The Amber Shadows

by Lucy Ribchester

  ‘In the opinion of Dr Langley she should be removed immediately from duties and placed in a secure environment. Miss Draper’s knowledge of the operations in Hut 6 is of a nature that if leaked could prove extremely damaging. She has been signed off for nerve disturbance before and subsequently had her duties reduced accordingly. But Cpt Tiver on the recommendation of Hut 3’s Lt Swann believes this is of a different nature. We would recommend having her certified, and kept in a secure solitary environment for the duration of the war, or until further notice that she be deemed to no longer pose a risk to security.’

  In a secure solitary environment for the duration of the war. She read the words over and over again. They chilled her. How strange and awful it was that such men could decide one’s future, one’s present.

  She pulled on her cigarette and read it again: ‘a secure solitary environment’. Moira, who had done nothing but love a man, whose brain had tipped and had torn a spiteful message from a ladies’ magazine, sneaked into a hut she shouldn’t have. That such flighty, spontaneous, rageful actions could not be undone made Honey’s guts churn.

  The water rippled as she moved and she saw it as the waves beneath the cliffs at the end of Suspicion, when the door of the car had flung open on Joan Fontaine’s side as they drove. Cary Grant could so easily have pushed her out. He could have sent her spiralling and tumbling with only a few scrapes on the rocks to show. But he didn’t. He had reached over and closed the door. Because the picture needed a happy ending. Or perhaps because after the picture finished he wanted to give her a crueller and more calculated death. Sometimes stories were only told in part. They didn’t finish just because the picture stopped rolling.

  Tiver could have been wrong. If her father had died in a brawl how would the Park know? How could they? How could they have traced back that name to that man – a common enough name, Kurtz. And yet my birth certificate says something different. It says . . . Kitts, doesn’t it? How could they be sure they had the right man? And why wouldn’t I have been told before?

  Something didn’t add up. She measured up the two options and knew that the sensible thing would be to take Beatrix’s offer and go directly to her mother. But the piece of memo paper sat damp and wrinkled in her hand. And the amber still lurked at the bottom of her waste paper basket.

  A little more than twenty-four hours ago Dickie breathed.

  The amber could have been his doing, but she wouldn’t know unless she decrypted the cipher. The police would never let her have the book, and there was only one person she could trust.

  She memorised the name of the asylum, then set fire to the paper. The flame took. The edges turned black with a gold edge, like very fine iron in a blacksmith’s forge. Turning to ash they dropped into the bathwater. She stirred them around until they made the water grey. A couple of shards clung to her as she rose, stuck to her towel as she wiped them off her skin.

  She woke up in pitch black to the sound of the gate clicking closed in the garden – Mr Steadman on his way to work. She switched on the electric lamp and looked at the clock beside her bed. Six thirty in the morning. Mrs Steadman was already up and clattering pans in the kitchen. Across the landing Rebecca was snoring.

  She opened the wardrobe, letting out the smell of clothes and dust. On the top shelf were hats, boxes of unsuitable shoes her mother had given her and folded blankets. She scrabbled until she found the object she was looking for. She hadn’t used it for over a year – despite the threat of fines, people didn’t carry them in Bletchley any more. She pulled the little box out, dangling it from its leather strap, and unclipped the latch.

  The gas mask was still inside, pristine, shocking in its ugliness and stinking of rubber. She had only worn it twice; once in London in a raid and the other time at a London party where they had all taken photographs of themselves kissing under the mistletoe in masks.

  Hesitating for a second, she took it by its thick bands and placed it back underneath her hanging clothes. The silk dresses swayed and the eyes of the mask looked back at her, with their blank warning stare.

  Before going to bed she had fished the amber pieces out of the waste paper basket and wrapped them in the same fur she’d used to take them to Moira’s. She loaded them now into the gas mask box, packing down the hairs on the fur where they stuck out.

  She picked up a road map she had brought with her when she first made the trip to Bletchley, then, thinking of Beatrix’s words, stuffed it underneath the furs, at the bottom of the box.

