The Secret Life of Kitty Granger

by G. D. Falksen

  Kitty made a face. “Must I talk to ’em?” The thought of police questioning made her nervous. “Only, if me da knows I’ve gotten into trouble, ’e’ll be furious with me.”

  “Not to worry, they’ll be discreet,” Mr. Pryce assured her. “I’m old friends with the head of Special Branch. We have an arrangement.”

  “Special Branch?” Kitty echoed incredulously. “Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police?”

  “Yes, they handle all espionage-related arrests,” Mrs. Singh said. “Pryce and I are like MI5. We investigate, but we can’t actually apprehend anyone.”

  “What if there’s a problem Special Branch can’t manage?”

  “Then . . .” Mrs. Singh chose her next words carefully. “Then there aren’t any arrests to be made, understand?”

  Kitty shivered. “Yes, missis.”

  Chapter 6

  The policemen from Special Branch arrived about twenty minutes later, and they set about searching every last inch of the garage for evidence. Ivan’s men were taken away in handcuffs like it was all very routine. No one seemed surprised at seeing Mr. Pryce or Mrs. Singh, or at least the police had been cautioned not to interfere with the two spies. Mr. Pryce had taken photographs of the safe’s contents, but he left the documents inside for the police to confiscate. The roll of film, however, disappeared into Mr. Pryce’s pocket and nothing was said about it.

  One of the men from Special Branch sat Kitty down in the main part of the garage and took her statement, under the watchful eyes of Mr. Pryce and Mrs. Singh. Kitty explained that she had seen Higgins acting strangely on the bus and had followed with the intention of reporting him to the first policeman she saw. That seemed more believable than admitting she had been overpowered by curiosity, with no motive or plan beyond that.

  The interview lasted about half an hour, and by the end of it Kitty was on the verge of shouting just to make it all stop. The whole day had been a nightmare, and being questioned over and over again frayed her nerves almost to the breaking point.

  But she didn’t break. She kept her cool, sitting with her hands folded tightly in her lap so they wouldn’t shake. Under her chair, she kicked one foot back and forth slowly to relieve some of the stress, and it helped her get through the worst of it.

  She also forced herself to look distressed and fearful, like how girls did in the films: on the verge of tears but not quite crying, gushing with relief at being rescued, that sort of thing. In reality, the more upset Kitty got, the quieter she became, trying to hide from the world until she could figure out how to get away. But the police would find that suspicious, so she did the opposite and it seemed to work.

  At the end, the policeman took her address and stood up. “Right, miss, you’re free to go. My sympathies for your ordeal.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kitty exclaimed. “I didn’t mean no harm, I swear it. I were only tryin’ to help.”

  That was true, even if the finer details were distorted.

  “Take my advice, young lady,” the policeman said. “Next time, leave the sleuthing to professionals. You see something suspicious, you find a policeman straight away instead of following a stranger. This could have gone very badly for you.”

  Kitty lowered her head and mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  “She’s all yours,” the policeman said to Mr. Pryce.

  “Much obliged, detective,” Mr. Pryce replied, touching the brim of his hat. He smiled at Kitty and then looked to his partner. “I think it’s about time for Miss Granger to go home, don’t you agree, Mrs. Singh?”

  “Quite,” Mrs. Singh said. She motioned to Kitty. “Come along, I’ll drive you. My car is on the street.”

  Kitty followed Mrs. Singh outside. More policemen from Special Branch were scouring the surrounding buildings for evidence. Kitty quickened her pace to get past them. Right now crowds of people were the last thing she needed to be dealing with.

  Mrs. Singh’s car was parked around the corner. It was a simple black sedan, and it looked far less dramatic than Mrs. Singh herself. That surprised Kitty. She had expected something flashy and fast.

  Mrs. Singh noticed her expression and chuckled. “Disappointed?”

  “No, missis,” Kitty answered quickly. “I just assumed it’d be a bit more . . . excitin’?”

  “To be fair, it’s technically Pryce’s car,” Mrs. Singh said as they climbed in. “I do prefer something with a little more panache and acceleration, but you can’t really tail people in the city with a Lotus Elan.”

