Their daughter, Susan, was a precocious little thing and, at half her brother’s age, seemed to know twice as much. Beryl said it was a wonder to her where Susan got all her knowledge from because they didn’t have any money for books and even her teachers couldn’t believe what she told them a lot of the time. I remember she said that if she were honest, she was a bit jealous of Susan as she’d always been so shy.
Am I digressing? They were such a lovely family. I didn’t see them as much as I’d have liked. Time off was rare and even when I did have an evening meal with them I’d make excuses to retire to my room as I genuinely had no energy to talk. They would be very polite and bid me goodnight.
The work was hard. The level of concentration required was so arduous. And the fear of making a terrible mistake. Not to mention the rules and regulations. They quite buzzed in one’s head. I can remember them as if it were yesterday:
Do not talk at meals.
Do not talk to the transport.
Do not talk travelling.
Do not talk in the billet.
Do not – and this was perhaps the hardest – do not talk by your own fireside, meaning to one’s family. Yes, that was difficult. But one got used to it, Mr Donovan.
But it did sort of get in the way of things. You can see that, can’t you?
It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though, by any means. Sylvia, for instance, was very pally with a chap who was billeted in a pub, so that gave us all a good excuse to go there and have a jolly time every so often. The landlord was very amicably disposed towards us all and it wasn’t long before his darts and billiards room became a bit of a BP Social Club. We rarely said Bletchley Park. It was always BP. There was a rhyme going round amongst the Wrens at the time, something about, what was it? Oh yes, “I joined the Wrens to see the sea and what did I see? I saw BP.”
Anyway, the point was, we always had a good evening there. It was just the tops to be able to let one’s hair down. Quite literally, as it happened, in Sylvia’s case who, it has to be said, always looked pretty shabby by the end of an evening. Looking back, I think the landlord, Don, I believe his name was, probably quietly ensured that we use this room, rather than the main part of the pub as there could be something of a stony silence when we walked in. There was an enormous suspicion of us amongst the locals, particularly those, I suppose, who weren’t hosting any of us in their houses so weren’t benefiting in any financial way from our arrival.
One friend, a gentleman, I stepped out with on a couple of occasions, dated I suppose you might say, was booed several times. I was flummoxed the first time it happened and had to have Nigel point out that it was because he was in civilian clothes and there was an erroneous assumption he was a conscientious objector. It was hard to disentangle that one, Mr Donovan, because once inside the Park you felt so completely and utterly part of the war and these people had no knowledge of the fact that Nigel had, in his own way, been responsible for the death of many Germans.
On very warm days groups of us would have our lunch by the side of the lake. It had that kind of tranquillity that can take you quite away from everything, a little like a favourite piece of music, I suppose.
I think those were the times I felt as right as rain because it felt as far as anything from the war. The boffins, who were doing all the deciphering, all the really clever stuff, used to get in and have a swim. Quite a few of them were homosexuals. It sounds awful nowadays, but there were whispers and giggles. I suppose we didn’t really understand. I think people thought they were a bit idiosyncratic. I remember we were watching them one lunchtime, having fun and generally letting off steam and one of the girls remarked on what a shame it was that none of them were interested in us because one or two had absolutely gorgeous bodies.
Quite a lot of cycling went on as well. Some of the intellectuals, being billeted out like myself, used to cycle in. It was obviously good exercise, but I think it kept their minds trim as well. Helped them think. I used to see one of them from the bus or on the odd time I walked in. He always looked very anxious. You could almost see the cogs twirling around. Looking back, I feel very privileged to have been so near such brilliance.
For my sins, I became a member of the BP Drama Group. One year, we put on a production of Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing, which was great fun. I’ve always loved the bickering between Beatrice and Benedict.
Anyway, I was one of the props people for the production and I had a huge crush on a young man who was in Dogberry’s group of fools. I won’t say his name because I’ve no idea where he is or what he’s up to now, but he was so handsome. It was a thought, needless to say, that many of us girls shared and on the odd occasion he spoke to me, usually about something to do with the blinking props, I felt myself go completely scarlet and I could never produce a coherent answer to what he was asking of me. Very embarrassing. In my defence I was very young.
What really galled me and what was quite disheartening was that many of the mathematical boffins were superb at acting as well. It didn’t seem fair that so much talent rested in one individual. Though I say it myself, the productions were very good. Some people, of course, went on to become famous actors. Susan, my comrade in properties, and I used to spend a lot of time scouring both Bletchley and the local area, via shops in particular, for worn-out bits of blackout material and we seemed to spend a lot of time dyeing bandages. It wasn’t completely self-indulgent of us, you know, prancing on the stage and everything. Many said afterwards how much it had helped them cope with the tensions they were under. I believe the proceeds went to the services charities as well, which was a very good thing. You know, for their families.
The work? Well, I do find it very difficult to talk about. It’s odd, really, I suppose it’s always been something I thought I’d take to the grave with me. Bletchley was just so very, very secretive. I can’t emphasise that enough. All those hundreds of people milling around and all we could ever talk about were matters that had nothing to do with the work we were doing. So, in that sense, no one ever knew one another. It was just, “Oh, I’m in Hut 3. Where are you? Hut 6.” It was most extraordinary. And it made quite an impression on me, of course, because it was my first real job.