  She crept back up onto her tiptoes and felt around on the top shelf of the wardrobe again, then pulled out a hat she never wore – except to weddings – and a light summer mackintosh in navy blue, which she had never worn at the Park. Down under the furs she stuffed spare knickers and a pair of darned stockings.

  At the last minute she found herself unable to form the words to Mrs Steadman, so she scribbled on a piece of notepaper on the hall table: ‘Away today and on night shift tonight. Feeling a bit better, please use my ration for dinner.’

  She took her latchkey and escaped into the rising mist of dawn.

  The roads were quiet and murky. A few bicycles rattled past, but the shift change at the Park was not for another hour and most of the brickworkers and railway workers had already begun their day.

  The frost was brittle and prickly on the grass ledges, slippery on the pavements. It was only when she walked past the baker’s and saw fruitcakes advertised she realised how close it was to Christmas. Less than a week to go. The thought was like a thorn, and on the end of its stem she saw a vision of the empty place at the dinner table.

  She hesitated outside the house where she had met Felix that night in the rain. The curtains were drawn back, but in the twilit gloom and with the ancient panes divided into tiny leaded squares it was hard to sneak a look in. But she did notice for the first time the inscription above the door: Rectory Cottages.

  On the fenced grassy patch beside the building lay a small allotment with the shape of an empty chicken coop, and beyond it the block shadow of a wooden hut on stilts, about the size of an elevated rabbit hutch. As she passed, trying not to think of Mrs Steadman’s pies, a small irregular cheeping sound made her blink and take a step back. She hesitated, waiting. It was an odd noise, distinctive. It came once more – three sort of trilling top notes and two sad little low ones answering, like an echo. She had not imagined it. She waited again. But then perhaps she had imagined it, because although she listened hard now there was nothing but the sound of the roads and ordinary birds fussing in trees.

  She moved on, making careful progress towards the station. The platform was crowded. Soldiers were in high spirits, carrying garlands of holly, brown parcels tied to the tops of their khaki duffel cases. Through scratched high gothic windows she saw the bonneted woman who ran the British Restaurant dripping out cups of tea from an urn.

  Without signposts and in the dark of the morning it was difficult to remember which platform to choose for which direction. She bought a ticket and asked an army man who directed her across the bridge. The first train approached and she clutched the gas mask case close.

  On an ordinary day reaching the small village of Bexworth should only have taken twenty minutes, a peaceful jaunt between two nearby towns. But the train was already full and it stood at Bletchley platform for what seemed an age as more soldiers appeared from another train and piled aboard. She had bought a second-class ticket and chose a compartment that was half full. She ended up opposite a couple of soldiers passing around a bottle of wine. One of them had a single chevron on his shoulder, the other’s uniform was blank.

  ‘It’s fucking French,’ the blank one said, pushing the bottle under Honey’s nose. Sharp sherry wafts came out – whatever it was, was the very opposite of French wine – curdling her empty stomach. She smiled and the boy took it away and passed it down the bench.

  More and more boys filed in and she became aware after a few moments of a youth opposite staring at her with
bloodshot eyes. His gaze lurched but stayed on her, as if he could see under her skin. A song struck up: ‘The Washing on the Siegfried Line.’ They banged their feet and slammed the side of the train carriage louder and louder with each beat of the rhythm; the noise seemed as if it would shatter the walls. Honey felt it rooting through her eardrums, into her skull, so loud it made tears prick at her eyes. One of the soldiers pointed. ‘Hey it’s all right, miss, we’re home now.’

  Attention turned to her – the only woman in the carriage – and she was bombarded with shoulder shakes, pats on the back, cries of, ‘for king and country’.

  ‘I was there at Dunkirk when the boats came.’

  ‘Were you, my arse. He worked in the mess. He was a kitchen porter. I was in Palestine, miss. We had to sleep in the desert.’

  They were children. They couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Their shining red scalps showed through their downy hair.

  The door of the compartment opened and a couple of young ATS girls squealed in. One held her fingers to her nose. ‘Pooh, doesn’t half whiff of boy in here.’