  “Missis, ’ow did you find me?” Kitty asked as they drove.

  “We found you because of your screaming,” Mrs. Singh said. “Smart, that. I assume you tried to escape?”

  Kitty nodded.

  “Well, that’s what saved your life. As for finding the garage . . .”

  “That man Ivan said you used a radio device,” Kitty interjected. Then she shut her mouth. It was rude to interrupt and she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to let on what she had overheard.

  Mrs. Singh chuckled and opened the glove box in front of Kitty. Inside was something that looked like a small television set.

  “We managed to get a bug on one of Ivan’s cars last night,” she explained. “Pryce was tracking it all morning, and after Higgins gave me the slip, he picked me up and we went looking for Ivan’s hideout. Lucky for you we did.”

  “Yes, missis,” Kitty agreed.

  “That was a neat trick with the policeman, by the way,” Mrs. Singh added.

  Kitty froze in fear. “What trick?”

  “The rescued damsel act.” Mrs. Singh laughed softly. “Done it a few times myself, but you are a natural.”

  “I weren’t lyin’!” Kitty insisted. “Honest! It’s only, when I’m nervous I get all quiet, an’ I thought it might look suspicious! I ain’t done nothin’, I swear!”

  “I know,” Mrs. Singh said with a grin. “If I still didn’t trust you, Miss Granger, we would be having a very different conversation right now.”

  They drove in silence for a little while, heading toward the East End. Almost mechanically, Kitty gave Mrs. Singh the address of her father’s shop when asked, and the rest of the time she rested her cheek on her hand and stared out of the window, watching the buildings pass. She had never actually ridden in a car before, not even a taxicab. It was very different from the bus: quieter, far less chaotic. Kitty found it strangely relaxing to just sit there and stare at nothing in particular, enjoying the experience of not being crushed by a mob of strangers.

  After a little while, Mrs. Singh glanced over and asked, “You said you were good with numbers and faces, is that right?”

  Kitty looked up, startled at being addressed. “Um, yes, missis. I just . . . remember things sometimes.”

  “You notice things too. That hidden panel with the safe, for example.”

  “I notice when things seem outta place,” Kitty said. “It’s nothin’ special. You could do the same, couldn’t you, missis?”

  Mrs. Singh shrugged a little. “I’m trained to. You have a knack. There’s a difference.” She paused. “We passed a lorry at the last intersection. What color was it?”

  “What?” Kitty asked, confused. Why ask something like that? Were they being followed?

  “The lorry. What color was it? I’m just curious if you noticed.”

  Kitty closed her eyes and pictured all the cars they had passed recently. The memories rolled along inside her head, and several of them were indistinct or confused, but there had only been one truck.

  “Red, I think.”

  “And the car we just passed?”

  Kitty blinked. She had barely glimpsed it, since she’d been busy thinking about the truck.

  “Blue? No, wait—yellow.”

  Mrs. Singh gave an approving nod. “Not bad.”

  Kitty was still confused at the questions. “Is this a game or somethin’?”

  “You could call it that,” Mrs. Singh replied. “Watch the road and try to remember every
thing. Let’s see how much you notice.”

  It actually proved to be a rather fun memory game, and a very good way to pass the time on the drive. Kitty watched the road and every few minutes, Mrs. Singh would ask her to remember something they had just driven past. Kitty got most of the questions right, but even when she lost it didn’t bother her. This was a distraction, and her mind desperately needed distracting.

  Finally, they reached Kitty’s block and Mrs. Singh dropped her off down the street from the shop.

  “Thank you for the lift, missis,” Kitty said as she got out.

  Mrs. Singh raised her eyebrows. “The lift and not the rescue?”

  Kitty grimaced with embarrassment. “That as well, ’a course.”

  The woman smiled. “Good day, Miss Granger. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  Kitty nodded. She watched Mrs. Singh drive away before she walked up the street to the family shop. It stood on the corner, once a prime location for customers but now overshadowed by almost everything around it. The building was a relic of the last century, and no amount of repairs and refurbishment would hide the fact anymore.

