permission before they would take her. This was not the moment to upset him.
“The Special Operations Executive isn’t a more amusing way to help the war effort than working as a Land Girl. It’s a cockeyed cowboys-and-Indians scheme that will only get in the way of those fighting for England.”
“Actually, Father, a great many people will soon be fighting the war in different ways, and it sounds much more interesting and useful than herding cows. They need wireless operators and couriers and—”
“Aside from being ill-conceived, it’s dangerous, it’s behind enemy lines, and it’s for men only. I disapprove of saboteurs and resistance groups. This SOE is no better than mercenaries! Thugs! Trained assassins! Not quite the thing! Underhand. As I told Winston many times, no gentleman would have anything to do with it, but of course he didn’t listen to me. Never listens to anybody. It’s risky enough for the men and it’s no place for girls. Most unfeminine. Anyway, girls are far too emotional, likely to go to pieces and compromise everyone.”
Frances took a deep breath and tried again. “Quite. But Father, girls are also extremely useful in providing backup for the men, organizing passports and ration cards, decoding messages and suchlike, you know. And I can translate. They said they need people who can speak French like natives, and I can and—”