  ‘’Cos it’s full of soldiers. Come here, sit on my knee.’

  ‘You want a swig of wine? It’s French.’

  The girls looked at each other. The blonde one held out her hand then sniffed the neck of the bottle and tossed her head away. ‘French somethingorother but it’s not wine.’

  The brunette took off her hat and plumped up her hair.

  The train was still stationary and Honey felt panic rising as the girls squeezed into two seats made vacant by two of the youngest boys who got down and perched on the floor on top of their duffel bags. She wondered how long it would be before the train began to move. On the platform, the guard was in conversation with the station master. Neither man looked in a hurry. The engine had lulled and the coal smell for a few moments was tempered by the dry stink from the brickworks, coming via the open doors.

  ‘Where’s this place again? Bletchley.’

  They began saying Bletchley in different accents. Then one said, ‘Shhhhhhh, yer not supposed to . . . how do you know she’s not a Jerry spy?’

  One of the men poked Honey on the arm. ‘You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Brought your gas mask? Have you ever had to use it?’

  ‘Once,’ she muttered. ‘A raid in London.’

  ‘You’d look a doll in a siren suit, I’ll bet ya.’

  ‘What do you do for the war effort, miss?’ another man asked.

  Honey flinched then felt the blush rising as she said, ‘I’m a typist.’

  ‘Typist, eh? My sister’s a typist. Here, aren’t you lot lucky, you’ve got brave men like us out fighting to protect you? Do you have a brother?’

  She frowned as the panic swelled. She nodded then shook her head. ‘I did.’

  The mood changed immediately. One of the lads took off his hat and stared.

  She opened her mouth to correct him, but at the last second couldn’t bring herself to do it. The only respectable death in wartime was a wartime one. The bottle was passed round again and the back slaps stopped. The ATS girls were whispering to each other. Honey found her panic replaced by a terrible bloom of guilt that grew inside her, threatening to burst.

  Finally she smelled burning coal and the wheels began to strain the tracks. And then the noise of the whistle drowned out the cackle of the blonde ATS girl who had thrown back her head laughing and was showing a mouthful of filled metal teeth to the soldier she sat beside.

  They had only gone a hundred yards when the compartment door shunted open and made her poke her head up. Out of habit she searched for the card corners of the ticket in her pocket. But when she looked up her eyes fell not on the uniformed shape of the ticket conductor but on another familiar form she recognised.

  ‘Miss Deschamps? I thought it was you. Even in that pretty hat you’re very distinctive. There’s space in my compartment, I thought. . . I thought perhaps you’d like to join me?’

  The rush as she saw Felix leaning casually into the carriage nearly brought fresh tears. She had the urge to stand up and charge at him with an embrace, launch her arms about his shoulders. He looked freshly washed, with his suit and blackout coat neatly pressed and an old school tie with fat purple and thinner white and pink stripes. He pushed the brim of his hat from his eyes and Honey saw traces in there of the look she had caught from him across the Park.

  She fumbled with her gas mask box and hat, and found her coat was ungracefully caught under the bottom of the soldier next to her. But she managed to stammer up at him, ‘Ever so kind. What a surprise.’

  A couple of the boys adjusted their buttons and sat up straighter. They watched Felix with suspicion, looking up and down his clothing with a mixture of deference and disgust. The soldier next to where Honey had sat slapped the vacant seat hard and pointed at one of the ATS girls, as the carriage door slid shut.

  Honey followed Felix a few paces down the narrow corridor, bracing against the hand rail as the train pitched like a ship round a corner. They entered a tunnel and the windows blacked out. She saw their reflections; her summer hat and coat beside his sharp silhouette. They looked for a second like two figures on a silver screen, two figures who might be about to turn towards one another and fall in love.

  ‘I was lying, I’m afraid.’ Felix touched the sleeve of her mackintosh. ‘There is no other compartment and no room.’ He gestured behind him where the corridor was packed with soldiers sitting on the long fat columns of their duffel bags, and women perched on box suitcases. One older lady had commandeered a young man’s case and was making herself comfortable with a skein of wool, knitting at lightning speed.