  Kitty went inside and smelled the familiar scent of meat, shoe polish, and mothballs. There were half-filled shelves of small goods, and a counter where Kitty’s father waited on customers and served cured meats and snack foods that no one ate.

  Mr. Granger was behind the counter, arranging a tray of sugar candies for sale. There weren’t any customers. They were lucky to get two or three any given day. It had been like that for years. Sales were just barely enough to keep them afloat, but Kitty’s father wouldn’t hear of selling the place. It had been in the family for five generations. A person didn’t just walk away from five generations of history, even at the risk of starvation.

  “Kitty! You’re back!” her father exclaimed. It had been a few hours, but not long enough for Kitty to have finished her outing to the museum.

  “Yes, Da,” Kitty said.

  Mr. Granger hurried around the counter and took Kitty by the shoulders. He peered at her, searching for signs of trouble. Kitty hid the last vestiges of her earlier distress and smiled. No reason to upset her father. That just led to trouble.

  “You’re very early. Did somethin’ ’appen?”

  “No, Da,” Kitty replied, shaking her head. Well, she had to say something. She had been going on and on about visiting the British Museum all week. “I, um . . . It were very crowded so I didn’t stay long.”

  That was a plausible excuse. It had happened before, for real. Once, a few years ago, Kitty had been so overcome by a crowd that she had hidden right then and there, unable to move for almost twenty minutes. She had made sure never to let that happen again, though. Now she looked for the signs of panic before they started, and escaped before the worst struck. It was safer that way.

  “Oh, Kitty,” her father said. His tone was sympathetic, but also pitying, which just made things worse. “You shoulda just stayed ’ome, like I said.”

  Kitty bit her lip to stop her retort. It always angered her when her father talked to her like that. You should have . . . like I said. As if he knew better than Kitty. As if he understood how she thought or felt. As if he had any idea what she went through when the panic or the fits hit her. She had almost died today, but if she said anything about it, her father would act like it had been all her fault for going out in the first place.

  “I know, Da,” Kitty said softly.

  Mr. Granger smiled. “’Tis fine, though. You’re safe with your ol’ dad now. Why don’t you put on your apron an’ take a look at the stockroom for me? I can’t make ’eads nor tails of your invent’ry.”

  Kitty had to stop herself again. The inventory list was perfectly fine. She had worked hard to make sure everything was accounted for and clearly noted. Why did her father have to be so thick sometimes?

  Instead she said, “A’right, Da. But first I think I’ll go upstairs for a bit. I just need some quiet.”

  “As you like,” her father said. Sternly, he added, “But don’t be long. If you’re not usin’ your day off, there’s work to be done.”

  “Always is,” Kitty muttered as she walked away.

  “Wha’s tha’?”

  “Nothin’!”

  Kitty went into the back hallway and up the stairs to their home above the shop. She went into her room and sat at the window overlooking the street. Outside, people went about their ordinary lives, uninterested in her or what had just happened to her. They all got to be ordinary. She was just boring. Boring and peculiar. Peculiar little Kitty Granger who got frightened at crowds and followed suspicious people into alleyways and got herself kidnapped. Today had been so utterly horrible, and yet it was probably the only exciting thing that would ever happen to her.

  Sighing, Kitty flopped back onto her bed and reached for the book in her handbag. At least that was comforting. Here, alone in her room, she felt safe. Here she could be herself. She could be peculiar and mousy and uninteresting, and no one would hurt her for it.

  Chapter 7

  A few weeks later, Kitty was serving behind the counter when the shop door opened and in walked Mrs. Singh. She was dressed fashionably but less dramatically in a green dress, white gloves, and a matching pillbox hat. She looked like she should have been shopping in the West End, not here in the East.

  Kitty quickly finished with her customer, only briefly taking her eyes from Mrs. Singh as the lady wove her way along the shelves, inspecting the contents. Once the customer had left, Mrs. Singh approached the counter. By then, Kitty’s father had arrived from the back room, carrying two salamis under his arm. He stopped at the sight of Mrs. Singh, unsure of what to make of her.

  “Oh,” he said gruffly. “Afternoon, miss . . .”