I do remember there was a sort of edginess, you might call it, between us civilians and the forces, though I did become quite friendly with a couple of Wrens and the three of us decided to put all that nonsense to one side and get on together. We were a bit like musketeers and adopted an “all for one” approach to things. We were, after all, working towards the same end. But it could be difficult. For instance, the drama group and the other things belonging to what was called the Recreational Club were mainly for the forces. Susan and I were lucky to have got in on it. I think it was probably largely due to Lillian and Marjorie, my Wren friends. We all used to take ourselves off to the cinema, which was a great relief because you could truly forget about the work and lose yourself in a story. The Man in Grey was a particular favourite.
The thing I found most difficult, Mr Donovan, no, I’d really rather not call you John if you don’t mind, was not being able to talk about anything to my parents and sister.
Yes, that really was very hard. And, being young and a bit naive, I suppose, I initially felt pretty insulted that anyone would think they would be indiscreet. I mean, we talked a lot with one another, but we all had very definite boundaries, if you like, and my mother was certainly not the sort of woman who discussed things with neighbours. I can’t imagine her discussing much with friends, come to think of it. So I felt a little peeved, I must admit. But then someone, a little older and wiser, shall we say, pointed out that actually it was as much for their protection as anything and when I thought about the “do not” list again, the bit where it says, should there be an invasion, it’s best that family know nothing due to Nazi brutality, well, I obviously wouldn’t, for one moment, have wished to expose them to someth
ing so terrible. Nevertheless, it was hard. I had to invent a life for myself. And remember, of course, what I’d said on my last visit. It was like those Russian dolls, you see. You know, the ones you open up and there’s a smaller one inside. I felt as though I was in a world of secrets within secrets. It all got extremely complicated at times and I wondered if I’d ever return to the life I once had with them. I began to find myself being thankful that, because of the amount of work we were expected to do, leave to go home was very infrequent and short-lived. Homesickness was replaced by a relief that ultimately cleverly disguised homesickness. But I got used to it. I suppose.
They all thought I’d landed a secretarial job that gave me quite a good salary. One of the consolations for my father was that, in the light of things, German wasn’t a language one would want to be studying anyway and he was taken by the idea that I was doing administrative work for the navy, which was my story. He said he thought it was crucial war work and was very proud. “They’re very lucky to have you,” he said, which was very sweet. I think he eventually came round to the idea his daughter was doing her bit. My mother, bless her, was completely at sea when it came to understanding me in any shape or form. The thing the war did was to move women forwards in a way that was quite alien to her. And my sister just thought the whole thing was tops and spent a lot of time and energy trying to extract information from me. She was the one I had to be careful of. You know, nosey sisters and all that. But it has to be said, I began to enjoy not telling her anything.
I decided it was best if I told them I had a pokey little flat just outside London (I said I was outside so they didn’t worry unnecessarily about the bombings) and because I was working for the navy, they could write to me through a box number (which they really were going to have to do) and that I was sharing the flat with a girl I knew through work. I suppose I didn’t have to go into quite such an elaborate plot, but I thought, Oh well, I’m not allowed to tell them about my work, so I might as well invent a private life for myself. That way, I’d have something definite to talk about and have less chance of letting things slip. I gave Sylvia another name, I thought that would help me separate things out a little; my “flatmate” was Mary and we got on rather well, which was, of course, the absolute truth. We did get on well. One time I was talking about Mary and me enjoying ourselves in a pub and Joyce said she did like the sound of Mary but didn’t think she seemed quite as nice as Hilary, who’d been my best friend at school. I said, but you haven’t met Mary, you’re making a judgement on a completely unfair premise, to which she declared she was completely bored with my life and waltzed off into the kitchen.
Then, for some reason, I think I must have been tired and not thinking very clearly, I suddenly told my parents that Beryl was very kind and she often made me a hot drink before I went up to bed. My mother, who was darning some socks and who I didn’t think was listening properly, looked up from what she was doing and enquired, “Why do you go up to bed? I thought you lived in a flat!” Stop smiling, Mr Donovan.
Anyway, I wriggled out of it quite successfully and said I must have been thinking of this house. But I was jolly glad Joyce hadn’t been listening. And it made me realise how careful I had to be. As I say, if I’m being honest, I came round to quite liking the challenge.
We did have a lovely evening that once in the pub. It was summer, July, I believe, and Sylvia and I managed to encourage a few others who were going to be off-duty to come along with us. We were all under a great deal of pressure, as you can imagine, Mr Donovan, working very long hours and having hardly any time off whatsoever. It was the evening I first met Malcolm properly. We weren’t in the same hut and I’d only seen him walking by the lake once or twice.