  ‘But I didn’t think you were having so much fun in there,’ he said.

  When he spoke, she felt a strange mix of discomfort, the desire to run away, and the pull of a magnet to stay staring at him. His soap from last time came to her in a memory and she wanted to draw close to him now and breathe it again.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, fiddling with her hairpins under the small lacy hat.

  ‘Oxford. My alma mater. There’s a professor I’m going to have lunch with. That is if we ever get there. You?’

  Something struck her then but she couldn’t work out what it was with her sluggish brain so she shook it off. She tried to think quickly of an excuse for her own travels but it was no good. Sighing, she gazed at their feet. His shoes, in contrast to the rest of him, were still mucky.

  ‘It’s no good. I can’t lie,’ she said. ‘I’m going to try and see a friend.’

  ‘Sounds like rather a reasonable thing to do. It is your day off, isn’t it?’

  ‘I . . .’ She shook her head. They were on a train, sharing breathing space with at least two dozen other people. Felix leaned closer. She saw for a moment a shine in his waiting eyes, and wanted to take it all back, that opener to the truth, and talk instead about the weather or Christmas or detective films again. She wanted murder to be a tawdry thing, an imaginary thing that happened to other people, like she had always thought it would. But it was too late. Her mind was saturated and she had no other diversions or lies left to grasp for. She felt the pressing of the secret on her lips.

  ‘How far is it to Bexworth? Is it the next station? Please say it is.’

  He took a step towards her and now she could smell his soap again, as well as fresh coffee on his breath. ‘This person must be very special for you to be so keen.’

  ‘Something’s happening to me, Felix. I don’t know what, but I’m afraid.’

  As soon as she had said his Christian name she felt strange. It was relief but also panic. He didn’t flinch though or even seem to notice.

  ‘Is that why you’ve got your gas mask box? What are you afraid of? There’s nothing to be frightened of. Is it . . .’ He took a step further in until their coats were touching, the Bakelite buttons, the fabric of their wide, open collars grazing at the threads. The closer he grew the more she felt the strangeness rise, a desperatio
n to reach out to him, even though she knew him no more than the station master, no more than any other Tom, Dick or Harry or Hut 3 man at the Park. ‘Is it work?’ he said. ‘You know we mustn’t talk about it here, but you can tell me anything you like. You can trust me.’

  Her right hand rested on the clasp of the gas mask box. It was pressed into the side of the carriage, jamming between them. With her left she reached for his collar and pulled the wool down towards her. She whispered in his ear. ‘Someone is trying to reach me.’

  She waited, and let her fingers relax. His head stayed where she had brought it. He was silent for a few seconds and she thought perhaps she had drawn him too close. But then she felt his arm slip behind her back at the waist. His lips opened and paused.

  A tap came on her shoulder. ‘Leave it for the honeymoon, miss. And can I trouble you for your ticket while you’re on?’

  The conductor, ashy-faced, stood next to them smoking a cigarette.

  Feeling her cheeks scorch Honey reached into her pocket and poked about, but the ticket was gone. She searched again, then the other pocket, and the inner ones inside the coat’s lining. She was about to unclip the latch on the gas mask box but the conductor was standing close enough to see inside and she worried about her spare knickers falling out. She thought back to the moment when Felix had opened the compartment door. She had felt the thick card edges of the ticket then, in the right-hand pocket of her coat. And she hadn’t opened the box since it was closed this morning.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ While she fuddled, feeling her face burn as scarlet as her hair, Felix lifted his ticket from his breast pocket. The conductor clipped it and handed it back. He took another drag of his cigarette and coughed smoke in their direction.

  ‘I just . . . I don’t know where . . . one of those soldier boys must have . . .’ She gestured towards the compartment.

  The conductor leaned against the rattling wall. ‘Forces get special discount, there’s no reason they would. If you’ve dropped it you’ve dropped it but I’m afraid you’ll have to buy another.’