  “It’s missis, actually. Mrs. Nisha Singh. I was just passing in the street and I thought I’d see the inside of your shop.”

  Mrs. Singh was very friendly and polite, but this just made Mr. Granger act gruffer. He hung the sausages from a hook behind the counter and frowned.

  “Don’t get many posh ladies in ’ere,” he said. “You sure you’re in the right place?”

  Kitty turned bright red with embarrassment and exclaimed, “Don’t be rude, Da!” She turned back to Mrs. Singh and asked, “What can I get you, missis?”

  “Actually, I’m here to see you,” Mrs. Singh said to her. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

  The question took Kitty by surprise. She glanced at her father and saw him narrow his eyes at Mrs. Singh.

  “What business ’ave you got with my daughter?” Mr. Granger demanded. He looked at Kitty. “You know this woman?”

  “Um . . .” Kitty stammered. She had no idea what to say. She couldn’t tell him the truth.

  Mrs. Singh smiled demurely and said, “My apologies, Mr. Granger, please allow me to explain. Your daughter and I happened to cross paths last month, and she just about saved my life.”

  “That so?”

  “I was in the middle of several very important meetings, and my secretary at the time had simply bungled my schedule,” Mrs. Sing explained, with absolute sincerity. If Kitty hadn’t known better, she would have easily believed the story. “Inside of fifteen minutes waiting for a bus, your daughter rearranged everything marvelously and quite saved my bacon. A very capable young woman, your daughter. I’m certain she gets it from her father.”

  “Oh.” Mr. Granger puffed himself up a little and seemed pleased. Still, the skepticism didn’t go away. “So why’re you ’ere? You givin’ her a reward or somethin’?”

  Kitty groaned. “Da!”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Mrs. Singh replied. “Mr. Granger, I would like to offer your daughter a job.”

  “A job?”

  The astonishment in her father’s voice matched Kitty’s own amazement. This didn’t seem real.

  “As my secretary,” Mrs. Singh clarified. “You see, in the past two months I’ve gone through five different secretaries, and they’ve all b
een absolute rubbish. Can’t keep a schedule, can’t balance an account. Two of them couldn’t even type!”

  “Kitty can’t type either,” Mr. Granger said, which wasn’t true.

  “Yes I can, Da,” Kitty interrupted. “Mum taught me, remember?”

  Her father grumbled. “Oh, well, aye. Still—can’t let ’er go.” He gave Kitty a stern look. “Need you at the shop, don’t I? Can’t do everythin’ on me own.”

  Mrs. Singh coughed softly. “Mr. Granger, I can assure you that the salary I am offering is very competitive. I daresay that, if she shares her earnings with you, you could afford to hire two assistants to replace her.”

  Kitty’s father seemed to mull this over, and Kitty felt his mood shift. Money was very tight at the moment.

  Kitty tapped her fingertip against the counter a few times until Mrs. Singh looked at her. “What would I ’ave to do, missis?”

  “Generally speaking, you would type my correspondence, keep my schedule, make certain that things don’t get ahead of me.” Mrs. Singh smiled. “Unfortunately, I’m rather busy these days and I’ve never had a head for numbers.”

  This was all quite strange. Kitty was certain that Mrs. Singh didn’t actually need a secretary—but Mrs. Singh couldn’t possibly want to hire her for something else, could she? Kitty Granger, a spy? That was absurd. Surely, accidentally getting kidnapped by Russian spies didn’t qualify her for a career in international espionage.

  And yet . . . Mrs. Singh wouldn’t be making an offer if Kitty couldn’t do the job. Besides, whether it was being a spy or a spy’s secretary didn’t really matter in the end. This would be a chance for Kitty to do something meaningful with her life, something that didn’t involve wasting away behind the counter of the family shop.

  “When would I start?” she asked.

  “I ain’t said you can do it yet,” her father reminded her.

  “Look, Mr. Granger,” Mrs. Singh, “it’s no trouble for me if you refuse. Your daughter mentioned you had a shop in the area, I happened to be passing and decided to stop in. I’m certain the agency can send me dozens more secretaries if necessary, I just don’t know if they’ll be any good.”