We all met, I think there were probably about eight of us altogether, outside the main house, and got one of the buses into Stony Stratford. A charming place, Mr Donovan. Have you ever been there? You should. I think it’s just your sort of place. We decided to go to the Cock and Bull there, which, given our clandestine lives and the tales we were telling, seemed rather appropriate. I thought Malcolm was quite a poppet. He was pretty lively for a mathematician. Many of them seemed very withdrawn and were quite difficult to get to know. A bit dour, if you like. Of course, none of us talked about our work, so we mainly discussed our lives before the war, our families, our interests, that sort of thing. Malcolm told us he’d always loved fishing because it helped him think. I remember he kept that up. He always said how good the fishing was after he’d returned from holiday and it invariably determined where he went.
So, as everyone began to warm up a bit, the evening became quite enjoyable. Aside from the looks we got from the local people who, as I’ve said, didn’t like us very much. Well, Malcolm was explaining a bit about his fishing when we were ordering our drinks at the bar and one of the locals, an oldish man, looked him straight in the eye. He said it was a pity his son couldn’t fish. Malcolm looked as if he was going to answer with some light-hearted remark but was stopped by the man. “Trouble is,” said the man, “he’s six foot under. He was doing his bit.” And I remember very vividly, he put all his emphasis on “he”. He was doing his bit. We all told Malcolm he was obviously grief-stricken and not to take it to heart. But I think he did. He certainly was quiet for the rest of the evening and was probably still mulling on the remark long after we’d all put it out of our minds.
Of course, I kept to the time I’d agreed with Fred and Beryl to return back to their house, although I put the key in the door much later than usual. About a quarter to eleven, I think it was. Malcolm had kindly walked me from the Park, which was quite a stretch, but he didn’t live far from me. It wasn’t completely an act of chivalry, Mr Donovan, though I was very glad of his company. No, he wasn’t interested in me, so you can put that thought out of your mind.
Fred was still up when I got in, which was out of character. I had to go through the kitchen, where he used to sit, to go to the outside toilet and he was just sitting there reading his newspaper. He said he couldn’t sleep and the war was preying on his mind, but I think he was waiting up for me, which was very touching, so I apologised for being so late. He waved it to one side and said he was glad I’d enjoyed myself. “I think we have to wherever we can. Otherwise we’d go mad, wouldn’t we?” I said that certainly office typing could send you that way and he smiled.
I didn’t see Malcolm for a little while after that evening. As I say, he was in a different hut. I can’t impress on you enough the hundreds of people that were working there and once we were in our respective huts we were locked in almost like criminals, the only difference being that the lock was on our side. Sometimes, I ached to fling open the door and shout, “Hello from Hut 6,” just for the hell of it. The one thing I can say is we did have decent lunch breaks and I would sit by the lake and use them to write home.
I still have one of my letters, in actual fact. I retrieved it from my mother’s drawer after she died. It was all about Betty, the family cat, who’d apparently succumbed to fleas, and telling Joyce to crack on with her mathematics homework, a subject she hated. It was very light, mainly written to tell them I was all right.
Even after all this time, I still imagine them reading it. Me banging on about how tedious typing was, but it was war work, so I had to get on with it. Daddy would have read it out loud and have been extremely positive about everything. “Sounds like the old girl’s enjoying herself,” that sort of thing; my sister would feign boredom but would have been quite intrigued secretly, imagining what she was going to do with her life; and Mummy would have just listened very quietly. They were reading a lie, of course, Mr Donovan.
Things got a bit sticky once because Joyce wrote to me to ask if she could come and see me. It was a particularly hectic time at BP, getting time off was practically impossible and the asking for it very much frowned upon. So I had to put her off, which I felt terrible about, especially when she wrote back to me saying she
couldn’t possibly imagine what I was doing at weekends that was so important I didn’t have a moment to see my sister. She said she was quite put off by her family at the present time, what with me wanting to have nothing to do with her and Mummy and Daddy making a complete mountain out of a molehill and not wanting her to travel in the first place. She did tend towards the dramatic, Mr Donovan, a fact that offered me a crumb of comfort, but I do think my work at BP affected our relationship quite badly, really. It did spoil things, I suppose. But we were all pretty much in the same boat at BP. When I was reading this sour response of Joyce’s, I was sitting in the mess room of the mansion, eating one of their sponge puddings. I quite often took things to the mess to read. Malcolm came up and asked if he could sit next to me. I must have looked quite upset because he asked me if I was all right. I got a little teary and explained that my sister had sent me a rather upsetting letter. He was lovely and said how tricky he found all the secrecy as well. He reminded me of the good our work was doing and reiterated its importance. He was very kind that day, Mr Donovan, very kind indeed. And I tried to return the favour another time when something he was working on failed, but unfortunately, his mistake was irreversible.
*
When the war was over, I thought, what now? As wonderful as it was that we were now living in a peaceful time, I couldn’t help but feel I had been given an extraordinary sense of purpose that would be very difficult to find elsewhere. Daddy tried to come to my rescue, bless him, and said he was quite happy for me to finish my university degree, but I felt I’d grown up too much and it would have been a rather retrograde step. It was years later that I did eventually decide to return to university, after Robert and I had moved to Birmingham.
I suppose, at that point, I was keen to go back to London and actually spend time leading the life I would have had had there not been a war. You know, have a flat, do a job, even though it might be a boring one. But at least I’d have my own money and independence in a time of peace.
The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories Page 21
